Chapter 4
James
I’ve seen Nadine cry a bunch of times.
When her grandfather died. When her mother was diagnosed with cancer. Anytime we’ve ever watched a movie where an animal’s in distress. That time she slept through her world geography final sophomore year.
Once she had too much wine and said that the rain made her cry.
And no matter how legit the reasons (see: sad movie, mom getting cancer) or how absurd (the rain), I always do the same thing.
I hold her. I pet her hair. I let her soak my T-shirt with her tears, and supply her with ample tissues to cry into. (She’s not a dainty crier, this one.)
Whatever the cause¸ the tears always rip at me a little bit, like there’s this pressure on my chest that I don’t know how to relieve. I mean, all girls’ tears do that.
But Nadine's especially. She’s my girl.
And that weird feeling in my chest is definitely there this time. But it’s accompanied by something else, too.
Anger.
All the other times, her tears were out of my control. I couldn’t stop her grandfather dying, or her weird reaction to the rain.
But this time I have options.
One of which is beating the shit out of Paulo Avelino.
And right now, I want to.
I’m not a violent guy, strictly speaking.
But from the second I saw her trying futilely to hold back tears as she sat behind the wheel of her car, looking lost and devastated, to the moment I took her home and held her in my lap on the couch, I’ve thought about nothing except how good it would feel to plant my fist into Avelino's preppy face.
He’s a friend of mine, sure. I like the guy. I might even be a little bummed when my anger fades and I realize we won’t be hanging out anymore.
But this isn’t about Paulo. It’s about Nadine.
And he hurt her.
But…
I’m pissed at myself, too.
Wasn’t I just thinking this afternoon that something was off between them?
Could I have spared her this?
I could have. Or at least, I could have warned her.
Fuck.
Her tears seem to have eased up slightly, and mostly she’s just curled in a ball with her head under my chin as she hiccups into a Kleenex. I pull back slightly, but I stop when her fingers clench my shirt.
I put my hand over hers, rubbing my thumb against her palm. I want to tell her that the jackass isn’t worth the tears. No relationship is, but that’s not what she needs to hear right now.
Still, I squeeze her hand, and start to set her aside again.
“You’re leaving?” she asks.
“Just for a few minutes.” I plant a spontaneous kiss on the side of her head.
She watches me with swollen, bloodshot eyes. “I’m ruining your night. You should go out.”
I squeeze her knee. “Don’t make me make a house rule about you not being an idiot.”
