Page 90 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“They mean well,” Molly says, closing the now-empty suitcase and sliding it under the bed. “Even if they can be a bit much sometimes. Right, I’m starving. Shall we make lunch?”
We migrate to the kitchen, where Molly immediately starts opening cabinets and rummaging through the fridge with the confidence of someone completely comfortable in any space.
“Oh, you have all the good stuff! Prosciutto, proper mozzarella, fresh basil. Liam, we’re making the most amazing sandwiches.”
His enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself relaxing as we work together, Molly chattering away about everything and nothing. He’s loud, shameless, flamboyant in ways that should probably make me uncomfortable but somehow just make me smile. There’s something freeing about his complete lack of self-consciousness, the way he just exists in the world without apologizing for taking up space.
“So you’re working with Dr. Torrino now?” he asks as he assembles our sandwiches with the precision of a surgeon. “That’s brilliant. He’s lovely, isn’t he? I wish he could have patched me up when I was... well, in situations I’d rather not discuss over lunch.”
The casual reference to violence, the easy acknowledgment that he’s been hurt and needed medical attention, catches me off guard. But before I can respond, he continues.
“It must be nice, having work that’s meaningful. Especially after...” He trails off, and something in his expression shifts. Becomes more careful, more aware. “After everything.”
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with unspoken understanding. After everything. After prison. After trauma. After the things that happen to people in the dark shadows of the world.
My chest tightens, a mix of alarm and something that feels uncomfortably like betrayal. He knows. Somehow Molly knows what happened to me, knows about the parts of prison I don’t talk about, the abuse and violation and all the darkness I’ve tried so hard to keep hidden.
Is it that obvious? Can people just look at me and see the damage written across my skin like a map? Or is it a simplededuction? Young, pretty man goes to prison, comes out traumatized. The math isn’t difficult.
Or did Nicky tell him?
The thought hits me like ice water. Did Nicky share my story with Molly, discuss my trauma over coffee or drinks or whatever it is friends do when they need support? The betrayal of that, of having my most private pain become gossip, become something shared without my permission, makes my throat tight.
But then I stop, force myself to breathe, to think rationally instead of spiraling.
Nicky deserves a friend. Deserves support and someone to talk to about the challenges of loving someone as broken as I am.
And besides, my story truly is clear enough for anyone with eyes and basic deduction skills. Prison changes people, especially people who went in young and vulnerable.
I release my breath and meet Molly’s gaze. To my surprise, he isn’t looking at me with pity or disgust. There is nothing uncomfortable in his blue eyes. The only thing I see is understanding. The kind that comes from his own experiences rather than secondhand knowledge.
The realization of that sets off a cacophony of emotions and feelings. Relief that he understands. Horror that he has suffered too. Excitement that I’ve found a comrade.
“Yeah,” I say finally, pushing through the tight feeling in my chest. “After everything. The work helps. Gives me purpose beyond just... surviving.”
“I get that.” Molly carries our sandwiches to the living room, settling onto the sofa with easy grace. “Havingsomething that’s yours, something meaningful, can make all the difference.”
He spots the wine rack and his eyes light up. “Oh, can we? Day drinking feels appropriately decadent for a safe house situation.”
I laugh despite myself. “Why not? We’re not going anywhere.”
He retrieves a bottle of red, something expensive that Nicky probably bought without looking at the price, and two glasses, and settles back onto the sofa with the satisfaction of someone who’s made themselves completely at home.
“To new friends,” he says, raising his glass.
“To new friends,” I echo, clinking my glass against his.
The wine is smooth and rich, warming me from the inside as we eat our sandwiches and chat about nothing important. Molly tells me about Dario’s terrible laundry skills, about the time he tried to iron a shirt and somehow set off the fire alarm three times. I tell him about Nicky’s habit of leaving coffee cups everywhere, about how he hums in the shower without realizing it.
It’s normal. Beautifully, ordinarily normal in a way that feels almost miraculous.
“Can I ask you something?” Molly says after we’ve finished eating and poured second glasses of wine.
“Sure.”
“Are you happy? With Nicolo, with your life now?”
The question is simple, but the answer is complex. Am I happy? There are still bad days, still moments when the weight of everything feels crushing. Still nightmares and panic attacks and the constant awareness that I’m not quite whole.
