The Nice Boxset

by Jasinda Wilder

  She nods at him, but I can tell she’s going to blame herself anyway. The doctor tells her to rest and that they’re holding her overnight for observation. When he’s gone, I stand up and lean over her and kiss her as gently as I can.

  “Please don’t take this on yourself, Nelly-baby. You heard the doctor. It just happened.”

  “I know. I know. I’m trying.” She glances at my guitar case. “Play something for me, please.”

  “What do you want to hear? Something happy?” I take the guitar out and settle it on my knee.

  She shakes her head. “No, just…something. Whatever you want. Play a song that means something to you.”

  I start with “Rocketship” by Guster, because that song has always struck a chord with me. I listened to that song all the time, on Repeat. I’ll play it over and over and over again, almost as much as my lullaby to myself. The idea of a rocket ship taking me away, bound for something new…yeah. I could identify.

  I feel people behind us, but I don’t care. Let them listen.

  “Play something else,” Nell says. “Anything.”

  I sigh. “I wrote a song while you were sleeping. It’s…a goodbye, I guess you could say.”

  “Play it. Please.”

  “We’re both gonna cry like fucking babies,” I say.

  “Yeah, I know. Play it anyway.”

  I nod, strum the opening chords. It’s a simple song, almost a lullaby. I sigh, close my eyes, and let it all come out.

  “You’ve never had a name.

  You’ve never had a face.

  A thousand breaths you’ll never take

  Echo in my mind,

  My child, child, child.

  The questions blink like stars,

  Numberless in the night sky.

  Did you dream?

  Did you have a soul?

  Who could you have been?

  You’ve never known my arms,

  You’ve never known your mother’s arms,

  My child, child, child.

  I’ll dream for you,

  I’ll breathe for you,

  I’ll question God for you,

  I’ll shake my fists and scream and cry for you.

  This song is for you,

  It’s all I’ve got.

  It doesn’t give you a name.

  It doesn’t give you a face.

  But it’s all I’ve got to give.

  All my love is in these words I sing,

  In each haunted note from my guitar,

  My child, child, child.

  You’re not gone,

  Because you never were.

  But that doesn’t mean

  You passed unloved.

  It doesn’t mean you’re forgotten,

  Unborn child, child, child.

  I bury you

  With this song.

  I mourn you

  With this song.”

  The last note hangs in the air. Nell is sobbing into her hands. I hear a choked cough from behind me, turn to see a crowd around the door, nurses, doctors, orderlies, patients and visitors, all of them clearly affected. My cheeks are wet, and my eyes sting. For once, I let it out, let myself be weak.

  Nell scrambles off the bed, wires and tubes tripping her, and crawls onto my lap. I cradle her into me, hold her against me, and we cry together. I comfort her the only way I know: with my silence, my arms, my lips on her skin. There aren’t words for this, and the ones I did have, I sang.

  Chapter 15

  A Song of Single Breaths

  Two and a half weeks later

  Water chucks and laps against the dock pilings. The moon is missing a sliver from the side, and gleams silver on the black ripples of the lake. We’re back where we started, on the dock, a bottle of Jameson and my guitar.

  She’s sitting on the edge, pants rolled up to her knees, feet kicking in the blood-warm water. I’m playing “Don’t Drink the Water” by Dave Matthews Band, and she’s just sitting, listening. I’m leaning back against the corner post, one foot in the water, the other across her thighs. She’s rubbing my calf with her fingers, staring at the water. We haven’t said much since we came down here at midnight, two hours ago. We’re both kind of sloppy, and the loose numbness is welcome.

  There’ve been a lot of hospital visits to make sure she’s fine, long-term, physically, plus a whole lot more therapy appointments and grief counseling and all sorts of other long-past due shit. I’ve been staying with my parents, talking to my dad. I haven’t told him much, but enough for him to understand a little of what I went through. He hasn’t apologized again, which is probably good since apologies don’t mean shit, but I can tell he’s trying with me. Whatever. One day at a time, and don’t hold grudges. That last part is hard.

