“How about some water,” I tell her, ignoring her date’s request completely.
“What? No, that’s not fun.”
I laugh. “It looks like you’ve had plenty of fun tonight already.”
Her easiness vanishes, and her hands fall away from her date and to her sides. “I’d like a drink, Nick,” she bites out. Her posture stiffens and she takes an unsteady step closer to me.
“I’m not serving you tonight, Bethany. You’re already lit.”
She looks shocked. “Are you screwing with me?”
I grab a few more empty glasses from the wall bar beside them, winking at a chick who bumps into me and giggles with apology. Bethany’s date steps closer, his greased black hair slipping into his even darker eyes. “What the hell is your problem, man?” he growls.
“I don’t have a problem, but she’s cut off.” I glare at her friend. “And if you keep pushing me, so are you.”
“Nick, stop it,” Bethany says, glancing wild-eyed between us.
“Stop what? I’m the bartender. It’s illegal for me to over-serve someone.”
Bethany grabs hold of my arm and pulls me toward the door. She wobbles on her feet, but she’s too determined and angry with me to trip and fall. When we get into an empty pocket of the bar, she grills me. “What the hell is your problem? Why are you being an asshole?”
“I’m not being an asshole,” I say coolly, even if I’m not sure that’s entirely true. “I’m doing my job.”
“I’ve had a few drinks, so what? It’s not like I’m belligerent or something.”
“Or something,” I mutter. “Just have some water for a bit, Bethany, it wouldn’t kill you.” I turn to leave.
“Wait,” she demands and reaches for me again, her fingers tight around my forearm this time. “Is this some joke to you—are you getting back at me for walking out of class the other day?”
“No.” I take a step closer to her. “But what the hell are you doing? Why are you out with this creep and acting like—”
“Like what?” she asks sharply. Her eyes narrow on me. When I don’t say anything, she takes a step closer to me. “Go ahead, Nick. Say it. I know you and your friends have been stewing in resentment toward me for years now.” She flings her hand in my direction. “Why don’t you just get it out of the way. A slut? Trash? Homewrecker? I couldn’t possibly just want to have a fun night out and act my age like everyone else, right?” Her eyes glisten and her face reddens even more.
I’m not sure how to respond as I register the hurt in her eyes. When I don’t say anything, she peers around the bar, like she’s suddenly worried she’s making a scene.
“Thanks for ruining it,” she says, and without another word, she pushes through the door and disappears outside, the door swinging open and shut in her wake.
Bad Hair comes up behind me and glares. “Hey, dip shit, you just cost me my date.”
I stare at the door settling back into place. The look on her face confuses me, but the offense in her voice was real. I turn back for the bar. “Tell someone who cares.”
Fifteen
Bethany’s Journal
April 13th
So, I’ve been staring at my ceiling for a couple hours, trying to sort out what happened at Lick’s tonight. My night out was was supposed to be fun. I supposed was supposed to go out with a flirty guy I met at the coffee shop and live with wild abandon. That’s how it is for most people my age, right? They go to parties and going go dancing and live like they’ll never be twenty-something again. What makes me so different? Is it Nick and Lick’s? Is it this town and the past it holds? Is it a deep-seated shame I will never be able to shake because of my parents? Why is it so impossible to be happy for one fucking minute? -B
Sixteen
Nick
My head’s fuzzy, but the sheets feel like melted butter around me, and I don’t want to move. It takes me a moment to realize I’m only half asleep and someone’s pounding on the front door.
Peeling my eyes open, I force myself to sit up in bed. I’m tired and drained, and whoever is knocking on a Saturday morning is going to get a knee in the scrotum. I told Reilly I was sleeping in today, and, according to my alarm clock, it’s only nine. It might as well be 5AM after going to sleep around four.
More pounding scatters what remains of my haze, and with a curse, I climb out of bed. My apartment is dark, the drapes drawn and only a few slivers of morning sunlight filter in, illuminating a path to the door.
Reilly knocks again as I reach for the handle. “Yeah, I’m awake,” I growl and fling the door open. The sun’s like acid on the backs of my eyes, and I stagger back. “Jesus, could you—”
“Sorry, not Jesus. It’s me,” a bored, female voice says, and I blink my eyes open to see Bethany standing on the landing. She adjusts her book bag, slung over her shoulder, and offers me a tall to-go coffee. “Latte?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I groan as last night comes flooding back to me. Then, I remember our study date. “Ugh, I’m too tired for this.” I step out of the way so she can come inside.
“Hence, the coffee,” she drawls and offers it to me again.
This time, I happily accept. “Thanks.” As she glances around my apartment, I take a sip of coffee and appraise her jeans and long sleeves. Her hair’s damp and she looks surprisingly put together for an early-ish Saturday morning. “How come I feel worse than you look?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be nursing a hangover or something?”
“I wasn’t that drunk, you were just being an asshole.”
I laugh bitterly. “Yeah, sure, if that’s how you remember it.”
“Can we, just, not talk about any of that?” She bristles, and I walk into the kitchen to add a bit more sugar to my coffee.
“Fine. But, I thought we were meeting at the library.”
