31. Harvey

31

HARVEY

I'm on autopilot, doing everything I can to remember what helped my brother go through this in the past, every single time he'd decide he was finally going to quit before he'd ruin our lives again two weeks later. I've got a cart full of things online, not just for food but for later, when the worst of it happens. It's too soon from her last hit, but I can tell she's already miserable. I add some children's electrolytes and nausea meds along with the ingredients for the recipe.

She's pretending to be doing better than she actually is. She's fidgeting, uncomfortable, and her red, watery eyes don't help the situation. But she's laying on the couch, head on my lap, while I look at sixteen different versions of this fucking recipe.

Nia thinks I won't cook it because I've never cooked anything like it, but that's never stopped me from doing something before. She's no help in telling me anything except which part of Brazil her family is from, and with that as a starting point, I'm able to do a few deep dives and find enough bloggers with English translations of the exact one I need.

It won't be perfect, but I can try to do it justice.

When the doorbell rings, I'm grateful that there's finally something to make me feel useful, something I can try to do. I tip the kid and don't bother to make sure the order is all there. She shifts on the couch, sweat glistening over her forehead as she watches me unpack the bags.

"You're really going to cook for me?" The realization that this isn't some prank is finally setting in for her.

"Why wouldn't I?" I don't bother masking my amusement.

For the first time all day, there's a real expression of emotion on her face, and hilariously enough, she's dumbfounded. I'm already walking in her direction.

"That's just… so crazy. I said this totally random food and you were like ‘I'm gonna research and cook this.' And you've been at it for the last like two hours and—" I stop her train of thought with a kiss, running my hand through her hair to feel her roots damp with sweat.

I've gotten her to drink a few sips of water, and she seems to be holding it down. For now. We're still in the easy part of this, and now I'm kicking myself for ever thinking it wasn't a problem. She was already in too deep when she came into my work that first night with K.

I try not to blame myself, but I'm not dumb enough to pretend I didn't push her when all she needed was someone to share her grief with.

I shrug with my response. "I told you I'd cook whatever you wanted."

"Are you a Pisces?" she asks as I return to the kitchen to prepare the food.

"Fuck off with that," I answer, feigning annoyance as I set out the onion to chop. "But yes."

Her laugh is victorious, and the sound gives me hope.

I hope that she's truly my person when she gets through this.

Just as I'm getting all the ingredients prepped, my phone buzzes. I see a text come in from Mo.

SCOTT WANTS AN ANSWER. COME TO PRACTICE EARLY.

CAN'T MAKE IT TODAY. TELL HIM HE CAN KISS MY ASS THOUGH.

Skipping practice isn't a big deal to other skaters. They've all done it here and there, and no one bats an eye as long as we make it to the practices that count. We're required to show up to the practice before a bout in order to qualify to start; otherwise, we're benched and a B-team player subs out.

It's Wednesday night.

And though I've never missed a bout, I know this will get blown out of proportion.

DON'T FUCK THIS UP, HARVEY.

I roll my eyes, annoyed and overburdened, draped in guilt for keeping too many things to myself. Then, Nia groans on the couch, and I'm back to focusing on her again.

I follow the recipe obsessively, reading the same sentence three times before it fully registers and completing the next step to make sure I'm doing it the right way. The way that will taste how she likes it. Peeling the yuca takes longer than I thought it would, and she's all smiles watching me deal with an ingredient I've never personally handled before in my life.

Once the root is peeled, I cook the chicken, then shred it and use the same water to boil the root. Once it's good and cooked, I put it in the blender before returning the broth to heat. I continuously season it, overly anxious that it's still going to somehow taste bland to her.

Taking a spoon, I blow, tasting it first. It's fucking delicious, but I also have no idea if this is the intentional outcome. With the green onions garnish on top, I don't bother asking her permission. I make her a bowl and bring it to her. I've never been more nervous in my life, but I don't show it.

She's forcing herself to a more upright position on the couch. There's a pained look on her face, but when I sit next to her with the bowl in my lap, it's not the same repulsed expression she had at the diner.

"That smells so good," she moans, leaning into me and dropping her head on my shoulder.

"You'll eat?" I can't help the excitement that comes through.

She chuckles softly before looking up at me with watery eyes. "I'll try."

I fill the spoon, bringing both it and the bowl closer to her as she pulls her head up and sits a little more upright. I blow on it for good measure before I bring it to her lips. She opens, accepts, and swallows.

She closes her eyes and sets her head back on my shoulder, like that was entirely too much effort.

"Mmm," she hums with content. "It's so good."

I'm beaming, and before I can hide it, her eyes open just in time to catch me. I bite my lip, forcing the smile back while I wait for her to accept the next spoonful.