  Nell is…not okay, but getting there. I’m not okay, but I’m getting there.

  And now we’re drunk and alone on the dock.

  “Don’t Drink the Water” turns into “Blackbird,” and I’m not sure if I’m doing Sarah McLachlan’s version or Paul McCartney’s, but it doesn’t matter. I’m singing it, and the words have never meant so much. It’s not really an epiphany, just a knowledge that we’ll be okay, somehow, someday.

  She hears what I’m saying behind the song. She turns and looks at me, and her eyes are bright in the moon-silver darkness.

  “You were only waiting for this moment to arise…” She sings the last line with me. “God, I love that song. How’d you know?”

  I shrug and set the guitar aside. “I didn’t, really. I just knew, because it’s always meant a lot to me, and now more than ever.”

  “Are we?”

  “Are we what?”

  She slides closer to me until her back is to my front. “Waiting for this moment?”

  I give a kind-of laugh. “I’m not sure what you’re asking, but I’m gonna go with yes. There’s been a lot of heavy shit in our lives. And this…this latest business has been hell.” I still can’t even say the word for what happened; it’s too hard. “But we have to learn to be free. We have to, Nell. Doesn’t mean happy all the time, or okay all the time. It’s okay not to be okay. I told you that, but I’m relearning it myself. But not being okay doesn’t mean you stop living.”

  She leans back, tilts her head to press her lips to mine. She tastes of Jameson, and the lemon-lime tang from the Sprite she’s chasing it with. Whiskey and Sprite? Blech. But she likes it, so whatever. She tastes like Nell, and that’s all that matters.

  Her tongue sweeps my mouth, and I realize where she’s going with this. Her hand lifts to brush the back of my head, cup my nape, and pull me against her. My fingers trail across her belly, find the gap between her shirt and pants, touch the silky heat of her skin. I tug the shirt up, and she pushes away from me so I can pull it free. We came down to the dock late at night, after she’d taken a shower, so she’s not wearing a bra. I like it. I can smooth my palms across her belly, up her ribs, slide my fingers around her taut nipple and cup the heavy weight of her breast. She moans into my mouth, and I know she needs this.

  I do, too.

  I kiss her, explore her mouth, relearn the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts and the shower-damp curls of her hair. She kisses me, lets me touch her. Each caress brings her healing, I think. Shows her she’s more than the sum of her grief.

  It does the same for me.

  Finally, she twists in place, and we slide so the dock is beneath my back and she’s pillowed on top of me, body pressed flush to body, softness merging with hardness. She lets all her weight rest on me, cradles my face in her hands and kisses me into oblivion, and sweet Jesus, her mouth is my heaven.

  * * *

  Nell

  * * *

  I didn’t realize how badly I craved this until his hands came up over my thighs to knead the muscle of my ass. Up until that point, kissing him was just…sweet and perfect and all the things I needed to forget. But then, something in the way his fingers dug hungrily into my backside unleashed a need inside me.<
br />
  I need him. I mean, yeah, emotionally, mentally, I need him, too. He’s my rock. He’s there, just…always there, exactly how I need him. Calming, comforting, protecting, and distracting me. But this…I have to have his arms around me, his hands on me, his fingers blazing a trail of heat on my skin and his mouth wreaking wonderful havoc on my senses. I absolutely cannot live without that another minute. It’s a madness in me.

  I think he senses this in the way I suddenly attack him. We were just kissing, making out, touching a bit, and then I rear back and look down at him and see his vibrant sapphire eyes sparkling in the starlight and moonbeams, and his eyes are taking me in like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and I just…lose it.

  I dig at his jeans, fumbling frantically at the button and at the elastic of his boxers and at his shirt. I’m panting with need, crazed.

  He stills both of my wrists in one of his hands and lifts my chin with the other. “Relax, Nell. Slow down.”