“Yeah, well, we never decided on a time—”
“Because you ran out of class like a crazy person,” I reminder her, and lean my palms against the counter.
“And,” she continues, “I wasn’t sure you’d even show up after last night.” She says it with a little bit of humility, so I let it go.
Bethany drops her bag on the sectional and peers around my dark apartment before she walks over to the window. With a quick tug, my navy drapes are open, light brightening the living room, and she sighs. “Now it doesn’t feel like I’m on How to Catch a Predator,” she mutters.
“Wow. Please, make yourself at home. By all means . . .”
Bethany looks at me, her eyes shifting over my body. “Not that I have anything against half-naked men, but do you mind?”
I glance down at my pajamas, or mostly lack thereof. “I was hoping to sleep in a bit longer, but clearly that’s a pipe dream.” I take another swig of my coffee, in no rush to make her feel more comfortable, and set it on the counter before I disappear into my bedroom.
“So,” I call into the living room, “I take it we’re working here this morning?” I hear a zipper and crumpling papers.
“If you don’t mind,” she says. “Since we’re already here.”
I pull a fresh t-shirt over my head. “How did you know where I live, anyway? Do you stalk me or something?”
“Yeah, I have been for years.” She says it so nonchalantly, I have to laugh. “Brady told me,” she amends. “He owed me a favor.”
“That sounds intriguing.”
“It’s not. I introduced him to my dad so he could get some investment advice,” she explains.
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know,” she mutters.
“Yeah, like what?”
“Ginger tea and a shot of whiskey.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Something you don’t know about me,” she explains, but I’m still confused.
“Okay . . . Care to add any context to that?”
I hear her rustling around in the living room. “Hangovers—it’s what I
take for hangovers.”
“Ah, got it.” I finish dressing in silence, not wanting to bring up last night again. After I brush my teeth and run my fingers through my hair, I head back into the living room. She’s sitting on my couch with neatly stacked piles of books and notecards spread out in front of her. She looks like she belongs there with her legs folded under her and her hair in a knot on top of her head.
A rush of gratitude washes over me, seeing her in my apartment, and I quickly fill the silence. “Better?” I ask, gesturing to my more appropriate attire.
Her mouth tilts in the corner and her pewter eyes meet mine. “It’s an improvement.”
Seventeen
Bethany
Nick’s eyes linger on mine a bit longer than I’m comfortable with, so I’m forced to fill the silence. “Nice place, by the way.”
“Thanks.” He drops his notebook onto the other side of the sectional.
His apartment is a total bachelor’s pad, complete with a mountain bike hanging on the wall, dirty boots, and a cowboy hat by the door. I like the grays and browns that color his apartment, though—they’re subtle and sleek, yet still masculine. “Did your mom help you decorate?” The rug beneath his dinette table catches my attention. Its black and white geometric trellis shapes add a bit of noise to all the drab.
“Is it that obvious?” The Nick-ness of his voice is gone, and when I look at him, so is the brilliance of his eyes. It’s clear I’ve hit a nerve.
“I’m a design major, remember? It’s sort of what I do—notice things. Don’t take it personally.”
Nick walks into the kitchen without saying another word about it. “You want a Pop-Tart or something?” He reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a box of blueberry.
“Pop-Tarts are Jesse’s favorite,” I tell him and unwind myself from the couch. With a little extra pep in my step, I walk into the kitchen.
“What can I say, the kid’s got good taste.” His eyebrows waggle at me, and just like that, his Nick-ness is back. “So, is that a yes?”
“Sure.” I unwrap a pack for myself and hand it to him to stick in the toaster. Our hands have touched before, but this time, it’s different. It’s the first time we’ve touched since New Year’s in his car, and here, in the privacy and quiet of his home, it feels more intimate than it should. I take a step back and smile, nodding to the PlayStation on the floor by the big screen. “Video games?”
A grin envelops his face. “Hell yes, video games. I’d love to kick your ass in Mario Kart.”
“Actually . . . I’m more of a Duck Hunt kind of girl.”
His eyes widen. “That’s literally the worst game ever. There’s a reason it isn’t around anymore.”
I nearly snort a laugh. “What can I say, I bought an old Nintendo at a garage sale when I was little. It only had one game but it kept me busy before Jesse came along. Let’s just say it holds sentimental value. I’m down for some Mario Kart though.”
His eyebrows lift. “Yeah? I thought we’re supposed to be working?”
Nodding, I run my fingers through my hair. “You’re right. I’m easily distracted when I’m anxious.”
He smirks at me and lifts an eyebrow.
With an internal groan, I retreat back to the couch. “This whole project makes me anxious. This is the worst timing possible.”
Nick pulls out two Pop-Tarts from the toaster and moves around his kitchen with ease. He tears off a paper towel and opens and closes a drawer, and I wonder if this is what it would be like to spend every Saturday morning with him. If we might have a cup of coffee, eat breakfast, and banter back and forth about childhood hobbies.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re making a face.”
Deer in headlights, I force a smile. “Yeah. Great. Thanks.” Even as I remind myself how complicated we are, I find it incredibly easy to be around him, too.
