Chapter Thirty-Six
Resentment is like drinking
poison and then hoping it will
kill your enemies.
Nelson Mandela
Niccolaio doesn’t come home by the time I’ve fallen asleep. But sometime in the night, I wake up to the sound of pounding. There’s rain pouring down on the roof of the warehouse, but in addition to that sound, I think I hear another.
I jump out of bed, wary to investigate. When I exit the bedroom, I follow the sound to an open door at the end of the hall. There’s exercise equipment set up everywhere in it, but when my gaze lands in the center of the room, I stop, startled by the mess in here.
There’s some sort of sand pouring out of a disfigured black leather thing in the center of the room. Beside it stands a shirtless Niccolaio, a knife in one hand and in the other a clenched fist.
I eye him warily. “What’s this?”
“A punching bag.”
“Doesn’t look like one.”
“I was mad.”
I hesitate. “At who?”
“Myself.”
Again, I hesitate. I’m not used to comforting anyone but Mina, but lately, she hasn’t needed much comfort. In fact, I think she’s been pretty happy for a while now. So, I’m wary when I take a few steps forward, towards Niccolaio, trudging on only because I hate seeing him like this. So angry. Raw. Defeated.
“What happened?” I ask.
He stops slicing the bag and drops the knife on the floor, but his back is still facing me, the tan muscles rigid. “Vincent Romano has cancer,” he says, his voice defeated.
“What?”
“Vincent Romano has cancer, and I just tortured him. I punched him. I accused him of leaking our safe house, but it wasn’t Vincent. It was John. FUCK!” he shouts before his voice dips into a broken whisper, “I’m a monster, Minka. You’re better off without me.”
“I— Joh—” I struggle with what to say, overloaded by the information he sent my way.
With the lives we’ve lived, we both always assume the worst. It’s been programmed into us. It sucks, but it’s the way life made us. I refuse to believe Niccolaio is a bad person. Not given what I’ve seen of him.
For a while, words evade me, but finally, I settle on what I mean the most. “You’re not a monster, Niccolaio. You’re a good person. You’ve defended me. You jumped in front of a bullet for me. Twic—”
“If you think I’m a good person when I’m defending you, then I’m doing it wrong.”
“You know what? Exactly. Defending me tonight… You’re doing it right. What happened tonight… You were just reacting to me being in danger. You can’t hate yourself for that. You’re not a monster, Niccolaio.”
I approach him and hesitantly put a hand on his bare back, shivering at the contact, until he shrugs me off. Instinctively, I take a few steps back, as if the distance will protect my heart from the sudden stab of pain at his dismissal.
Finally—finally—he looks me in the eyes… and says, “You’re better off without me.”
And then he takes off, not once looking back. He doesn’t even slow. I reach out to touch him, but he slips past me, angling his body away from me, so it doesn’t brush mine as he passes.
And I don’t know why he’s fighting me. Fighting this. Us. But it hurts.
It hurts so darn much.
I’m grateful when Mina calls me, happy for any distraction from Niccolaio. After our discussion earlier, he entered one of the bedrooms in the warehouse and hasn’t left since. I couldn’t go back to sleep, and the whole day passed by with an agonizing slowness. Now, it’s nighttime, and I still haven’t seen him leave the room.
And I may or may not have been lurking in the halls every few minutes.
Mina happens to be catching me during one of those times. I press answer for the video call and head down the hall towards the office, where the WiFi connection is strongest. I stay in the hall, though, uncomfortable with the idea of entering Niccolaio’s office uninvited.
“Hey, Minka!”
“What’s up, kiddo?”
“I’m twelve,” she reminds me.
“Still a kiddo even when you’re thirteen times that age,” I remind her, though it’s half-hearted.
I’m distracted by my thoughts of Niccolaio.
“What’s wrong?” Mina asks, perceptive as ever, and I’m reminded that she’s about to turn thirteen and will be in high school in the blink of an eye.
I open my mouth to tell her, but the words die in my throat. Sometimes I wish I could tell her about these things, like I would if we had a normal sibling relationship, but we don’t. I’m both her sister and her mother, and this means there are lines of propriety that need to be drawn between us. And that includes not talking to her about my stupid boy troubles.
And apparently, Mina has picked up on this, because it’s her turn to frown. “Why do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Keep things from me. Things that I know you want to say.”
“I—I don’t do it on purpose.”
Her face falls. “Yes, you do.”
“I just… You’re my sister, Mina, and I love you. I don’t want to burden you with my problems.”
There’s a shocking flash of anger on her face. “Like I do to you?”
“What?! Where is this coming from? You’re not a burden, Mina. Never,” I say emphatically, meaning it.
But Mina’s head is already turned, her attention on someone else. My face sours when I hear Erica’s voice in the background. It sours even more when I see Mina’s face light up to whatever Erica is saying.
It hurts. More than I’d like to admit. Deep down, I know it’s petty to resent the fact that Erica can make Mina happy. I should be happy that Mina is happy, but I can’t help it. As Mina’s social worker, Erica played a huge role in taking Mina from me, and I can’t ever forgive that.
I don’t want to ever forgive that.
I close my eyes, not wanting to witness Erica making Mina happy while I’m pretty much useless—unable to visit Mina and unable to do anything to cheer Niccolaio up. I sink into self-pity, hating myself for being this type of person but unwilling to change. Not when it means the alternative—taking responsibility for my role in how messed up my life is.
“You hate Erica. Don’t you?” Mina says, her words startling me.
I’m glad my eyes were closed.
After I reign in my shock, I open my eyes, sigh, and say, “I… yeah.”
I don’t want to lie to Mina anymore.
She deserves the truth.