  “I can’t, I can’t.” My voice is not mine; it’s almost a squeak, and I don’t squeak. “I need you. Right now.”

  His eyes are calm but hungry. “I need you, too. But slow down. I’m here. I’m here.”

  He pulls me down against him so I can feel his hot flesh and hard muscle and his arousal against my thigh.

  “It’s not enough. I need you inside me, Colton. Please.”

  He brushes a wayward curl aside with his thumb. “I know, baby. But breathe for me, okay? It’s all right.”

  I realize I’m hyperventilating. I’m not okay. But Colton makes me okay, not because he fixes me, just because he’s him. He’s unchanging. He’s raw and rough and kind and smart and nearly illiterate but so brilliant and so talented and so fucking hot it’s absurd, and he’s mine. And all that makes me okay, because he loves me, even when I run away and even when I’m hyperventilating.

  I breathe. I slow myself down, one breath at a time, like I’ve been learning in therapy, and slowly, I begin to find a semblance of sanity.

  And then Colton stands up easily, lifting me in his arms, and carries me to the spare bedroom in his parents’ house where he’s been sleeping. The house is empty, silent in the way that only empty houses can be. His mom and dad are gone, finally taking a much-needed weekend away together.

  Colton lowers me to the bed, and I catch a scent of his cologne and shampoo and whiskey. I watch him, stare at him, drinking in his rugged, masculine beauty. He strips his shirt off, doing that sexy guy thing where he peels it straight up over his head, stretching the slabs of muscle on his stomach and chest. Then he flicks open his jeans button, and I’m a trembling mess watching him unzip achingly slowly, teasing me. The jeans slip off to the floor, and his underwear are tented. He’s not self-conscious at all. He hooks his thumbs in the gray elastic waistband and draws the black cotton over the head, baring himself to me.

  God, yes.

  I can’t help biting my lip and smiling at the sight of him standing straight up, tip glistening. He’s naked, standing over me. I reach out and grasp him, pull him to me. He climbs onto the bed and kneels above me.

  “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he murmurs.

  “You should fix that,” I say.

  He grins and draws my yoga pants off, then my panties. His mouth descends on mine, and this kiss isn’t delicate or gentle; it’s needy. Demanding. I stroke him, caress him, slide my thumb over the wetness at his tip, explore the veins and ridges and the silk-and-steel contrast of him.

  I keep expecting him to slide into me, but he doesn’t.

  “The doctor cleared you for this, right?” He whispers it gently.

  I just nod and try to pull him down to me. He resists, though, staring down at me, eyes inscrutable. I don’t know what his hesitation is—I think I’ve made my need clear.

  Then he’s rolling to his back and drawing me onto him, except he lifts me so I’m lying on him back to front. He shimmies upward, adjusts the pillows so we’re reclining, and god, this is fucking incredibly comfortable and sexy as hell at the same time. I’m lying on top of him, and he’s nudging my entrance. I lean back to press kisses to his jaw, and get lost in the taste of his skin while he leans away to dig in the drawer for something. I hear a packet ripping, and he rolls it on smoothly. I barely register this, tasting the salt on his neck, but then his hands are on me, arcing across my ribs and pinching my nipples so I’m gasping and moaning and reaching down between our legs for him, guiding him where he needs to be, pressing him into me. Oh…oh, god.

  I keep my fingers on the joining of our flesh while he slides in, and the feeling of his latex-coated flesh moving against my desire-wet folds is intoxicating, sexy as anything I’ve ever felt. I can feel us moving, feel my petals stretching from his thickness, feel the moisture slicking us both, and then my fingers join his at my clit and we’re stimulating me together. My other hand is at his jaw, and he turns his face into my palm to kiss it. He’s kneading and caressing my breasts while he fondles my swollen nub, and his thighs are tensing, turning to rock, and my legs are draped to either side of his and lifting me up and sinking me down. I can just barely reach his sack, so I caress him there, cup him, stretch a bit farther to rub my finger on the tiny slice of muscle just behind it.

