Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series

by Pogue, Lindsey

  Pulling out the stool, I slide in beside Nick. “You want to tell me what happened?” I ask quietly.

  A shit-eating grin parts his lips. “Life,” he says. “But it was my turn anyway.”

  “What do you mean? Did something happen after I left your mom’s?”

  When I look at Brady, he shrugs and gives us some space. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Ha!” Nick takes a sip of water, his eyes only half open. “Not exactly.” His smile disappears as his thoughts drift, and I want more than anything to say something that might make him feel better, but I know he’s beyond that now.

  “Nick,” I say, reaching for him. I rest my hand on his arm and squeeze, hoping he’ll look at me. “Do you want me to call Sam?” Her number is the only one I have, and I know she’d be here in a heartbeat if Nick needed her.

  “No. No, don’t call Sam,” he says, adamant, and he shakes his head. “She’s busy.”

  “I doubt that. It’s almost eight. She’d love to come hang out with you.”

  He shakes his head again. “No,” he repeats. “She’s had enough bullshit to deal with in her life. She doesn’t need mine too—they all have. This—” He peers around the bar. “It was bound to happen, sooner or later. Life’s not perfect, you know,” he tells me, then he laughs. “You already know that.” He stares at my hand on his arm. “Are you flirting with me, Bethany Fairchild? I thought we had a deal.”

  “I just want to help, Nick,” I tell him. Whatever happened, he’s more than hurt, he seems to feel guilty, and I have no idea why. “Why don’t you let me take you home. It’s better than stewing in this stinky bar—no offense, Brady.”

  He smiles and hands another patron a beer.

  “You are flirting with me. Trying to get me in bed, huh?” He laughs at himself again and slides off his stool. “All right. I need to get back to Marilyn and Monroe anyway. I haven’t fed them today.”

  I glance up at Brady. “What do I owe—”

  “You’re good, don’t worry about it,” he says and waves my question away. He mouths a thank you, and I reach for Nick’s hand to steady him. Instead, he wraps his arm around me and we head out the door.

  “You know, Bethany, you and me—we’re a good team. We’re killin’ it on our project. And look, you can even carry me.” He motions like he’s going to jump in my arms, and I nearly have a heart attack.

  “Let’s not try that,” I say desperately, bracing my hand on him. “I think I’d hurt us both.”

  He just laughs and we make our way out to my car.

  Nick’s silent the entire ride home, and at one point I wonder if he’s sleeping. When I pull up to his apartment, though, I realize he’s just staring out the window. His eyelids are drooping, but he’s awake, lost somewhere in his mind.

  “We’re home,” I say softly, and shut off the engine.

  “I like the sound of that,” he says with a languid smile and opens the door to climb out. Hurrying around the car, I let Nick lean on me, praying for an eventless climb up the stairs. Thankfully, other than his added weight against me, we make our way effortlessly to the front door.

  I help Nick with the lock, and the moment we’re inside his apartment, he sighs. It’s cold, like always. “Do you want a fire or do you want your bed?”

  “Is that a proposition?” He tries to waggle his eyebrows, but I can tell his heart isn’t in it anymore. It would seem the fun-loving Nick Turner can’t turn off the charm, even when he’s drunk as a skunk and miserable.

  Taking his hand, I lead him into his bedroom. I’ve never been inside it before, but it’s much like I’d expected. An oversized queen bed, dresser, and side tables to match. Perfectly coordinated sheets, drapes, and an accent rug, but his clothes are scattered around the room. I imagine it might mirror whatever is going on in this life right now.

  Pulling back the covers, I motion for him to get in. He looks at me, but I’m not sure he really sees me as he starts to undress.

  “I’m—uh—gonna get you some water. I’ll be right back.” I head for the kitchen, searching his cabinets for a barf bowl, just in case. I grab some ibuprofen and fill a glass of water. When I’m certain I’ve given him plenty of time to climb into bed, I head back in.

  Nick’s already between the sheets, lying on his side with his eyes open. It’s surreal to see him so still and quiet. “Are you thirsty?” I stop beside his bed.

