No sooner does the seat belt sign light flicker off than I’m shooting out of my seat, only giving Tony enough time to open his arms before I settle into his lap.
One of his massive arms curls around my waist as his free hand slides to my neck and his fingers gently dig into my hair. I lean down, and he places a soft kiss under my ear. “How do you do that?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Make everything feel better.”
My heart swells. I’m glad I’m already sitting, because that sentence would have easily buckled my knees.
My hands frame his face, and I pour every ounce of myself into our kiss. My promises to protect his heart. My desire to always have him near me. My hope for our future.
Which is why his pained words when we break apart shock me to my core.
“Please. Never leave me, Nikki. I won’t survive it again,” he whispers against my lips, avoiding eye contact.
I try to rear back, but he keeps me in place. “Why would you say that? I told you I love you, and I mean it.” I tilt his face up so he’s forced to meet my gaze. “Tell me what this is really about.” My thumbs caress his cheeks.
The hits just keep on coming, because I did not anticipate what he says next. “I’m thinking of quitting the police department. I think my time there is done.”
* * *
We’re just about to land.
Over the last three hours, I’ve sat next to Tony as he spilled every emotion he’s had about the police department for the last couple of years. How he walked away from his business degree to join the police academy. How his past relationship with his ex influenced his decision to join the force. The countless conversations he’s had with his dad about not choosing “the right career path” and much more.
I can see defeat in his eyes, and I want to do everything in my power to fight for him.
“Okay, so I promised I wouldn’t turn this into a therapy session, but—”
“Nikki,” Tony starts.
“You’re dating a therapist! I’m bound to throw a coping skill at you at some point.”
“I don’t need you trying to be my therapist. Just my girlfriend.” He squeezes my hand.
“Why? Do you have something against therapy?” I challenge.
“Nope. I would just like to leave that to myactualtherapist.”
I grip his forearm with frightening strength. “You go to therapy? With, like, an actual therapist? And I mean someone with credentials. Not that guy who hangs by the bodega on 94thand Broadway.”
He peels my hand off his forearm and intertwines our fingers instead. “Amelia and I go to the same therapist. Our mom set us up with her for grief counseling. After she passed, I continued seeing her. I don’t have a set schedule for appointments, but I make it a priority to see her at least once or twice a month.”
A man who is self-aware and working on himself. I close my eyes and curse my past self for missing out on the national treasure that is Antonio Nuñez.
“Nikki.”
I put up one finger. “Just a sec. Not done cursing myself out in my head. I’ll be back with you shortly.”
“Mi amor,” he implores.
“Okay, fine. I’ll respect your boundaries and let you have those conversations with your actual therapist. Just promise to speak to her before you make any final decision?”
He squeezes my hand. “Of course.”
He moves in to kiss me, but I blurt out, “But can I ask one question? Then we can totally put a lid on this conversation, and you can take it to Kelly Olson, LMFT.” Because of course I know my bestie’s therapist’s name.
He kisses my forehead. “Go ahead.”
