Page 94 of My Best Friend Is Broken

The easy confidence in his voice, the complete lack of doubt that I could achieve something like that, makes my chest warm. It’s been so long since anyone believed in my potential for anything beyond mere survival.

By the time we’ve finished working out, we’re both sweaty and laughing, the endorphins from exercise mixing with the growing ease of genuine friendship. We head back upstairs and quickly shower in our respective bathrooms before reconvening in the kitchen for lunch.

“Italian practice while we cook?” Molly suggests, pulling ingredients for pasta from the cupboards.

“Definitely. Teach me something actually useful this time.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” He grins. “Fine, fine. How about cooking vocabulary? Very practical.”

He walks me through the names of ingredients in Italian, correcting my pronunciation with patience and humor. We practice phrases like “Pass me the salt” and “This needs more garlic” until they start to feel natural on my tongue.

“Now for the fun stuff,” Molly says as he stirs the sauce. “Romantic phrases. Because you’re going to want to impress Nicky.”

“I already told him I love him in Italian.”

“Yes, but there’s so much more! Like...” He leans in with a wicked grin. “Voglio baciarti tutta la notte. Want to know what that means?”

“Something romantic?”

“I want to kiss you all night.” He demonstrates the proper pronunciation, rolling his R’s dramatically. “Very useful for setting the mood.”

I practice the phrase, stumbling over the words but getting closer each time. Molly’s patient corrections and enthusiastic encouragement make it feel more like a game than a lesson.

“And this one,” he continues, clearly enjoying himself. “Sei bellissimo. You’re beautiful. Simple but effective.”

“Nicky calls me beautiful sometimes.”

“In English or Italian?”

“English.”

“Then definitely surprise him with the Italian version. He’ll melt.” Molly tastes the sauce and nods with satisfaction. “Perfect. Pasta’s almost done. Set the table?”

We eat our lunch in the living room, curled up on the sofa with plates balanced on our laps and a documentary about ocean life playing in the background. It’s comfortable, domestic, the kind of ordinary happiness that feels extraordinary after everything we’ve both been through.

My phone buzzes. Nicky again.How’s your day going? Everything still okay?

Great! Molly made amazing pasta and taught me some Italian. We’re watching documentaries and being very lazy. Don’t worry so much.

Can’t help it. But I’m glad you’re having fun. I’ll be home in a few hours. Love you.

“He really can’t help himself, can he?” Molly observes, reading over my shoulder.

“No. But it comes from a good place.”

“It always does. Doesn’t make it less exhausting sometimes, though.”

We spend the afternoon in easy companionship, moving between the sofa and the kitchen as the mood strikes us. Molly teaches me more Italian phrases. Some useful, some ridiculous, all delivered with his characteristic enthusiasm and dramatic flair. We practice conversations, laughingwhen we inevitably mix up words or massacre the pronunciation.

“Say it again,” Molly instructs. “Ti voglio bene. I care about you. It’s less intense than ti amo but still meaningful.”

“Ti voglio bene,” I repeat, and this time the pronunciation actually rolls properly.

“Perfect! See, you’re getting it. Nicolo is going to be so impressed.”

As the afternoon wears on, I find myself feeling more relaxed than I have in months. There’s something freeing about spending time with someone who understands my situation but isn’t constantly monitoring me for signs of breakdown. Molly treats me like a normal person, like someone capable of having opinions and making jokes and being more than just my trauma.

“Can I tell you something?” I say during a lull in conversation.