Nick
“Are you okay? Did I break your nose? How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Let’s try one question at a time, Hank.”
“You’re right. On a scale of one to ten, how litigious would you say you are?”
I blink slowly, the bright winter sun and blue sky coming back into view, the bars of “Jingle Bells” filling my ears.
The searing cold of half-melted snow seeps into my jeans. Or Adam’s jeans, I should say. A tied-up Christmas tree sits on the curb behind two men who are in a heated discussion, standing above me.
One of the men stands tall, staring down at me with his right eye. His eyepatch makes me wonder if I had a run-in with a gang. Gangs are a thing in America, right?
“I am so sorry about that, pal,” says the other man, squatting down to my eye level. His shaggy dark blond hair, boisterous smile, and bulging midsection stir something in me.
Men in Ardenia generally look like me: tall and slim.
Narrow hips and waist, compact shoulders.
Several Ardenians have gone on to walk runways in Paris and Milan.
Perhaps being around men like that my whole life has made me immune to them.
There’s something about a large, hardy American guy that has always lit a fire in me.
The kind that eats hot dogs and potato chips and uses a hammer, who doesn’t give a fuck about serving forks or palace protocol.
Guys with big guts you can sink into while watching American football together on the couch, who can pick you up and throw you over their shoulder and take you into the bedroom.
God or Millie certainly has a sense of humor. The day I decide to stay in Sourwood, I meet my ideal guy. Either that, or this is a delusion brought on by a skull fracture.
Please let this be real.
“Hey, you battled a Christmas tree and won.” His smile is goofy and endearing and immediately puts me at ease. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
He holds up two fingers. I hold up two fingers to mirror him back.
“I am really sorry about that. I thought someone was calling my name, and I turned, and bam.” He presses his hand lightly to my forehead, sending a bolt of heat through me. Followed by pain.
I wince, then feel my forehead myself.
“It’s a little red, but it’s barely noticeable. You can tell people it’s a rash.”
I should be upset about sitting in cold mush with a bruised forehead, but his smile and bright, playful eyes make it impossible to have a negative emotion.
“Here.” He holds out his hand. When I take it, he yanks me up in one swift motion like I’m a yo-yo being snapped up to someone’s palm. He’s about an inch shorter than me, yet still feels like he can envelop me whole.
“Can you say something? I’m getting a little worried.”
I take a breath to steady myself. I spent yesterday practicing my American accent around Millie’s family and then binge watching more Friends at night. It’s now or never.
“Yes. I mean, yeah,” I say, summoning the spirit of Chandler Bing. “Could I be doing any better?”
I don’t have the swagger to pull off being Joey, and who in their right mind would want to be Ross?
“You could be doing better. You’re wet and bruised.”
“I have towels in my truck. I’ll go get them,” says the man’s one-eyed friend.
The man with the shaggy hair and adorable smile turns back to me once his friend is out of view. I get a whiff of nervousness emanating from him, which I suppose is understandable since he nearly knocked somebody unconscious.
Does he recognize me? Adam’s clothes, my unstyled hair, and the accent are hopefully doing their magic. I slump my shoulders slightly to shake off the rigid royal posture.
“I’m Hank.” He holds out his hand to shake.
“Nick.” I tamp down the impulse to give my full name. “I’m Nick.”
“Do you feel dizzy?”
“No.”
“Does the sun feel too bright?”
“No. I don’t think so. It seems normal.”
“Good. Then you probably don’t have a concussion. They’re no fun, trust me. I’ve had two.” Hank studies my eyes, ostensibly checking that I’m not concussed. The sustained eye contact causes my stomach to get all funny. “Were you also headed to the Christmas tree farm?”
“We already put ours up. Well, my cousin did. I’m visiting my cousin for the holidays.
I’m from Baltimore.” Even though I practiced this fib with Millie, it still feels weird saying it out loud.
Millie says my fake backstory is unassailable because nobody would ever willingly pretend to be from Baltimore.
