Page 72 of My Best Friend Is Broken
He’s quiet for a long moment, processing this. The steam from our interrupted shower is slowly dissipating, and the sunlight filtering through the living room windows is starting to take on that golden quality that means the day is already moving toward afternoon.
“I love you,” he says finally, and the words are soft but steady.
And just like every time he says it, my heart flutters, and my stomach does a cartwheel.
“I love you too. All of you. The parts that are healing and the parts that are still broken and the parts that might always be a little fragile. All of it.”
He uncurls slightly, shifting closer to me on the sofa. I think it’s not for comfort this time, but for connection. For the simple pleasure of being near someone who loves him without conditions or expectations.
“Why were you singing in the shower?” he says suddenly. “You looked happy about something.”
The change of subject catches me off guard, but I roll with it. Sometimes the best way to handle a setback is to focus on moving forward rather than dwelling on what went wrong.
“I was thinking about teaching you Italian,” I admit. “For work, but also just... because I’d love to share that with you. Italian is the language of my family, of love. I want to hear it in your voice.”
His smile is small but genuine. “I’d like that. Though you have to remember how badly I mangled French in school.”
“This will be different. This will be useful, practical. And I’ll be a much better teacher than Mrs. Brownlee.”
“Are you sure about that?” he says with a ghost of his mischievous grin on his lips.
Oh god. My chest tightens so painfully I can feel my ribs. Liam is trying so fucking hard. He is so brave, so strong. I hate that he can’t see it.
“Yes!” I answer with mock affront, because he is right. Light-hearted humor is exactly what we need right now. “We’ll start with medical terms, things you’ll actually needfor Dr. Torrino’s patients. Then maybe work up to the good stuff, how to swear properly, how to sweet-talk nonnas, how to tell me you love me in the language I learned it in first.”
The prospect seems to lift his spirits, giving him something to look forward to rather than dwelling on what just went wrong in the shower.
“When do we start?” he asks.
“Whenever you want. Tomorrow, next week, right now if you feel like it.”
“Right now sounds good.”
So I teach him his first Italian phrase, sitting on our sofa in towels, still damp from our disrupted shower. It’s not the afternoon I’d imagined an hour ago, but it’s perfect in its own way.
“Ti amo, Nicky,” he says carefully, testing the unfamiliar sounds.
And hearing those words in his voice, in the language of my childhood and my heart, is worth every setback, every moment of panic, every step backward in this complicated dance of healing we’re learning together.
“Ti amo anch’io,” I reply. I love you too.
Because sometimes love isn’t about the moments when everything goes perfectly. Sometimes it’s about the moments when everything falls apart, and you choose to stay anyway.
Chapter twenty-four
Liam
Iwake up alone in the bed.
That’s unusual. Nicky is normally the last one to get up, claiming that early mornings are punishments from a vengeful god. But when I reach across to his side of the bed, the sheets are cold, which means he’s been gone for hours.
I know exactly why.
I pull on a robe and pad barefoot to the kitchen, where I find him exactly as I expected. He’s sitting at the table, cradling a cup of coffee that looks like it went cold hours ago, staring out the window at the gray December morning. His shoulders are slumped, and there’s a subdued, sad air about him that makes my chest ache with sympathy.
“Do you want to visit her grave?” I say softly.
Nicky looks up, startled perhaps that I know what’s on his mind. But of course I know. December fifteenth. The anniversary of Marianna’s death.