  His breath is hot on my neck, and his voice murmurs my name, chants his love for me, repeats how beautiful I am, how perfect, how amazing. Each word from his lips is poetry, a song rhythmed to the sinuous grind of our bodies.

  There’s no start, no stop, no him or me; there is only us, only perfection, only meshed souls and merged bodies and dizzy pleasure.

  At some point, I come, and the release is endless, wave after wave of delicious pressure and wafting heat and billowing ecstasy and a rush of love so powerful I can’t breathe past it, can only rest my head on his shoulder and keep coming around him and whisper his name as my prayer to our love.

  There’s no magical healing in this. I won’t wake up tomorrow fixed and joyful. I’ll still hurt and grieve.

  But moments like this, with Colton? They make it all bearable. He doesn’t fix me, doesn’t heal me. He just makes life worthwhile. He helps me remember to breathe, shows me how to smile again. He kisses me, and I can forget pain, forget the urges I still have to cut for the pain that erases the emotions.

  He slides his body into mine, and I can moan with him, breathe with him, moan, each single breath a song, and for the minutes and hours spent devouring his love for me, his love inside me, I can only be his Nell, the one without scars and ghosts.

  When he comes, I come again, and I whisper the words that have come to almost replace I love you between us: “I’m falling into you.”

  So true. When we come together, when we kiss, when we drowse into sleep side by side, we’re falling into each other, and that’s when I’m okay. When I’m falling into him.

  * * *

  THE END

  PLAYLIST

  Featured Music Playlist:

  * * *

  “Danny’s Song” by Kenny Loggins

  “Reminder” by Mumford & Sons

  “Barton Hollow” by The Civil Wars

  “Like a Bridge Over Troubled Waters” by Simon and Garfunkel

  “I and Love and You” by The Avett Brothers

  “Make You Feel My Love” by Adele

  “Can’t Break Her Fall” by Matt Kearney

  “Stillborn” by Black Label Society

  “Come On Get Higher” by Matt Nathanson

  “I Won’t Give Up” by Jason Mraz

  “This Girl” by City & Colour

  “My Funny Valentine” by Ella Fitzgerald

  “Dream a Little Dream of Me” by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong

  “Stormy Blues” by Billie Holiday

  “I would be Sad” by The Avett Brothers

  “Hello, I’m Delaware” by City & Colour

  “99 Problems” by Hugo (originally written and performed by Jay-Z)

  “It’s Time” by Imagine Dragons<
br />
  “Let It Be Me” by Ray LaMontagne

  “Rocketship” by Guster

  “Don’t Drink The Water” by Dave Matthews Band

  “Blackbird” by The Beatles

  * * *

  I would like to take a moment to thank all of these artists. Music is an integral part of my writing process, and this novel wouldn’t exist without these songs, and many more not listed. I encourage you to try these artists, if you haven’t listened to them already. And also…don’t be pirates. Buy the music legitimately. Support artists, whether they’re writers, poets, painters, musicians, sculptors, photographers…buy their work and support their talent. Art makes the world a better place.

  My original song “Falling Into You” is now available at iTunes, Google Play, and Amazon MP3!

  * * *

  Surprise! Some of you may know that I have a degree in music. I've always been a performer and I still enjoy singing when I get the chance. It's a huge part of who I am, and honestly I'm more sensitive about my music than my writing.

  * * *

  When I wrote Falling Into You, I wrote music for several of the original songs that went along with the story; those original songs, those lyrics have since become an integral part of the entire series. When we went to start to record the audiobook, both my music producer friend and the company who assisted me in the audiobook arrangements suggested that I record one of the songs. So, I went into the studio and recorded "Falling Into You". I added it to the back of the audiobook without really saying anything to anyone. However, within a week or two, I started getting lots of messages asking about the artist and the song, and slowly I let the cat out of the bag one reader at a time that it was actually me singing on that track. I told Audible that I would give them a year of exclusivity to the song on the audiobook.