“She’s not a bad person. I like her.”
“You told me you hate her.”
“I was eight, and they had just taken me from you.”
“And now?” I soften my voice. “You’re not a burden to me. Never.”
“I know what you do.”
“W-what?”
“You’re with yucky men, because you think you need money to get me out of here, but you don’t need to get me out of here.”
My jaw drops, and I’m taken aback. “W-what? How? Who told you this? I don’t d—”
“Minka,” she says, stopping me with her tone. On her face is a somber expression a twelve year old girl has no business having. “You don’t have to do this.”
“What? Of course, I do.”
“No, you don’t,” she insists, her tone adamant.
“What are you talking about?”
“I…” she hesitates. “I’m happy here, Minka. I love you so, so much, but I don’t want to leave. I don’t feel the same way I used to. It took time, but I like it here now. The school I go to is so much better than my old one; people are friends with me; the teachers are nice to me here; I don’t have to watch you each half a packet of cup noodles while you spend all of your money on my food; and honestly, I know it’s better for the both of us if I stay here.”
I think I whimper, but I don’t know for sure. I’m too startled by her words to pay attention to anything but her. “But—”
“I like it here, Minka. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” she says, always sounding far wiser than her years.
I guess that’s what happens when life forces you to grow up too fast. Did I sound as wise as her when I was her age? Because I certainly don’t feel wise now.
She continues, “It just means that staying here is right for me.”
And for the first time since I started this soul sucking gold digging plan of mine, I’m questioning everything. What if Mina’s right? What if she’s better off there instead of with me?
Oh, God.
Did I just waste all these years—and my sanity—trying to gold dig? I feel a tear stream down my cheek, and I hastily say a goodbye to Mina before ending the call, because I don’t want her to see me like this.
Weak.
Broken.
Pathetic.
From behind me, strong arms wrap around me, and I sag into them. Deflated, but thankful for the contact.
“I’m sorry,” Niccolaio says.
“For what? You didn’t make Mina say those words.”
“For being an ass earlier when you were just trying to help. I just… I needed time to process everything, and I’m not used to letting others help me.” He hesitates. “And Minka… Your sister is right.”
I tense, and it’s a warning for him to stop.
Now.
Even nice people have their limits, and no one has ever accused me of being nice.
But Niccolaio doesn’t heed my body’s warning. Instead, he continues, “Gold digging isn’t the solution to your problems. In fact, it is your problem. You’re smart, beautiful, funny, feisty, and so fucking amazing. Goddamn, Minka, you’re perfect. I truly mean that.
“You could be happy. You could be free. But instead, you’re angry and frustrated, and you hate what you’re doing with your life. I’m not saying Mina was ever a burden, but I am saying that maybe you should listen to her when she says she should stay and accept the positive life changes that’ll come with that.” He takes a deep breath. “Maybe you two are better living apart from each other.”
“How can you say that?” I throw my hands up in frustration. “That’s my sister you’re talking about!”
“And I have a brother, who I’ve been away from for years.”
“But that’s different. Don’t be delusional, Niccolaio. He put a hit out on you.”
“It wasn’t always like this.”
I snort, unbelieving. I’ve been around Niccolaio long enough to know he’s intolerable most of the time… like now. If I had the money and you asked me a month or so ago, perhaps I would have put a hit out on him, too.
“Look, Minka. This isn’t about me. This is about you. Not me. Not Mina. You. You have to stop focusing on other people and start focusing on yourself. You think you’re this awful person, but you’re not. In fact, you’re the opposite. You’re selfless. Too selfless. And you’ve given your life up for a person who is now telling you that you no longer have to. Maybe you should listen to her.” His voice drops. “You deserve more than this. More than gold digging.”
I ignore everything else he said and focus on the last part, because part of me fears that he’s right about everything. “It’s my body. I can do what I want with it.”
“You’re right, and that’s the problem. Is this really what you want?”
It’s on my tongue to say no. To stop lying to myself and everyone around me. But instead, I say, “Yeah. It is. So, what?”
“There are other options,” he says to me, like I haven’t already considered that. His voice is raised, though, and I realize how much this conversation is affecting him.
One moment, he’s the one fighting whatever this is between us, and the next moment, it’s me. Maybe we should just give up. Maybe we should end this before someone gets hurt. But even as I think the words, I know I won’t.
I can’t.
I want him too much. And I’m too far gone. If this ends, I’ll be devastated. And as horrible of a person as it makes me, I hope he feels the same way, because, heck, I don’t know why we’re always fighting with each other when all we want to do is consume one another.
“Look at you, Minka,” he says, and I know whatever words he says next will piss me off. “Anger, bitterness and resentment. Those things only hurt you, Minka.”
I stare at the ceiling, hoping it’ll take away the same feelings he’s calling out. But it doesn’t. So, I fixate on a hole in the ceiling where an expanse of darkness and a sea of stars peak into the remodeled warehouse.
How can the stars still shine so brightly when there’s so much darkness between the two of us? My eyes fixate on the stars, as if the stars will answer all of my questions. The jerks, of course, don’t.
And so I fixate on the darkness of the night sky instead. And the darkness of us. Darkness is tethered to Niccolaio’s DNA, and I’m not sure what is the darkness of the night and what is him. It startles me that I can’t tell the difference, but more so that I don’t care.
I sigh, but my words still come out angry, violent and loud, “How can you say that when you’re exactly the same way?!” I take a step towards him, my fingers clenched in a familiar tight fist. “I see you Niccolaio. You’re more broken than you care to admit.”
And he is.
I don’t add that I think the fractures in his soul are beautiful. That I’d take every imperfection of his before I’d take anyone else’s perfections.