Page 75 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“She looks happy there,” I observe.
“She was happy. We were both home, both safe, both hers. That was all she ever wanted.”
We drink our tea and remember her together, her terrible jokes, her fierce protectiveness, her ability tomake anyone feel welcome at her table. The grief is still there, sharp and familiar, but it’s warmed by love and shared memories and the knowledge that some bonds are stronger than death.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Nicky says as we’re getting ready for bed. “Glad I didn’t have to do today alone.”
“I’m glad I could be here for you. I should have been here two years ago when it happened. Should have been at the funeral, should have helped you through the worst of it.”
“You were in prison. You couldn’t have been here.”
“I was in prison for a reason, Nicky. It’s all my fault. All a result of my bad decisions.”
Nicky inhales sharply, as if my words have physically hurt him. “She wouldn’t want you to say that.”
“I know. But I still wish things had been different.”
“Me too. But we can’t change the past. We can only decide how to move forward.”
It’s a lesson we’ve both learned the hard way, that healing isn’t about erasing the pain or undoing the damage, but about learning to carry it together. About creating new memories and new traditions and new ways of honoring the people we’ve lost.
As we settle on the sofa, I think about Marianna’s letters and the love they represented. About second chances and forgiveness and the way grief can transform into something that connects us rather than divides us.
Tomorrow we will continue building our life together. We’ll work and learn and grow and probably make mistakes along the way. But we’ll do it as partners, as a team, as two people who understand that love isn’t justabout the joy, it’s about showing up for each other in the darkness too.
And somewhere in whatever comes after this life, I think Marianna Ricci is smiling.
Chapter twenty-five
Nicky
Liam has been down in the gym for almost three hours, which is at least an hour longer than his usual workout. I’ve been trying not to hover, trying to give him space to process whatever he’s working through, but the nagging worry in my chest won’t settle.
I head down to the basement gym, punching in the access code and pushing through the door into the climate-controlled space. The sound of weights clanking against metal reaches me before I see him. Repetitive, aggressive, the rhythm all wrong.
Liam is on the bench press, pushing far more weight than he should be attempting, his face red with exertion and his arms shaking with the strain. There’s no spotter, no safety bars, and the way he’s gritting his teeth suggests he’s pushing himself past any reasonable limit.
“Liam,” I call out, but he doesn’t seem to hear me over whatever he’s listening to through his headphones.
I move closer, watching as he struggles to complete another rep, his form deteriorating as his muscles scream for mercy. This isn’t training, this is punishment. He’shurting himself on purpose, using physical pain to drown out whatever’s happening in his head.
When his arms start to buckle, I step in quickly, grabbing the bar and helping him guide it back to the rack. The weight settles with a clang, and Liam’s eyes snap open, startled by my presence.
He pulls out his earbuds, breathing hard. “What…”
“You’re pushing too hard,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice gentle rather than accusatory. “That’s too much weight, and you’ve been down here too long.”
“I’m fine,” he says automatically, but his hands are shaking and there’s a wild look in his eyes that suggests he’s anything but fine.
“You’re not fine. Come on, we’re going back upstairs.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to argue, to insist he needs to finish his workout or claim he’s got more in him. But then something in his expression crumbles, and he just nods, exhausted and defeated.
We ride the elevator in silence, and I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. Despite his clear exhaustion, his leg bounces restlessly, his fingers tap against his thigh, and he can’t seem to stand still even in the confined space. Every line of his body screams anxiety, stress, the kind of restless energy that has nowhere healthy to go.
“Quick shower?” I suggest when we get back to the apartment.
He nods again, still not speaking, and disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water turn on and try not to worry about how long he stays in there or what he might be thinking while the hot water runs over him.
