by Eli Lang
“Nick . . .” It was ridiculous to ask this. But I didn’t think, suddenly and all at once, that I could get through another minute sitting across from him without knowing. “Is this a date?” I felt like a confused teenager. I felt like an idiot.
He laughed, not unkindly. Almost self-deprecatingly. “Don’t you get to decide that?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I think it has to be mutual.”
“Do you want it to be, though?” he asked softly.
I wasn’t sure. I really wasn’t. Part of me did want that. If I dug deep and poked at the secret places of my heart, then I knew that I did. I’d liked kissing him yesterday. I’d liked having lunch with him. I’d liked simply being with him, the way we had been before, when Rest in Peach was on tour with Escaping Indigo. I’d missed that, and I’d forgotten how much. Or I’d tried to tell myself it hadn’t been as awesome as it had seemed at the time.
But I couldn’t deny it, now that Nicky was here with me again. We were good together, and when he’d been my friend—when we’d spent all that time flirting, but also all that time hanging out and getting to know each other—I’d been . . . happy. Purely happy. It had been so good. And it felt just as good now, if one hundred percent more confusing and fragile.
I couldn’t deny that the kissing had also been very, very nice. That I wanted more of it. But it made things real, and frightening, and big.
I also knew I didn’t want to disappoint him, the same way I’d known I wanted to look good for him tonight. And that was probably enough to constitute a date right there.
I nodded, then hesitated and wobbled my head back and forth in uncertainty. “I didn’t mean for it to be when I asked you to come with me. But now I’m not sure. I want . . . what you said, about being friends. About seeing where we stand. I want that. I hate it that everything’s awkward between us. We were good together, as friends. And . . .” I trailed off and took an unsteady breath. We had been good together as friends, and we’d been good together as lovers. “Is that okay?”
He took a deep breath of his own, and let it out slowly. “There’s this song I love, about how . . . if you fall for someone, it’s your choice. About how . . . if you miss them, later, it’s your fault. I thought of that song a lot after the last time I saw you, Quinn. I kept wondering what I’d done wrong. Why it hurt so much that you never called.”
He smiled, probably to gentle the words, but I cringed. I hadn’t ever wanted to make him feel like that. But I’d been too wrapped up in myself to notice.
“I kept telling myself,” he continued, “that if I missed you, if it hurt, it was no one’s fault but mine. You didn’t make me start to fall for you. It just happened, and I let it. And it hurt more than I’d expected it to, when it was over.” He pressed his lips together, as if he was trying to decide what to say. “It helped, actually. It made me less angry.” He closed his eyes, went quiet for a minute. When he opened them, he stared right at me, without flinching or glancing away, and I did my best to hold his gaze. “I’d like to try again with you, Quinn. I would. But if I start something with you . . . I would be foolish to, when I know you’re capable of hurting me that way. That would be my fault too. More, this time.”
I swallowed. I wasn’t sure, for a second, if I’d be able to get any words out. But then I did. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying . . . let’s just see what happens? Let’s not promise each other anything, or make any plans except for what’s right in front of us. That was where we messed up last time. I thought it might be serious, and you . . .” He huffed out a laugh, and that soft sound cut directly into all my tender places. “I don’t know what you thought, but serious wasn’t what it turned out to be. I don’t want to set either of us up for disappointment again. So let’s . . . have fun? Relieve some tension.” He gave me a comical leer, surprising a laugh out of me. Then his expression went serious. “I’m not going to lie and say I don’t want to try again. I never wanted to stop, really. But I don’t want the same outcome. I want us to be okay, and I want us to be okay with each other. So let’s see how these few days go, and focus only on that. Take it a step at a time. Okay?”
I nodded slowly.
“And if it doesn’t go any further than that,” he added, his words careful, like he was selecting each one for precision, “if it doesn’t work out, then neither of us will be hurt. Is that okay?”