  He shakes his head, but I put the glass to his mouth anyway. “Just a few sips, at least.”

  Nick doesn’t argue and shuts his eyes as he takes a gulp, then another. I’m not sure I’d be as obedient if I was as drunk as he is.

  When he’s finished, he looks at me. “I didn’t feed the fish.”

  I set the glass down on his side table. “I’ll feed them for you before I leave.” Smiling, I sit on the bed next to him. “Don’t worry, your guppies are in good hands.”

  “Only give them a pinch,” he says quietly. His voice is low but soft. “They’re greedy bastards.”

  “One pinch—got it.” I run my fingers through his hair, unable to resist Nick like this. He seems so fragile and vulnerable when he’s not smiling and laughing and putting on a show for everyone. I wonder who Nick really is beneath all that, then I realize, I already know.

  “That feels good,” he says with a little moan.

  “Jesse likes it, too. He always falls asleep.”

  Nick sighs. “Jesse’s awesome.”

  A small smile pulls at my mouth. “Yeah, he is.” The way Nick cares about him makes my heart so full, the backs of my eyes sting, just a little. “You’re pretty awesome, too,” I whisper.

  I watch the way his hair falls from between my fingers, and after a few breaths, I think he might even be asleep.

  I stand up to go.

  “Stay,” he whispers. “For a little bit?”

  He has no idea how badly I want to, despite myself. “Yeah, sure.”

  Walking around the foot of the bed, I crawl on top of the comforter next to him and pull up the folded blanket at the bottom to shield me from the cold. “I’ll lay right here, for a little while.”

  Nick doesn’t turn over or say anything else, he just lets me be, and I watch the way his body moves with each breath. It’s like a lazy metronome in a room of silence.

  If I hadn’t been spending so much time with him over the past couple weeks, I would think my being in his bed like this would be so far out of my comfort zone, I’d turn tail and run. But whatever’s between us now becomes easier and more comfortable each day, and this, being in here with him, feels right.

  “I saw my dad with a woman today,” Nick whispers, and I hear the raw emotion in his voice. Having met his mother just this morning, my heart breaks for her, and I can only imagine Nick’s devastation, whether it’s for him or his mom, or both.

  “I’m sorry, Nick.” I roll onto my side, staring at his back. There’s a hitch in his steady breaths, and I know all too well what that means. Scooting closer, I wrap my arm around him. Neither of us say anything more. We just lay there in silent company until he finally falls asleep.

  Thirty

  Bethany’s Journal

  April 19th

  Today was unlike any day I’ve ever had. It was a revelation of sorts. Not only did I discover that I’m not a complete failure, like my parents seem to think, but I’ve discovered my true feelings for Nick, complicated as they may be.

  Tonight, I saw the real Nick that hides all behind all the smiles and playful banter. That’s the guy I want to know more. I can’t help but think that with the family issues he’s going through, and knowing how fucked up my own are, he might confide in me again. I hope he will. For whatever reason, he seems hesitant to lean on his friends, which surprises me. So maybe, I can give him something this time, the way he’s given me so much the past couple weeks.

  His mom thinks I have dyslexia. I’ve tried so hard for so long to be as good as my parents want me to be, at least as far a school is
concerned, but I always miss the mark. At least now it makes a bit more sense. I wonder if my parents ever have ever considered my having a learning disability and they just pushed the idea away, not wanting it to be true. Or, maybe they’ve never considered it and think I enjoy my father’s disappointment.

  At least I feel better, knowing what I do, and that whatever happens, whether I’m dyslexic or not, it won’t matter to Nick. He’s one less person I have to be someone I’m not for.

  -B

  Thirty-One

  Nick

  I’m not sure how many minutes pass, or if it’s been closer to an hour, but I sit outside my parents’ house, thinking how I barely recognize my life the past twenty-four hours. When I woke up this morning, it took me a while to remember going to Lick’s and why there would be a bottle of whiskey, ibuprofen, and a ginger teabag sitting on my nightstand. Then I remembered Bethany. I pull out my phone and re-read our conversation.

