What she hadn’t planned for was the kind of emotion she saw on Nick’s face.
His jaw was clenched, his lips set in a straight line, his eyes like daggers on that photo. “Where did you get that?” he asked, his voice controlled and careful. His eyes were filled with a myriad of feelings—she could see them: anger, hurt, irritation, sadness. How could this photo cause all that? What had she done?
“I found it in the closet,” she answered, her voice small. “I was only trying to surprise you.”
“What’s the matter, Nick? Are you mad at my mommy?”
Without a word, Nick turned around and left them standing there.
Abbey’s mothering instincts kicked in immediately as she simultaneously tried to recover from his reaction. Max had asked Nick a question and he’d flat ignored it. She felt like she needed to do damage control. She didn’t want Max thinking that a response like that was okay or that he’d said anything wrong. Nick should have acknowledged his question. Max was a kid, for goodness’ sake! Max had taken to Nick today, and now she didn’t want him to get hurt.
“Something about that picture has upset Nick so much that he can’t even speak,” she explained to Max. “Normally, he would’ve answered your question, I’m sure, but for some reason the photo made him sad. Can you remember a time when you felt really sad about anything?”
“I’ve never been that sad,” he said.
“Well, we all get sad from time to time, and sometimes, things can make us very sad. I’m glad you haven’t had anything make you feel that way.” Abbey picked up her bag. “We should probably go. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, and, from the looks of you, so do you! You’re much better, so back to school tomorrow.”
* * *
Abbey sat on the sofa in her apartment, still thinking about Nick’s reaction to the photo she’d put up. Scenarios ran wild in her mind. She worried because she hadn’t talked to him about it and she wanted to make sure he was okay. The thing about Abbey was that she was a talker, and when something was bothering her, she wanted to talk even more. She couldn’t just sit quietly. It was eight thirty at night, a little late to call Nick.
She texted him: Sorry to bother you. Are you awake? I want to talk.
A response came through to her phone: Yes. I’m awake. Shall I give you a call?
Abbey didn’t want to talk on the phone. She wanted to read his expressions, see his gestures, his mannerisms.
She texted back: I’d like to come over. Would that be possible? Her mother had heard the whole story earlier and Abbey was nearly sure she’d pop over to sit at the house while Max slept so she could see Nick.
Silence…
She texted again: I know it’s late.
He finally responded: I’ll wait at the door. Be careful driving.
Abbey texted her mother next to see if she would stay with Max, and she came over immediately, bless her. Once her mother was comfortable on the sofa in her apartment with her boot propped up on a cushion to keep her ankle from swelling, and after a ton of hugs and thank-yous, Abbey got in her car and headed to Nick’s. As she shivered in the cold of late evening, her little Toyota engine working overtime to run in this icy weather, she mentally braced herself for his reprimand, but every time she thought it through, she knew that she hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d told her to use whatever she wanted, that the house was hers. How was she supposed to know that the picture was some awful memory of his? His reaction had deflated her, made her feel like she’d done something wrong when she hadn’t. She needed to see him. She didn’t want to wait for the next day. She’d never sleep, feeling the way she was feeling.
She glanced at the clock in her car. It was nearly nine o’clock now. Whose decorator would come to his house at such a ridiculous hour, and ask questions about his personal life? She turned between the large gates and headed down the drive. It’s only a quick visit, she tried to convince herself. The truth was, she wanted to know, and if she didn’t see him, she’d have to wait until a better time. Would there be a better time?
She parked the car and Nick already had the door open. His hair was gorgeously messy, his feet bare, which surprised her. Had she caught him just before bed? “Hi,” she said as she walked up the steps.
He watched her carefully, almost as if he were worried she’d slip on the ice. When they were face to face, he allowed the tiniest of smiles to emerge. “Are those your pajamas?” he asked.
She looked down at her red and white flannel pajama bottoms, her Chuck Taylors seeming out of place against them, and nodded. She’d been so worried about his reaction to that room that she hadn’t bothered to look at herself in the mirror. She walked in and he shut the door. Only then did she finally feel warmth. She took off her shoes and set them by the door. Then she wadded her coat and set it on top of them.