I nodded again. It was almost like what Ava had said. Only think about the present moment, and nothing past it. It made things simpler, for sure. Uncertain, but simpler. Safe.
“Okay,” I answered. “Is . . . is it really okay with you?”
He laughed, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “You’re . . . perceptive, I think. Awfully perceptive.”
“No, I’m not.” I was good at reading people I knew. Or I had been. Once, a long time ago. I’d thought I was. I’d thought I’d been good at knowing what people wanted or needed, and making it happen for them. But I hadn’t ever known what Eric needed. I hadn’t seen any need in him at all. So obviously that talent was a lie.
Nick waved his hand. Then he took a deep breath and met my eyes. “I’m just scared.”
I almost dropped my spoon at the bluntness of it.
He trained his gaze back down at the plate in front of him. “I know we weren’t . . . that we weren’t really together or anything, before. And that was fine,” he added quickly. He made a quick motion with the spoon. “I didn’t expect anything. But I did like you. And I did think we might have had something that was . . . that could have grown past that. That could have been more than those few weeks.”
“Nicky . . .”
He glanced up and smiled softly at me. “I’m not saying you broke my heart, Quinn. But it did hurt. I spent a lot of time afterward, wondering what I’d done wrong. I don’t want to go through that again if I don’t have to. Not with you.”
I had no clue how to respond to that. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. To reassure him that wouldn’t happen because I was in no place to be starting anything with anyone? To promise him I wouldn’t hurt him, and ask him for . . . what? Another chance? Did I want that? I might. I’d missed him. But I wasn’t good at this. I wouldn’t be good for him, wouldn’t be able to be what he wanted. It would be a bad idea to pretend I could start anything real. But part of me wanted to argue that I could be that. That I could do better, even though I knew I couldn’t.
“I didn’t ever mean to hurt you,” I said at last. “But I did, and I’m so sorry for it.”
He nodded. “Okay. I can live with that.”
It seemed like maybe he wanted to end this piece of the conversation, but I wasn’t quite ready to.
“I wouldn’t do it again,” I added. “I mean, I would try very hard not to. But I don’t . . . I don’t really know where I am. What I’m . . . doing.” That was completely inadequate, and didn’t actually say anything, but Nick was nodding as if it made perfect sense.
“I think you can’t honestly say you can promise me that right now, Quinn. Maybe not ever.”
That was blunt too, and it made me ache. But I couldn’t deny it, not really. He was right: I couldn’t promise that. I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t hurt him. I couldn’t promise that I would do a good job of taking care of him, whether this lasted only the few days we had together, or beyond. Because I’d failed before. I’d failed so hard, in the most important ways. Not only Nicky, but Eric, and maybe the band. There might have been a time when I could have told Nick I’d be there for him, that I could be what he needed, and believed it with my whole heart. But that time was gone, and I wasn’t sure it would ever come back.
The plain fact of the matter was, I wasn’t capable of doing that anymore, if I ever had been. So I understood why Nicky wanted to protect himself. It made sense, as much as it hurt. And in a way it was a relief, because it took the pressure off. I didn’t have to figure out what happened next, where we went after this, what I actually wanted.
We were . . . being in the moment, more or less. As if the studio and the recording time were a magical bubble, a space without rules or a future, ours to make of what we wanted. I liked that.
“I think I’d like to kiss you again,” Nicky said softly, tapping his spoon very gently against the porcelain plate. “If we’re going to have fun, then I’d like . . . I’d like to be with you in that way. But I know that’s asking a lot. To sleep with me, and maybe not have it mean anything later.” He flushed bright red and glanced away. “Who am I kidding. It’ll mean something to me. I can’t do casual sex. I’m not built for it.” He flicked his eyes up to mine. “But we could be friends. And maybe we could . . .”
I nodded again. My throat was tight—with desire, with hope, with absolute terror, with heartache. We were already messing this up so bad, by having this conversation, by sitting here together in this ridiculously romantic restaurant. This was all a mistake and it was all going to go horribly wrong because I was going to let Nick down again. I was sure of it. It was what I did. But I wanted to be with him so badly, wanted whatever he’d give me, that I couldn’t say no.