It doesn't take much for her to feel full, just a few bites and she's pushing my hand away completely. She looks a little better, less on-the-verge-of-death than before.

"Hey." I wait for her to turn my way. I don't want to leave her, but Mo rarely talks to me that way. Whatever needs dealt with at the rink can't wait. "I can't skip practice tonight."

Her shoulders slump in disappointment, and a look of worry drapes her face. "You don't have to come," I reassure her. "I'll tell them you're sick." She lets out a breath of relief, and I can imagine facing the team like this isn't something she wants to deal with.

"Actually," she says as I'm heading toward my room to change for practice, "I have some things I need to handle. Can you take me to get my car first?"

"I don't think that's a good idea, Nia," I say without turning around yet.

She clicks her tongue, the annoyance apparent in her tone. "What is that supposed to mean?"

I sigh, finally turning around to face her before I ask, "What kind of things do you have to do?" I try not to sound condescending, but there's absolutely no way she thinks I'm buying this shit.

Her face scrunches up. She's pissed, but she's trying to choose her words.

"What, because my life is just this now?"

Oh, yeah. She's withdrawing.

"This?" I ask.

She doesn't hesitate to bite back, "You being in control of everything."

"Stop it." I don't mean to sound stern, but I do. "Stop trying to create a problem where there isn't one. Don't make me say it." I shake my head.

With a scoff, she's standing and somehow managing to not look weak for the first time all day. "Don't make you say what? That you're keeping me here?"

"I'm not keeping you here, Nia. I'm telling you it's not a good idea." I don't look away. I just hope my words get through to her.

"But you're not going to take me?" It's not even annoying that her attitude is adorable, but the fact she gets this mean this fast… This is gonna be an even bigger challenge.

"Nia, you're withdrawing, you're dopesick, you just ate for the first time in days. What the fuck could you possibly need your car for, and what makes you think you're in any shape to be driving it?" I don't mean to be blunt, but I lay the facts out there.

"You're treating me like I'm a fucking kid, Harvey." She's trying to stand up for herself, but she's getting weepy, reminding me once again why we're doing this.

"I'm treating you like a junkie, Nia," I correct.

"I'm not a fucking junkie." The look on her face is pure anger, her eyes burning with intensity.

I can't help but laugh. "Oh babe, you're gonna have to take a hard look at yourself right now, because we both know once you walk out that door, there's only one thing you're gonna be looking for."

"Fuck you, Harvey." Her voice is cold, like she's shooting to kill.

I slap my hand to my heart and feign hurt. "I'm the one who does the fucking, remember?" It comes out as a breathy laugh.

She pushes at me like she wants me to back away, but I grab the gold loop of the collar and flick at it, reminding her it hasn't even been hours since she accepted it. The acknowledgment sets in on her face like she's been proven wrong, and she shrugs it off, crossing her arms.

"You're coming to practice," I tell her.

"W-what? There's no point. I can't skate like this." She lifts up the cast that didn't stop her before she started getting too high to skate.

"I can't leave you here, so you're coming with me." I shrug, changing into a pair of gym shorts and throwing on a clean practice shirt. I grab some clothes from her suitcase and bring them out to the living room with me.

"Come sit between my legs." I give her the clothes and sit on the edge of the couch, brush in hand, waiting for her.

The frown never leaves her face, and she doesn't bother going to another room to change. She's not wearing much of anything anyway. She slides on the sweatpants and grabs the hem of her shirt, her nostrils flaring as she makes eye contact with me.

She can't take it off on her own, but she's too pissed to ask me.

This isn't a moment I need to win, so I stand up and reach for her shirt to help pull it up and off her. Not bothering to let her try, I grab the fresh shirt myself and dress her in it. I pull her to me, pressing her against my body and gently tugging at the ends of her hair. She finally looks up at me.

"Let me brush it." I unravel the hair tie and slide it over my wrist.

She's gone quiet, and I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing, but she follows me back to the couch, where she kneels between my legs on the rug. I'm gentle, pulling the braid apart, and once it comes free, I rub my fingers across her scalp, a groan of satisfaction falling from her lips.

Nia cuts it short when she catches my grin, her personal protest in this tantrum. That's fine; if directing those raw emotions gets her through this, I can be that for her. She's been numbing herself for weeks, and now, Nia is going to feel the full force of every emotion she's been repressing since I told her Lonnie was dead.

I regret that moment to its full entirety now, wishing I'd done it differently in some way, that maybe if I had, it would have changed things. Maybe she wouldn't have chosen to lose herself in Lonnie's name.

It's too late to regret, so I braid instead.