Am I convincing? It’s hard to tell because Hank keeps on smiling at me like a dog looking for a treat. “Her husband owns this farm.”
“Tell him they’ve got a good selection. I’m very picky with my tree, and they always come through.”
“Here you go.” The eye-patched friend returns with a towel. I wipe down my pants and jacket. The cold is bothering me less and less.
“This is Griffin, aka Griffdog,” Hank says.
It’s best that I stick with Griffin. “Nice to meet you, Griffin.”
“Nick is visiting his family for the holidays. We’ve made quite a welcome for him.” Hank chuckles. My name on his tongue gives me a jolt.
“Sorry about that,” Griffin says. “Hank can sometimes be a bull in a china shop.”
“I thought someone was calling my name. Anytime I hear someone say ‘thanks,’ I think they’re calling after me. It’s really our society’s fault for being so polite.”
“Excuse him,” Griffin says.
“He’s fine.” I chuckle along with Hank, envious of their camaraderie.
“Where were you headed before I knocked you down?” Hank asks.
“Just going to get a bite to eat.”
“By yourself?” Hank wonders, a bit sad. Little does he know what a privilege it is for me to go off and grab lunch on my own.
“Yep. I was going to find something. Any suggestions?”
“Here we go…” Griffin groans.
Hank’s eyes light up, as if he were preparing for this moment his whole life.
He nods behind us. “That’s Caroline’s. Fantastic greasy spoon diner.
Great soup. Their sandwiches are good; Chicken salad is better than the tuna salad, though some people disagree.
” He points across the street. “That’s Sandwiches on Main. If you want a hoagie or a big sub.”
“Hoagie,” I repeat, the word swirling around my mouth. “Remind me what that is?”
“A long sandwich,” he explains, his face practically glowing. “You pick your toppings. Their tuna salad is better than their chicken salad, and their tomatoes are juicier. Sweeter. I don’t know why. Probably the same supplier as Caroline’s, but—”
“Hank,” Griffin cuts in. “I don’t think the man needs a dissertation on sandwiches.”
“I wouldn’t want to eat at the wrong place. It could ruin my whole day.”
“That’s how I feel about lunch, too!” Hank exclaims.
I grin at him. I realize I’ve been smiling a lot. He’s smiling back just as warmly, and that sends a pleasant little flutter through my chest.
“Maybe you want a burger,” Hank continues. “Hamburger Haven two blocks down. Great burgers. Their fries are unbelievable. The waffle fries practically melt in your mouth. And there’s Stone’s Throw Tavern—it’s a bar, but the food is excellent. The owner is a pal of ours. Great guy.”
“And their tomatoes?” I ask.
Hank pauses mid-thought. Looks like I stumped him. A hint of amusement flickers across his face. “That’s…a good question. I don’t think I’ve ever ordered anything with tomatoes there.”
“How can I go there if I don’t know about the tomatoes?”
“Life is all about taking chances,” he zips back. “Maybe you’re a tuna salad guy, and today you go for the chicken salad.”
“Is now a bad time to tell you I’m a vegetarian?”
Hank’s eyes bulge out of his head. He’s both mystified and horrified.
“I’m messing with you.” I’ve always wanted to say that to someone!
I’m having too much fun chatting with Hank.
All of my daily conversations are so serious and important.
A sense of humor doesn’t fit into Agnes’s schedule.
When I see other European royals, their jokes are acid-tongued and flat-out mean.
They believe you can be as cruel as you want so long as there’s a punchline.
But as Nick, I can be silly, too. It seems impossible to be anything but happy around Hank.
“How’s your head feeling?” Griffin asks, breaking up whatever is going on between us.
“He doesn’t have a concussion,” Hank tells his friend matter-of-factly. He’s as confident in his knowledge of head trauma as he is in his lunch recommendations.
“What’s your line of work that caused you to get two concussions?” I ask him.
“Well, by day I’m a plumber. But I also play hockey. Mario meets Gretzky.”