“I would like that,” I replied. He nodded, and that was the end of the conversation, for now. For a few minutes, a tense silence welled up between us. Then he dipped his spoon into his tiramisu, and made a face of pure bliss, and we were on safe ground again.
We ate our desserts, and instead of putting them in the middle to spoon into them as we pleased, we switched halfway through, swapping plates and bowls. It wasn’t the most romantic gesture ever, but there was something companionable about it. Some friendly intimacy that made me want to keep glancing up at Nick, made me want to make this last.
We finished and Nick took the check. I tried to stop him, argued we should split it at least, but he smiled that same goofy, shy grin and told me if this was a date, then he got to pay. So I let him, because the soft way he spoke made me feel mushy on the inside, and I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, something hideously sappy would come out.
Back outside, the traffic on the sidewalk had thinned out somewhat, but not much. There weren’t a lot of bars or places like that around here, but there were quite a few restaurants, and all around us people were meeting up with friends, ducking into doors, sitting out on patios that abutted the street. The air was full of conversations, laughter, faint music. It was humid, and warm enough that it seemed to trap the sound around us, make a cocoon of life in this little pocket.
Nicky and I walked close together, our arms bumping. The side of his hand brushed mine, and without thinking about it, I reached out and wrapped my fingers around his, pressed our palms together. It was such a simple touch. Such little contact. But it was like it sparked every nerve in my hand, in my arm, the touch tingling its way up my body in waves. Maybe it was because we were on the street, and anyone could see us, connected like that. But mostly it was just Nicky, just something he did to me.
“My son will be here tomorrow. His mom’s dropping him off in the afternoon.” His fingers tightened around mine.
“Oh. Right. I forgot.” I searched for something more appropriate to say. “That’ll be good. Is he . . . interested in the studio?”
Nick turned and smiled at me. “He’s two. He’s interested in juice and cookies. But I still want him to see. I want him to have . . . any possibility he wants, you know?”
I gave a wobbly nod and a shrug. I didn’t really know if two-year-olds were interested in anything outside their own world. But that made sense. “Yeah.”
He squeezed my hand again.
“I know I asked you before if you wanted to meet him. Spend some time with us. I know that was . . . before.” He waved his free hand between us, taking in the street and the dinner we’d had together. “Like, I meant it as a casual thing. Although, spending time with a two-year-old isn’t exactly relaxing. It’s probably the last thing anyone wants to be asked to do, actually, when it’s not your kid. Or a relation or a kid you know or something. Especially when you’re not a kid person . . .”
I laughed, cutting off his winding train of thought. “I don’t mind.”
He glanced at me. “Seriously, if you’re not into it, I get it.” He drew in a sharp breath. “But the invitation’s still open to hang out with us tomorrow. I’m . . . glad I get to spend some time with you. I’d like to do it some more, while we’re here. But tomorrow, that means spending time with Josh too. I’d like you to meet him, if you still want to. I know that’s . . . I mean, like I said, he’s two. And it’s asking a lot. But.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. I wanted to say yes. Just say yes and have him be relieved, keep this light, make everything as easy and simple as possible. But I couldn’t quite make myself do it. I wanted to follow Ava’s advice, only think about tonight, and nothing else, nothing further in the future than that. But my brain was too logical for that, it wanted to plan things out too much. And this was something I simply couldn’t make myself take lightly.
“Who will you tell him I am?” I asked.
He sighed, but the sound was thoughtful, not disappointed, and I was pretty sure it had been the right question to ask.
“A friend, probably. I don’t think he understands about boyfriends and girlfriends, yet. And that’s not what we are, really.” Another glance at me, and more of that blush. “And I don’t want to tell him anything if it isn’t accurate, even if he doesn’t get what that means.”
