Chapter 22
As Nick turned the key to unlock his apartment door, Sawyer stood behind him in the hall, fidgeting, incredibly nervous. All the confidence and determination she’d felt during their kiss at Grand Central had left her again, evaporating into the humid air as her nerves steadily returned.
After their kiss, Nick had turned incredibly calm. In fact, he’d looked happy. He’d asked if Sawyer was hungry, then suggested they check out Grand Central’s market, where they could pick up some things to go. He’d reached for her hand to hold as they strolled through the market hall. She was surprised; she hadn’t pictured him being a hand-holder. Or really, a big fan of any of those little mundane, cutesy things that couples did. But there he was, smiling, holding her hand in his.
They’d picked out a few things—an artisanal loaf of pain de campagne, a couple of different kinds of cheese, some prosciutto and smoked almonds, a bottle of red wine, two little gourmet pots of tiramisu.
Nick had flagged down a cab, and held the umbrella so Sawyer never got wet. The next thing she knew, the cab was racing down to the East Village and into the Alphabet avenues, the rain crackling on the windows and the wipers flailing wildly to keep up…and now they were suddenly here, standing in front of Nick’s door.
He pushed the door open and hurried ahead inside to turn on some lights as Sawyer timidly stepped over the threshold. It was still daytime, but the sky was dark and the rain was still coming down in a steady downpour, making it feel like night. As Nick switched on a few lamps, the room instantly took on a cozy ambience. The rain had cooled things down a little, but the air both inside and outside was still warm, humid, thick as soup, with a kind of languid energy about it. Nick opened a couple of windows in an attempt to achieve a little air circulation. The room filled with the scent of rain on trees and brick and concrete.
“Here,” Nick said, doubling back and taking the market bags from Sawyer’s hands. He gestured for her to come farther inside. “What’s wrong?” he asked, reading her face. “You look spooked.”
He brought the bags over to the kitchen area and set them down on the butcher block, then waited for her to reply.
Sawyer searched within herself, trying to identify the source of her feeling and put a name to it. It felt different to be in Nick’s apartment this time. Things had changed. They’d kissed—twice, now. Their kiss in Grand Central was a hungry kiss, full of desire. In other words, Sawyer was here as something different than just Nick’s friend, and she damn well knew it.
“It’s just…I don’t know how this works. I don’t know if I’ll disappoint you.” She paused, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know how to be like anyone but myself.”
Nick raised an eyebrow and stared at her for a long minute. “Well,” he said. “I guess it’s a lucky thing I don’t want you to be like anyone but yourself.”
He crossed the room. She thought he was going to kiss her again, but he took her hands and led her over to the sofa, then took off her wet shoes and put them back by the door. Her heart sped up and she’d been a little scared when she’d thought he was coming to kiss her, yet she found she was disappointed when he didn’t.
“Look,” Nick said, returning to the kitchen area and unpacking the things they’d picked up at the market. “I don’t know how ‘it works’ any more than you do.”
“But…” Sawyer struggled. “You’ve done this a million times—” she started to say, then stopped.
Nick looked at her. “No. I haven’t,” he said, deadly serious. “This is something new.”
Sawyer blinked at him, and they did that thing that was fast becoming commonplace between them—exchanging words with their eyes. Finally, Nick finished pulling out the cork in the bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
“Can you put a little faith in that?” Nick asked.
“Yes,” Sawyer answered. “I can.”
“OK. Good,” Nick said. “Now, if sitting still and relaxing isn’t your thing, you can always come help me.” He picked up one of the two wineglasses and held it out, a gesture for her to come take it. Sawyer got up and came over beside him at the butcher block.
“You can either cut the bread or the cheese.”
Sawyer fought the urge to laugh but wound up snorting.
“Did you…just…ask me…if I wanted to cut the cheese?” she said, still chortling.
Nick smirked and shook his head in amusement.
She unwrapped the bread, and he handed her a long, flat bread knife.
“Yeah. That’s how we single-guy musicians do it,” Nick said sarcastically. “Bring the ladies home, pour them a little wine, and ask them if they’d like to cut the cheese…”
They laughed. The tension relaxed. They stood side by side, busy preparing the food. Nick nudged her with his body, then bent over to give her a small kiss on the side of her cheek by her ear. Again, she was surprised at the tenderness of the gesture, just as she had been by the way he’d held her hand back at the market.
Together, they assembled a nice little makeshift cheeseboard. Nick carried it to the coffee table, along with the tiramisu and some spoons. Sawyer followed, carrying their wine. He put a record on the record player, and the Monkees started singing “I’m a Believer” in cheerful, easygoing voices. They sat cross-legged on the floor and started picking at the food.
“I used to watch reruns of the Monkees’ TV show as a kid,” Sawyer confessed. “My mom said I was weirdly into it. It came on around dinnertime and she had to peel me away from it.” She paused, then added, “For the life of me, I can’t remember the plot of a single episode now.”