I don’t know who either of those people are, but I’m entranced nonetheless. Hank points to his hockey jersey, visible between his open coat, stretching across his large-and-in-charge stomach.
“The Comebacks?” I read off the front.
“Yeah, that’s our team.” He elbows Griffin. “I helped come up with the name.”
“Aren’t teams usually named after animals?”
“Not always. My buddies and I played together in high school. Won a few championships back in the day, not to brag.” He gives an immodest shrug that screams adorable.
He puts up a hand which Griffin slaps in high five fashion.
“Last year, we decided to get back together on the ice and join a local beer league.”
“Making a comeback.” I nod along.
“It’s a little challenging playing again after twenty-five years,” Griffin says. “But it’s a good time. And we go out for beers whether we win or lose.”
Beers with friends. What a life. Nostalgia swirls in my head.
“I used to play,” I utter out.
“You did?” Hank doesn’t try to hide his shock.
“In boarding—in high school. I played for a handful of games. Then my father found out and made me stop.” I scoff at the memory. “He said it wasn’t a dignified sport.” I should probably have used a different word than dignified, but none came to mind.
“It may not be dignified, but it’s fun as hell,” Hank says. “What position did you play?”
“Goalie.”
“Me, too!” His face lights up brighter than our castle’s Christmas display. “Don’t let the gut fool you. My glutes and quads are like iron.” He slaps his own butt.
Griffin covers his face in embarrassment, but I laugh along…and attempt to sneak a peek. His butt pushes against the limits of his jeans. In a word? Yum.
Hockey was one of the things I tried while coping with my mother’s death.
Memories of being on the ice, of being part of a team, fill my head.
For those few games, I was one of the guys, not the crown prince.
We joked; we talked shit. My father steered me to tennis.
Less chance of getting my teeth knocked out.
“You’re right, Hank. It was fun as hell,” I say.
“You should join the Comebacks,” Hank says.
“What?” Now it’s my turn not to hide my shock.
“You want to come back to playing hockey. We are a team of comebacks. It’s a perfect fit. We can use another goalie on the team.”
“I’m only here for a few weeks, though.”
“So you’ll play with us for a few weeks. This isn’t the NHL. The rules are more flexible. Especially this time of year, guys are missing games all the time for the holidays. You can have some fun while you’re in Sourwood.”
“I haven’t played in years,” I remind him.
“I can help you with that.” Hank claps my shoulder. “Skating is like riding a bike, but with blades instead of wheels. And no handlebars. And no bell, although how fun would it be to have a bell we can ring as we skate down the ice?”
“But I’m not any good.”
“Neither’s Griffdog.”
Griffin shoots him a look that could melt an entire ice rink.
“You know I’m kidding, pal.” Hank nudges his side.
I don’t have a concussion, but I start to feel dizzy.
Dizzy with excitement about getting to play hockey and be part of a team.
My goal was to blend into everyday life in Sourwood, and there’s nothing more regular than grabbing a beer with friends.
It’s not coffee at Central Perk, but it’s close enough.
“Join the Comebacks, Nick!” Hank says.
Nick. Another jolt up my spine.
“Sure.” I don’t want to sound too eager, but I just know I’m going to run home and scream to Millie about this.
“Can I get your number? I can give you the info,” Hank asks. His face lights up like he’s never seen the sun before. I’ve never seen someone so gleeful about texting.
I bought a burner phone to use while I’m here. I wanted to be completely untrackable. But now I can’t remember my number.
“Give me your number. I’ll text you,” I tell him.
Hank doesn’t question it. We get each other’s numbers. I’ve never gotten a boy’s number before. Even if Hank is likely straight, I let myself feel this buzz.
“Great to meet you, gentlemen. I think I’m going to choose Sandwiches on Main.”
“Let me know what you think about the tomatoes.” Hank picks up the tree, and Griffin takes the front. “On the count of three. One, two, three, lift!”
The guys walk off, Christmas tree in hand.
And just like that, Nick from Baltimore made his first friend.