I stopped, and the movement stopped him too, turning him to face me. We were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, but the foot traffic was thinner here, closer to the neighborhood, and we weren’t too in the way.
“Why do you want me to meet him?” I still had his hand in mine, our arms stretched slightly between us. His fingers jumped, and I tightened my hold.
He wobbled his head in something between a nod and a shake. “I don’t know. Because I think he’d like you. Because I like you too. I thought that might have changed, that maybe I’d be too mad at you for not calling, for . . . forgetting about me.” He stared at me, held my gaze, and I wanted to say something completely mushy. I wanted to tell him that I hadn’t ever forgotten about him, that everything else had gotten in the way, and I hadn’t wanted to tangle him up in any of it. That I still didn’t. But I couldn’t say any of it.
“But I’m not angry.” He squeezed my hand. “Not much. I’m . . .” He sighed, and now he did glance away, and didn’t finish his sentence, either. Just let it hang there between us, leaving me to guess what he might have ended it with.
He was . . . what? Annoyed? Hurt? A shiver ran through me.
“Mostly, when you walked into the room that first day and I looked up and there you were, I was relieved. I really didn’t think . . . Well, I figured I’d see you again. But I didn’t think you’d even want to look at me.”
Oh god. “It wasn’t you. It was never you. It was me.” I realized as soon as I said it how cliché that sounded, how trite and awful. But Nicky was nodding.
“I know. You’ve said.” He shrugged. “I’d like to spend time with you, that’s all. I’d like . . . I’d like to get some kind of resolution, one way or another, to what we had between us. Because I know it was short, but it meant something to me, and it’s been like this open-ended question ever since. I think this week might be a good time for that.” He closed his eyes for a second, maybe trying to steady himself, before he opened them again and stared at me. “And I think you’d have fun with Josh.”
“I don’t know what you want from me.” I didn’t know what I wanted from him. I didn’t know what I wanted for myself, what I could handle and what I couldn’t. My voice was raw and soft, a whisper between us. But we were so close, he had to have heard it. “But I would like to meet your son. I would like . . .” God, this was more difficult than I’d have guessed, and I didn’t know why. I’d meet his kid. It wouldn’t make what was or wasn’t between us any different. Except it would. I knew it would. “I want to spend time with you. Yes.�
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He smiled the smallest bit, and tugged me forward with the hand I still held. His other hand came up to cup the back of my neck. He didn’t answer in words, didn’t give me a cheesy line, as appropriate as it might be right then. He kissed me instead. Gentler than the day before. A flicker of his lips against mine, and then a pull away to give me space. To give me room to stop him. And when I didn’t, the flicker came again, with a little bit more pressure, the slightest hint of demand and want and need behind it.
This time when he pulled back, it was far enough to see my face. We were still connected, his hands on me, mine coming up to rest on his waist. His body nearly aligned with mine, although we weren’t quite touching except our palms against skin and clothes. “I want right now,” he said. “I want to be with you while we’re both here. Like last time. Except, no expectations this time. I want it to be fun. Easy. Only . . . this moment, this handful of days. I want to know if what we had last time was real, if we can still work that way together, or if it was . . . a fantasy we cooked up because we were on tour and everything was different then.”
I swallowed. “Didn’t we just prove we could?” Maybe we hadn’t, though. Yes, we’d just spent the last hour and a half having dinner and talking, and it had been easy, and we had seemed to work together. And when he touched me like this, when I held him, it all felt so right. But I didn’t know if any of that actually meant anything. It meant we still got along, that there was a certain easiness between us, but we’d already known that, in a way. It didn’t mean that I could promise we would work any better. It didn’t mean that I could actually offer to care for Nick. Especially now, when I knew things about myself I hadn’t known then.
When I knew I wasn’t as good at caring for people as I’d thought.
When everything I’d imagined I’d had figured out about myself, all the steady pieces of me, had crumbled, and I was trying to rebuild on shifting sand.