Nick laughed. “Did they have plots, really?”
Sawyer nodded. “I think the Monkees usually helped people. They were like goofy benevolent superheroes, but without any actual powers that went beyond being goofy and making music.”
“When you put it like that, that’s shockingly relatable,” Nick joked.
Sawyer rolled her eyes at him.
“Although, I probably lean more toward Machiavellian than benevolent,” Nick qualified, roguish.
“Hah. You can’t fool me, Nick,” Sawyer replied. “I’ve already gotten a peek behind the curtain.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yup. Packing a picnic for the ferry ride, always giving up your seat on the train, the way you look out for your mom…” Sawyer started to rattle off the list. “I hate to give you the bad news, Nick, but sometimes, you can be downright thoughtful.”
He laughed and shook his head as though Sawyer’s accusation was foundationless—but she could see: he was glowing again, secretly happy that Sawyer knew him well enough to call him out as a good guy.
Nick had stacked several records on the record player, and it had an automatic changer. They continued to talk and laugh as the player cycled through all kinds of great old classics—Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons singing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” Etta James singing “At Last,” the Shirelles singing “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.”
After a while, they stopped snacking and moved up to the couch, still talking, occasionally reaching for their glasses and taking a sip of wine.
“This music…” Sawyer shook her head, commenting on the selections as the next record dropped onto the turntable and Elvis started singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
“What about it?”
“Well…let’s just say, I can’t believe you had the nerve to call my summer Friday bucket list corny.”
“I never said I didn’t like corny,” Nick countered. “You stormed out of that online chat before I got to say I actually liked the list, and that I wanted very badly to do everything on it with you.” He paused and looked at her. “You tend to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Avoid the part where people tell you all the things they like…especially the part where people tell you all the things they like about you.”
The familiar heat returned to Sawyer’s face. They were sitting close together at two angles on the couch, their knees almost touching. She was so completely aware of her body, and aware of an aching within it.
Nick seemed to be experiencing something similar. His eyes ran over her face and his mouth twitched, almost as if in annoyance. “Sawyer—you drive me nuts.”
“That doesn’t sound like something to like,” she joked.
He shook his head.
“It’s not a question of ‘liking’ it. It’s more than that.” Nick moved toward her with an expression of determination. “It turns out I’m addicted to the way that you in particular drive me nuts,” he said.
In the next instant, Nick was kissing her, and she was kissing him back. His body moved as though to encircle her, and her own body responded by twisting closer. Somehow they slid seamlessly from sitting to horizontal. She wanted to be beneath him and on top of him at the same time; they moved so fluidly together it was oddly like swimming. They drank each other in; deep, passionate kisses, and then coming up for air.
Nick took her over to the bed, then slowed things down. He continued to kiss her, but more slowly. They began peeling items of clothing off of each other. Sawyer felt like she must be high; she was absolutely enthralled by every detail of his body, by the feel of touching him, by the scent of his skin. Even more than that, she could feel him taking in every detail of her body with a kind of reverence. She felt worshipped—carefully worshipped—and the sensation had a disorienting, dizzying effect.
As they grew increasingly naked, she felt an inkling of self-consciousness creep in, the noise of feedback, of the outside world. Her brain asked her if she was really ready to commit to what they were about to do.
But then, to her surprise, Nick slowed things down even more, and stopped. They were down to their underwear. Sawyer felt a brief moment of relief for the pause…followed by a terrible panic that something had gone wrong, or that she had disappointed him in some way.
“You…you stopped.”
“We don’t have to rush,” Nick said.
They were lying on top of his bed. Sawyer was aware of her naked body, dressed now in only a very small pair of underpants, her dress in a crumpled ball on the floor, along with her bra. And aware of Nick, too, down to only his boxers. His skin and her skin still together, touching, warm and clammy at the same time.
“I just…sort of figured…that…”
“What?” Nick asked.
“That when you bring girls home, it’s for a purpose.”
A slight flicker of irritation passed over Nick’s face.
“You gotta stop with that. This is our own thing…something that’s just ours.”
Sawyer was surprised by the sentiment, and the vehemence behind it. She wondered if what he suggested was even possible. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it.
She snuggled in closer to Nick, aware of her naked breasts pressing up against him, aware of the thin fabric of her underwear, aware of their cooling skin growing sticky. She felt her ear seal to Nick’s chest and she lay still a moment to listen, hearing his heartbeat as clearly as though she had a stethoscope. His heart was a drum, fierce and stubborn.
They passed a couple of hours like that, making out like a couple of horny teenagers, then slowing things down and resting, then doing it all over again. In theory, Sawyer had always thought a couple of hours of anything—even making out—was bound to get old…but she was surprised by how utterly absorbing it was, how constantly new it felt each time they touched.
She was also shocked by how badly her body had begun to want him inside her. Each time Nick backed off and they tried to cool down, it felt like torture. A very new and unexpected torture.
