Chapter 8 - The Night He Let Me Walk Away
Nicholas accepted the agreement.
He would testify truthfully, surrender assets connected to criminal activity, and face sentencing for his own offenses.
Cooperation would matter.
It would not make the past disappear.
When he told me, we sat in the small garden behind Elena’s house.
The roses were only beginning to leaf.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
He considered the question.
“Like I’ve spent my life holding a door shut, and now I’m afraid of what comes through when I let go.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
A bird landed on the fence.
We watched it hop along the rail.
Then he said, “There’s something else.”
I turned.
“Adrian’s defense is going to challenge my memory. Yours too.”
“I expected that.”
“They’ll suggest you influenced me.”
“Then I’ll answer honestly.”
“They may bring up your father.”
The garden seemed to grow colder.
I looked at my hands.
Of course they would.
The fire. The restitution. Our visits.
Everything true could be arranged to look like something else.
Nicholas leaned forward.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop.”
He went still.
“I know you are. But I need to be frightened without managing your guilt too.”
The words came out sharper than I intended.
He leaned back.
“You’re right.”
I stood.
“I need some space.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
I waited for the question that would make leaving difficult.
Are you abandoning me?
After everything?
Don’t you care?
It never came.
He asked whether I wanted Elena to drive me home.
I said I would call a cab.
“All right,” he said.
And he let me go.
For three weeks, we didn’t speak.
I worked.
Studied.
Took my mother to lunch.
Helped Lucy move into an apartment with radiators that sounded like angry plumbing ghosts.
Some days, I felt relief.
Other days, I reached for my phone before remembering.
That was the part nobody had warned me about.
A healthy boundary could still hurt.
At the hearing connected to Adrian’s case, I answered questions for nearly two hours.
Yes, I had read to Nicholas before he woke.
No, he had not promised me money.
Yes, my father had died at a Castellano facility.
No, I had not known that connection when I accepted the assignment.
The defense attorney asked whether I had developed feelings for Nicholas.
My throat tightened.
I looked at the judge.
Then back at the attorney.
“After I transferred off his care team, I began seeing him socially.”
“And you expect us to believe that didn’t affect your account?”
“My first report was made before any social relationship existed.”
He tried again.
I gave the same answer in different words.
Facts didn’t become stronger because I shouted them.
They simply needed to remain facts.
When I stepped outside, reporters waited near the courthouse stairs.
I kept walking with Miriam.
Across the street, Nicholas stood beside a car.
He hadn’t approached.
Hadn’t assumed.
He was simply there.
I crossed to him.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I said, “They asked about my father.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“I hated it.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
He accepted the correction.
“No.”
Something in my chest loosened.
I was tired of people claiming to understand pain they only wanted to comfort.
Nicholas didn’t reach for me.
I reached for him.
My fingers closed around his hand.
This time, there was no hospital bed between us.
No alarm.
No secret.
Just a choice I could still change.
“I missed you,” I said.
His face shifted so openly that I almost cried.
“I missed you too.”
That evening, he came to my apartment.
We ate takeout at the kitchen counter.
He washed the containers I insisted could be reused.
Then he stood beside the door, preparing to leave.
I touched his sleeve.
“Now,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Our first kiss was gentle.
No possession.
No promise that love could solve everything.
When we stepped apart, he rested his forehead against mine.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.
“Neither do I.”
Outside, traffic moved through the wet Chicago streets.
May you like
For once, uncertainty didn’t feel like danger.
It felt like the beginning of an honest life.
