But my little runaway daydream comes to a screeching halt when I spot the figure standing in the kitchen doorway.
“… Nick?” I peer across the dim room. “Oh my god. What are you doing here?”
My voice cracks, and there’s a tightness in the back of my throat that I can’t seem to swallow away.
Disappointment.
It's disappointment.
And it isn't going anywhere.
“Mel,” he says, coming toward me. He takes my hands in his, and I’m distracted by how awkward this feels.
A month ago, I’d be jumping, squealing, crying, screaming, throwing myself into his arms.
A month ago, I’d have been sure this was exactly what I wanted.
It took meeting Sutter for me to realize, I never wanted Nick in the first place. My feelings for him were puppy love at best, an unrequited childhood crush.
“You know I wrote this song about you, don’t you?” he asks.
I don't know where the music is coming from, but I soon realize it’s “Teenage Afterburn” by his band, Melrose Nights.
It was one of my favorite songs of his because it was about loving someone and being afraid they wouldn’t love you back, so you don’t say anything at all and the opportunity passes you by.
Growing up, I always thought of Nick when I heard this song. But now? My mind goes straight to Sutter.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me that?” I ask.
“Because I was an idiot.” He laughs, squeezing my hands in his. “I had the biggest crush on you all through high school.”
“What?” I’m glued to him, taking in his words like breaking news. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I loved you too much to screw up the good thing we had,” he says. “I wanted you as my girlfriend. But I needed you as my best friend.”
There are no words.
“I love you, Mel,” he says. “I’ve always loved you. And it took seeing you happy with someone else to make me realize I could lose you.”
“Nick ... first of all, you’re never going to lose me. Second of all, happy with whom?”
“Sutter.” He doesn’t hesitate.
I clap my hand over my mouth and laugh because it's all I can do. “That’s what this is about? You got jealous because Sutter and I were hitting it off and so you had to come back here and profess your love for me?”
“I know how this seems.” He rolls his eyes. “But yeah. It triggered something in me. Like a sleeper cell or some shit, I don't know.”
I study his face. All the features I’d dreamt about night after night, year after year. There’s no fullness in my chest when I look at him. No threat of breathlessness. No giddy, bubbly sensation in my head.
“You don't want me, Nick. You only want what you think you can’t have,” I say it with love, painting my tone with as much compassion as possible.
“I want to take you somewhere,” he says, ignoring my rational explanation of this craziness.
Nick releases my hand, making his way around the living room and blowing out candles. Next, he hooks his arm in mine and leads me outside toward a silver Ford. Producing a set of keys with a rental car agency’s logo on the keyring, he unlocks the passenger door.
He’s got this dopey grin on his face that reminds me of the time we were ten and ding-dong-ditching the mean woman who lived across the street. But Nick wouldn't fly across the country and pull a stupid prank on me in order to profess his love.
Nick’s eyes catch mine and then he throws his arms around me. “God, it's so good to see you.”
“Where are you taking me?” I ask as he swings me a minute later. The swing catches me by surprise, tickling my middle and making me laugh.
“You’ll see.”
38
Sutter
I worked later than usual tonight.
Nick was supposed to text me and let me know when I was good to come home, but that text never came (not surprisingly).
It’s almost dark when I approach the four-way stop at the end of my street. From here, I have a clear view to my house, which is half a block down.
As I get closer, though, the faces of the two figures hugging by some silver car become clearer.
Nick and Melrose.
His arms are wrapped around her waist, her arms around his shoulders.
He's swinging her.
She’s laughing.
They climb inside the car as I pull into the driveway.
I don’t look back. I don’t wave. I’ve already seen enough.
She got what she wanted—she wanted Nick. I don't care what she claims she felt with me, we barely had a month together and she hated me for a significant portion of that short little month.
She’s had a lifetime of crushing on Nick.
I picture her smile again, open-mouthed, throaty laugh, arms holding Nick’s shoulders tight, and my jaw tightens so hard I bring on a tension headache.
But at least she’s happy, and that’s all that matters. That’s all I could want for her, even if it kills me.
Making my way in, I trudge upstairs and find Tucker sprawled on my bed, his nose in a book. He glances up when he notices me.
“Are they gone?” he signs.
“Yes.”
“Did Nick make you stay up here?” I sign.
He sits up, peering up at me as if to ask, “What do you think?”
“They left together,” I sign, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, next to him.
“Are you okay?” he signs.
“Yes,” I lie.
“I liked her,” he adds.
I turn to him, offering a half-smile. “I did too.”
I can think of a million things I’ve wanted in my lifetime, a million things I’ve never had. Disappointment and heartbreak has been a reoccurring theme for as long as I can remember. I thought I’d be immune to it by now, but every time I think about the fact that she’s with someone else now, I struggle to breathe and my chest caves like there’s not enough oxygen.
I’ve never wanted anything—or anyone—this much in my life, and knowing I’m never going to have her … I suppose that’s something I’ll have to find a way to reconcile.