“You said ‘worst timing’ . . . What did you mean?” His eyes are on me, expectant and probing.
“Well,” I start, not certain how much to tell him, let alone how much he cares to hear. “I’m taking the GRE in a couple weeks, and I need to focus on that exam so I’ll be able to get a good score.” I dig for a pen in my book bag, suddenly desperate to keep myself busy.
“A GRE?”
I blow a loose strand of hair from my face. “It’s like a rite-of-passage for psychology students thinking about a master’s degree. The better your test score, the better your chances are of getting into a good school. Kind of like the SATs, but more important.”
“But . . .” Still standing, he leans against the counter and crosses his ankles, a perplexed look on his face that’s almost comical. “I thought you were an interior design major, thus our Integrative Design class.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a double major,” I say quickly, and I reach for my coffee, hoping he’ll avert his gaze.
“Wait, why the hell would you want to do that to yourself?” he asks, and the laugh that bubbles out of me sounds almost lunatic.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I mean, I do, but, no, I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m crazy.”
“Kinda cute-crazy,” he says lightly, and my eyes meet his.
Both of us sober.
“Oh,” Nick says quickly and hands me my two Pop-Tarts. “Ugh, sorry. They’re getting cold.” That’s the least of my worries right now. “No worries, thanks.” Tapping my pen on my notebook, I take a bite of my breakfast. “We have a lot to discuss, we should probably get started.”
With a nod, Nick plops down on the couch across from me. “Sure.”
“So,” I say, pointing to the doodles on my notebook. To the average person, they might look like scribbled gibberish, but to me, they’re a necessity. “I came up with a few project ideas to run by you, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about them. First, I was thinking we should pick a local spot, maybe a business we think needs a remodel so we can actually go inside, check it out, make some informative decisions—”
“Actually,” Nick says, and takes a long pull of his coffee. “I’ve already decided on our subject matter—well, I might have.”
“I see. That’s . . . surprising, and a little presumptuous.” I fold my legs beneath me, settling in to hear his revelation.
He watches me skeptically.
“Are you going to tell me what it is? I’m on pins and needles over here.”
Nick smirks and scratches the side of his face. When his lips purse, I start to worry a little. “I don’t know if you’re going to like it, but it’s a really good idea.”
That’s somewhat frightening. I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Might as well come out and say it.”
“I’m still working at Sam’s ranch a couple days a week,” he says.
My palms begin to sweat, even though I have no idea where he’s going with this. “Okay . . .”
“Look, I know the two of you don’t really get along, but I’m remodeling her barn for my final project—converting it into an office, actually—and while I was just going to do the conversion for my final, we could work on the interior together for Murray’s class, doing Sam a solid and getting our project finished with bonus points on top of it.”
I blink at him.
“We already have my plans and schematics of the structure, and we could throw in before and after photos, not just a mockup from AutoCAD.” He leans onto his knees and looks me in the eyes. “You were worried about your grade the other day, and I heard you. So, this is my proposition. I have to get this project done anyway, and Sam is going to need all the help she can get.” He shrugs. “I think it’s a no brainer.”
“But?” I hedge. He seems too hesitant for there not to be a hitch, other than my issues with Sam.
“We’d just need to make sure everyone is on board.” He drapes his arm over the back of the couch and waits for me to respond.
“Ah, got it. Sam knows nothing about this proposition.”
“Not yet. I wasn’t going to ask her until I knew you w
ere in.”
Tapping my pen against my notebook, I peer around his apartment. I do need this grade and, as much as I dread having to interact with Sam, an easy project would be a lifesaver right now.
“You know your stuff, Bethany,” Nick adds, and even though I know he’s trying to butter me up, his expression is sincere. “You might not ever make it to class on time—”
“You just had to sneak that in there.” I roll my eyes.
“But, I’ve seen your vision boards and I think Sam would like your style, which makes it ten times easier on you.” He tosses down a stack of barn photos, what looks like ‘before’ the remodel. It’s a big space, and depending on the changes he’s made, it has a lot of potential.
Sam and I have never been friends. I hated her for the Mike thing, she hated me, but even before that I knew she didn’t like me. “You realize she’s going to hate this idea, Nick. She’s gonna say no.”
He shakes his head. “No, she won’t. I’m going to use my charm to get us this job. Consider it taken care of.”
I doubt Nick batting his eyelashes at her will soften her up enough. I try to ignore my curdling stomach at the thought of having to work with her and her hateful stare. “You better get her liquored up first.”
“You don’t know Sam like I do,” Nick says, almost defensively, like he can read my thoughts. “She has her reasons for feeling the way she does about you, but she’ll overlook them to help me out.”
His resentment toward me is obvious, even if it’s misplaced. I meet his gaze. “She thinks she does, anyway.”
Nick stares at me, his eyes narrowed, like suddenly my presence is riling him up. The last thing I want is a repeat of the other day in class.
“Look, Nick, let’s get something crystal clear. In spite of what you all seem to think, I did not steal Sam’s boyfriend—I got screwed over, too. And I think you know that.”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 77