  Me: Thanks for last night. I didn’t even have to kick you out this morning

  Bethany: You’re hilarious . . . and welcome.

  Bethany: How are you feeling?

  Me: Decent. Thanks for leaving me your hangover remedy.

  I’ve wanted to ask her a million questions about last night and let her know how much I appreciate her taking care of me, but nothing I type feels adequate enough, and I can’t bring myself to press SEND. I put my phone away and decide to worry about it later. I have a mother to worry about right now.

  I stare up at my bedroom window—the one I gazed out of as a child, watching my dad work on his cars. I stare at my mom’s rose bed, imaging her bent over it with a giant hat and too much sunblock on her face. I stare at the green, perfectly landscaped lawn where my dad and I practiced my pitching—where he taught me how to hold a bat properly and how to throw a proper punch. I stare at the driveway, where we helped Reilly rebuild the Rumbler. We were a normal, happy family. Now, it all feels like complete bullshit.

  I can’t get the image of that woman’s hands on him out of my mind, and I try not to think about how many times he’s probably cheated on my mom—just once? A dozen times? All with that woman? The thought that there might be others makes what bile’s left in my stomach churn.

  Does she really know he’s cheating on her?

  Reluctantly, I get out of the Explorer and make my way inside. This is going to be one of the most difficult conversations I’ve ever had, and I try to brace myself for it, even if I have no idea how to. I’m not sure if my dad called to give my mom a heads-up or not. I don’t know if it matters.

  Grabbing onto the doorknob like it’s a lifeline, I slowly open the door and step into the entry. The house is quiet. I know she’s here, her Mercedes is in the driveway, but the house feels empty. Every single thing is in its proper place, but I see it now for what it is: spotless and unlived in, cold and unwelcoming. It feels lonely.

  “Ma . . .” I step further inside and shut the door behind me. “Mom!” I call more loudly. When I notice the screen door is open in the kitchen, I make my way to the back. The kitchen is spotless, the granite countertops barren and the vase that’s always filled with flowers is empty and turned upside down by the sink.

  If I were still living at home, she’d be starting dinner by now. She’d have the radio on and the sound of pots and pans would be echoing through the house. Her light footsteps would patter around on the tile floor and she’d curse when she didn’t think I was listening.

  “Mom?” I say again, stepping up to the screen door.

  “Nick, sweetheart?” she says, and I can hear the surprise in her voice as she pushes her chair away from the patio table. Her eyes are wide and she smiles when she sees me. “Sweetie, what are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I tell her, and step outside.

  She comes up to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. She’s short and petite in my embrace, and I hug her more tightly. When I open my eyes, I see the bottle of white wine on the table and a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie.

  She takes a step back. “Well, this is a nice surprise. Do you want some dinner?” she asks, smoothing out her green blouse. She’s not wearing any makeup. She has nothing cooking. She wasn’t expecting me so there’s no charade in play.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask. It’s obvious my dad didn’t call her, which I’m partially grateful for. Part of me needs to know how far she’s really willing to go to save face and protect me from the truth of their relationship. Another part of me wants to be mad at her, too, for lying to me—for doing this for me, if any of what my dad said is even true.

  “Of course, everything’s fine. I didn’t have any plans today, so I figured I’d just . . . relax.” She laughs anxiously, and I can’t stomach her veiled truths.

  “I know about Dad,” I bite out. My words are angry and clipped. I don’t want to sound like a petulant kid, but I want to shout at her to stop pretending.

  “Excuse me?” She pales a little but has the nerve to seem affronted at the same time.

  I hesitate, lost in the gaze of a mother who has loved me more than life itself for as long as I can remember. Only now do I see her pain and loneliness. “I know about Dad,” I repeat. “I saw him with her.”

  Slowly, understanding fills her eyes, and her cheeks turn a burnt red. Deep lines crease around her lips. Her amber gaze doesn’t leave mine as she swallows and sits back down in her chair. “Sit, Nicholas.” Her voice sounds like a stranger’s, distant and maybe a little bit relieved.