Lying back, I lodge my forearm over my eyes and lie there, in the quiet, with my thoughts but not alone, racking through my mental to-do list.
I need to call my attorney back.
I need to check on a new place to live.
And I need to let her go.
39
Melrose
“Why are we at Malo Bar?” I ask when Nick escorts me to a high top table by the bar.
“Do you remember when this used to be Dexter’s?” he asks, flagging down a waitress.
“I do.”
“This is where I booked my first gig.”
“I remember. I think I sat here and watched.”
His eyes return to mine, searching them almost. “You did.”
The waitress makes her way to our table and takes our orders: Old Milwaukee tallboy for Nick, Moscow Mule for me.
“This is where it all started.” His gaze flicks to the empty stage where some roadies are setting up for tonight’s show. The sign out front said the Flying Possums were playing tonight, but I’ve never heard of them. Nick was always my “in” with the indie music scene, and after I went away to college, my supply of Nick’s famous mixed CDs quickly dwindled. “You were the reason—the only reason—I had the balls to get up here that night.” His mouth lifts at one side as he watches the guys set up, and it's almost like he’s replaying his memories in real-time.
Our server returns with two sweaty drinks and a small stack of cocktail napkins.
My drink is weak.
Nick is rambling.
And I can’t stop wondering what Sutter’s doing right now … and what he thought when he came home to the remnants of Nick’s haphazardly orchestrated show of emotion.
“You’re the reason I never quit guitar,” he continues. “You had the big
gest fucking crush on John Mayer.”
I laugh. “I did, didn’t I? Totally forgot about that.”
“I wanted to impress you. I wanted to play John Mayer songs better than John Mayer could.”
“How did I not know this?” I take a sip and then trace my fingertips around the thin metal rim of my copper mug.
“You’re also the reason I studied my ass off for chemistry.” He shakes his head. “God, I hated chemistry, but I was crazy about you. We were lab partners, remember? And I didn’t want you to think I was some dumbass slacker making you do all the work.”
I remember now.
Junior year.
Organic Chemistry I.
“I remember being blown away by how well you knew the material,” I say. “And thinking it was kind of cool when you’d correct Mr. Keller in front of the whole class.”
“Pretty sure that’s the only class I ever aced.” Nick reaches for his beer, and I spot his knee bouncing. “They made me take the final twice, remember? Mr. Keller swore I was cheating.”
I reach my hand under the table, fingertips grazing the top of his knee in an attempt to stop his frenetic energy from traveling any further.
“I’m not used to you being so … wound up,” I say. “At least, not around me.”
“It's different now,” he says.
I slide my fingers into the copper mug’s handle. “What are you talking about?”
“You know … because things are different between us.”
“Different how?” My shoulders tighten.
“I assume we’re going to … I don’t know … try to figure this out?”
I sit my mug aside and rest my head in my hands, blowing out a swift breath.
I love Nick.
He’s my best friend.
But I don’t love Nick.
And I don't want to “figure this out.”
“I've known you since I was a kid,” I say. “You were my first and only childhood crush. When you dated my friends or dated the pretty girls at school, it damn near killed me. And now? Now you come at me with this?”
“Mel ...”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me you liked me? Why didn’t you say something when you had the chance?”
“Don't get mad at adult me for the decisions teenage me made a lifetime ago.”
“I’m not mad at you … adult you or teenage you. I’m trying to make sense of this,” I say.
“This is going to sound cliché as fuck,” he says, “but being on the road gives a man a lot of time to think. Too much time really. We met this guy, this meditation guru weirdo guy, who tagged along with us for about a week during the Pennsylvania leg, and he opened my eyes to a lot of things. I’ve spent the last month asking myself the deep questions, you know? How did I get here? How did I get so damn lucky? What's this all for? What good can come from this? What matters most in this world to me?”
The tables and seats around us begin to fill. A couple of guys are tuning guitars on the stage. You can feel the livewire excitement in the air, like an electric charge.
“Melrose.” Nick reaches across the table, his hand on my hand. “You were the answer to all of them.”
40
Sutter
Melrose didn’t come home last night, so naturally I assumed the worst. Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured the two of them. His callused, guitar-string-plucking fingers in her hair, his greedy mouth marking all the places that should belong to me.
Finally it got to the point where I had to chase a couple of Benadryls with a Corona so I could get a few hours.
My alarm goes off at six, but I might as well be weighted to the bed. I can’t move. Every inch of me, every cell, every molecule, every atom, is tired as fuck.
Maybe I shouldn't have taken two Benadryls, but it’s too late now.
Hitting “snooze” on my phone, I roll back over, desperate for ten more minutes like that would make a difference, but you can’t reason with a tired mind.
I’m halfway back to the place I came from when I hear someone singing, and it sure as hell isn’t my brother.
A second later—or what feels like a second later—my alarm goes off again.
Dreaming.
I was dreaming.