“You say I drive you nuts…but you’re driving me nuts,” Sawyer admitted as they lay in each other’s arms.
“Good,” Nick said. “It’s only fair that we should be even on that score.”
She pretended to punch him in the arm but he caught her wrist and they sank back into a kiss.
It grew dark outside.
Soon after, it was not only dark, but late.
Sawyer glimpsed the time on the clock on Nick’s nightstand and flinched. Her “real life” came rushing back to her. If Charles came home and she wasn’t there, he would worry.
The thought of Charles twisted her stomach; a deep shame gripped her whole body.
She was surprised by the suddenly messy, incongruent state of her life—the idea that it felt right to be with Nick, yet it felt wrong not to go home to Charles. Both things couldn’t possibly be true; the contradiction made her feel sick, dishonest. Was she someone who was now having an affair? Her brain silently answered her: Yes, you are.
“What is it?” Nick asked, sensing the tension in her body, the shift in her mood.
“I didn’t realize how late it is,” Sawyer said. “I should go.”
Now, Nick stiffened. He lay quiet for a long minute.
“You mean go home,” he said in a low voice.
“Yes,” Sawyer answered soberly.
“Home to the Upper West Side,” Nick said warily. He did not say to Charles. But the unspoken name hung in the air.
After another long pause he said, “Stay. Stay here with me.”
“I can’t,” Sawyer said quietly.
“And if we’d had sex…you’d still have to go home,” Nick said—it came out sounding like a cross between a statement and a question.
Sawyer could feel: his whole body had taken on a new and unfriendly tension.
“I didn’t…” Sawyer stammered. “I didn’t know today was going to happen,” she tried to explain. “That we would wind up like this.”
“You regret it,” Nick said. His voice had turned fully cold and flat.
“No!” Sawyer protested. “That’s not what I meant. I just…I didn’t plan for this—any of this.”
“It’s OK,” Nick replied.
“Nick…are you mad at me?”
“Of course not. How can I be?” Nick said, but his tone was unconvincing.
He untangled his limbs from Sawyer’s and got up from the bed, rummaging around the floor to collect their clothes. He politely handed Sawyer her dress and bra, and began redressing himself.
“I have my mom’s car,” he said as he dressed. “I’ll drive you across town.”
“I can take the train.”
He shook his head. “You’re right; it got pretty late. And…I don’t know…it feels wrong. Let me drive you.”
Once she’d dressed and put herself back together, they left Nick’s apartment and Sawyer followed him over to a tiny parking lot crammed into an alley.
“Tino!” Nick greeted the parking lot attendant. They shook hands, and it was clear that Nick had some kind of regular deal with the guy.
The old Mercedes was already like a familiar friend. Sawyer climbed in and sank into the deep bucket seat as Nick worked the stick shift and wove in and out of traffic like a true New York driver. Just as last time, Sawyer felt hyperaware of his hand moving so close to her knee as he shifted. It astounded her that she could still feel the nervous excitement of being so innocently near him…after the way they’d spent the last few hours.
But Nick seemed a world away. He’d been friendly with the parking attendant, but now Sawyer realized that had been a facade. The second they’d driven off the lot, he’d retreated into himself. And even though he’d promised her that he wasn’t mad, Sawyer was certain that he wasn’t happy anymore—not the way he had been earlier.
When they arrived on her street, he seemed to read her anxiousness about being in the car with him, so close to the home she shared with Charles. He stopped a cautious distance away, pulling up to the curb a few doors down from her building. He didn’t move to kiss her, and she didn’t move to kiss him.
She realized they were acting exactly like two people with something to hide.
She wondered if they’d made a mistake in crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. She wanted to ask if they’d spend another Friday together—or just feel the reassurance of their usual light, funny, heartfelt banter—but when she looked over at him, he was still looking straight ahead, staring out the window, his jaw clenching the way it had that night she and Charles had joined him and Kendra at the club, and she thought better of asking him.
The car idled. He did not turn off the engine. She thanked him and waited for a minute. He wished her good night. Finally, she slipped out of the car and watched as he drove away.
Once Nick was gone, Sawyer stood on the curb, gathering herself.
The rain had stopped. The sidewalks smelled clean. The trees were still dripping big, splattery drops. Some landed directly on Sawyer’s head, a heavy tap, tap, tap. But she hardly noticed; she was picturing going upstairs. Charles waiting for her on the sofa, muting the TV, and asking her the dreaded question, Where were you?
She was unwilling to lie, but uncertain exactly what to say. Or how to say it.
She stood there on the sidewalk for a long moment.
Finally, she gathered herself and forced herself up the stoop, through the brownstone’s outer door, then the inner door. Up three flights of stairs.
When she reached her front door, she paused again.
She produced her house key, took a breath, and slid the teeth into the dead bolt—ready to be asked where she’d been, ready to give an answer.
But as the door swung open, Sawyer immediately saw: the apartment was dark.
No one was home.