Chances That You're Burning Through

Original | Chapter Ten

~Demi's POV~

"Nick?" I open my door, in response to him ringing the doorbell, with a bewildered expression. "What are you doing here?"

"May I come in?" he hesitantly inquires. "I need to talk to you."

His serious tone causes me to raise my eyebrows as I step back, allowing him to enter my home, and I gently close the door behind him.

"What's up?" I cross my arms over my chest in an effort to shake off the late nighttime chill that breezed in.

"He, uh, he told me," he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looking rather uncomfortable, which is odd considering we have been best friends since we were teenagers.

"Who told you what?" I nervously chuckle at his vagueness.

"Are the girls awake?" he wonders.

"No," I furrow my eyebrows at his sudden topic shift in conversation. "They're asleep."

I don't bother adding that Wilmer's out with a couple of friends.

He nods.

"Joe told me, Demi."

I make a hand gesture, as if telling him to continue and get to the point already.

"Joe told me that he thinks that Anabelle might be his daughter," my blood suddenly feels like ice in my veins, and not because of the cold. "But that's ridiculous, right?" I remain silent. "Demi?"

I bite my bottom lip as it trembles. Tears prick my eyes, more so out of anger and frustration than sadness.

"It's not ridiculous," I whisper, unable to look him in his eyes for fear of being judged. "Anabelle...she-she's my daughter, and she-she's Joe's daughter, and you-you and Kevin and Frankie are-are her uncles and..." I choke out my words between cries that threaten to convulse my body, trailing off as a sobbing fit causes my body to crumble.

Feeling weak, I slide down the wall behind me, hiding my face within my knees, the soft, silky fabric of my pajama shorts tickling my skin. Before I can reach the floor, two strong arms wrap around me, hoisting me upwards, and soon gently placing me on the couch. He murmurs reassuring words to me as I force myself to get a grip on my emotions, to stop acting so vulnerable.

"Why are you crying?" he softly asks.

"He-he's not supposed to know. You're-you're not supposed to know."

"Why not? I have about fourteen years of present spoiling to make up for."

"You don't get it, Nick," I sniffle, breaking away from his embrace.