But to be sure, I haul my tired ass to the bathroom.
The light is off, the air tepid and void of condensation or the scent of her jasmine body wash. Her bedroom door is ajar, so I steal a quick glance, confirming her bed is cold, empty.
She was never here.
It was all in my head.
She’s still with Nick … wherever they are.
41
Melrose
I wake in Nick’s childhood bed Friday morning, and I only realize where I am when I stretch my hands over my head and hit them on his bookshelf headboard where he used to proudly display his Ninja Turtle collection.
Lifting the covers, I release a sigh when I confirm that I’m fully clothed. Jeans. Shirt. Socks. The works. When I roll to my side, I see Nick sprawled out in the middle of his bedroom floor with only a pillow. No blanket. He, too, is fully clothed. And surrounded by high school yearbooks and empty wine bottles.
The night comes to me in bits and pieces, little movie clips that play in my mind’s eye.
Reminiscing together.
Laughing together.
Crying together.
We left Malo after I asked him if we could go somewhere and talk, and we ordered an Uber to his parents’ house, where he was staying while he’s back in town. They were out of town, so we had the whole place to ourselves, and for a few split moments here and there it was exactly like old times.
I even found myself forgetting that we were older, wiser, and that life and relationships were a bit more complicated than they used to be.
“Nick,” I say, stretching my leg off the bed and poking him. I smile as he wakes up, my body flooded with nostalgic warmth. “I’m hungry.”
Technically I’m starving, but I don't want to seem dramatic. He felt the need to spend a solid twenty minutes last night reminding me of how dramatic and theatrical I used to be, which was when he pulled out the yearbooks and proceeded to point out that I was in every play and music show our high school ever produced (as if I didn't know).
Nick barely stirs, but he’s always been a hard sleeper. Guess that’s the future rock god in him. Party hard. Sleep harder.
Climbing out of bed, I step over him and head to his bathroom to splash some cool water on my face, finger comb my hair, and steal his mouthwash.
When I’m done, I head downstairs, helping myself to the Camden pantry, where Mrs. Camden still keeps her favorite 9-grain wheat bread on the same shelf as she did a decade ago.
“Morning, sunshine,” I say to Nick a minute later as I slide slices into the toaster oven on the counter.
Nick shuffles to the fridge, gabbing eggs and juice and milk, humming a Melrose Nights song under his breath.
I was worried this morning would be awkward, after everything we said last night, but so far it’s just like any other day and we’re still the same old Nicky and Mel.
“Do you remember that time we stole a bunch of your dad’s vodka and filled the bottles with water?” I ask as I butter a piece of toast.
Nick yawns. “That's random, but yeah.”
“And do you remember when we went to that party over in Brentwood and the cops got called, so we hid in the bushes until the sun came up?”
He turns to me, smiling. “Of course.”
We finish making breakfast and sit at the table next to the patio doors, watching the wind make ripples on the glassy pool water.
With a full belly and a heavy heart, I reach across the table, placing my hand over his. “I should go. Think I’m going to order an Uber.”
His lips flatten and a moment later, he nods. “Thanks for letting me down easy last night.”
I chuckle. “What did you expect? You’re my best friend.”
We exchange a sweet l
ook.
“And you always will be,” I add. “No matter what.”
By three in the morning, the two of us had thoroughly discussed the difference between childhood crushes and true adult affections and came to the same conclusion.
I also told him that I was falling for Sutter.
I wanted him to hear it from me first, straight up no chaser.
Because as soon as I get home today, I’m going to tell Sutter. In twenty-four hours, I’ll be gone. And he needs to know how I feel. I don’t want to spend the next two months in the bayou wondering what would’ve happened if only I had spoken up, told him exactly how I feel, and not beat around the bush because his frozen heart was intimidating.
Ten minutes later, my ride arrives. Nick walks me to the door, and I turn, throwing my arms around his shoulders, breathing in the musty, bar-scented remnants of last night, and then I kiss him on the cheek.
Climbing in the back of my ride, I check the time. It’s going to be cutting it close, but depending on traffic, I should be able to get home in time to talk to him before he leaves for work.
42
Sutter
I slide two twenty-dollar bills on the coffee table Friday morning as Tuck wakes.
“Pizza,” I sign.
He gives a thumbs up before rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger.
He’s been here since Wednesday now, and I’m thinking it's a good sign Dad hasn’t created a massive shit storm. Yet. He’s probably on one of his famous three-day benders. If it’s not payday today, he might find a hot minute of sobriety this weekend.
I’m sure I’ll hear from him then.
In the meantime, I need to make sure Tuck is adjusting okay. I’ve already spoken to the headmaster at the Bellhaven School for the Deaf, and they’ve agreed to let him start first thing Monday.
I’ll have to leave extra early in the morning to drop him off and arrange his transportation in the evening, but if it gets him out of that shithole and away from that drunk bastard, it’ll be well worth my time and effort.
The Complete P.S. Series Page 38