  “So, how long has he been screwing his partner?” I force out, unable to wrap my mind around this fake life they’ve been living.

  “Language, please,” she says, clasping her hands in her lap. Despite how frail she seems, her tone brooks no argument.

  I scrub my hands over my face and squeeze my eyes shut.

  “I’m sorry you had to find out that way, sweetheart.” She takes a sip of her wine and rests her palm on the table. “And, to answer your question, I didn’t know it was a partner. I mean, I’m not surprised, but we don’t talk about his extracurricular activities.”

  “How can you be so cavalier about this?” My words are strained and desperate, and I hate how small I sound.

  My mom stares at me, sympathy in her expression, like she’s worried about me when it’s her my heart breaks for right now. My stomach roils in what feels a lot like guilt, and I hate my dad all the more for making me feel like I had some role to play in all of this. “And don’t tell me you did this for me. I would never want this.”

  She nods and doesn’t say anything at all.

  “I can’t believe this is happening.” I stare into the crystalline pool. Reilly and I used to compete for the biggest cannonball. Was my dad cheating then? My gaze shifts to my mom, but she’s fixated on the stem of her wine glass. “How long has this been going on?” I finally ask.

  “A few years,” she admits, a bit reluctantly.

  “A few years? You’ve been lying to me for a few years?” I grit my teeth. “This whole time you were putting on a show?”

  “It wasn’t a show, Nick.”

  “Of course it was a show, that’s all it’s been. Every family dinner, every time you’ve stopped by my apartment or we’ve gone out to dinner, acting like everything is fine. It’s all fake.”

  “We didn’t want to burden you with—”

  “The last three years have been a complete lie—it’s insulting. You knew why he wouldn’t work with me on the project—I feel like an idiot. My friends ask about you, and I tell them you’re doing fine. I tell them Dad’s working late and busy, not that he’s screwing his partner.” I hit the tabletop, sending her white wine sloshing over her glass.

  “That’s enough,” she grinds out. “I know it’s difficult to accept all this, and I wish you didn’t have to find out this way, but this was our choice, Nicholas. This is what we chose, and that’s just the way it is.”

  “Fine,” I say. I know her situation isn’t simple, but
it seems black and white enough to me. “I’d like to know why. You’re a psychologist, for Christ’s sake. How could you possibly think lying to me is better than the truth?”

  She doesn’t bother reprimanding me, she looks too exhausted. Her eyes glaze over until they begin to shimmer, and she looks away. Still calm and collected, she says, “Adults don’t always make the right decisions, or the best ones. But being a parent changes things. Sometimes we get ourselves into situations we’re not sure how to get out of, at least that’s how I’ve felt at times. One lie turns into five, then it turns into a lifestyle. It’s hard to break out of, even if you want to.”

  She takes another sip of her wine. “When you were born, I was so happy. I kept telling myself that I didn’t need to go back to work because I had you, and you were my life, and I needed to spend as much time with you as I could. I knew one day you wouldn’t want your ol’ mom around, and I wanted to enjoy you while I had you.”

  She offers me a sad smile. “I missed work though. I missed having a purpose in life outside this house.” Picking up her glass, she swirls her wine around and around, watching the liquid whirl. “When you and Josh became friends, I was so happy for you. Old Mr. Reilly was such a lost soul, so I was happy when you and Josh found each other. You were inseparable—such sweet boys—and you brought me so much joy. It helped me to forget that a part of me felt like it was missing.

  “Then,” she continues, “you met Mac and Sam, and Sam’s mom had just died. The girls started spending almost as much time here with us as Josh did . . . It was nice, having a full house.”

  “And now that we’re all living our own lives, you decide to live yours like this? You could go back to work if you miss it so much.”

  She looks at me again. “You know as well as anyone that change is scary,” she says, but I’m not sure what she means. “You have how many certificates now and how many degrees? All because you’ve been putting off graduating.”