15. Nick
NICK
Iam a bundle of nerves all week. By Friday, I can barely focus.
This is my first-ever date. I’m unsure whether dinner with a guy and his son counts as a date. Fuck it, I’m counting it.
My first-ever date.
Millie and I search through Adam’s closet for an appropriate first-date outfit.
“We need something that’s nice, but also casual. Corduroys and a knit sweater,” she says as she shuffles through hanger after hanger in Adam’s closet. “I love my husband, but I want to set half of his clothes on fire. We’re going shopping.”
One afternoon outfit hunt later, I drive up to Hank’s house in Millie’s Subaru. It’s so him. Charming, unassuming, the warmth pouring out the windows.
Millie and I settled on khaki corduroy pants and a lightweight dark green sweater. We nixed the thicker cable knit suggestion once we realized I’d be a nervous, sweaty mess. A bulky sweater would only exacerbate that.
I bring a six-pack of beer and a container of mini brownies, a far cry from the menu found at Ardenian soirees.
My heart rattles in my chest as I ring the doorbell. Was our gym make-out session a fluke? Or a breakthrough? Or a mistake?
Yet when Hank opens the door, and my first impulse is to jump on him like I’m a horny lion attaching his prey, I realize I’m exactly where I need to be.
No, I do not jump on him. I hold up the six-pack instead. “You can’t have pizza without beer!”
Hank seems to have dressed up a little for tonight, too. He wears a crisp plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark jeans. His stomach is big and pronounced and always ready for a hug. He combed his hair to the side, but I prefer his everyday shaggy style.
“I love two bite brownies!” Hank says of my dessert. “Not to brag, but I can eat them in one bite.”
“I’ll bet.” I know firsthand what Hank’s mouth is capable of. I believe it.
I follow him inside to the dining room where pizza, plates, and napkins wait for us. But no son.
“Brody’s upstairs finishing his homework. He’ll be down in a minute.”
I look around the house, the shelves and walls cluttered with pictures, hockey memorabilia, and the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life.
Random stacks of papers on kitchen counters.
A box of lightbulbs sitting on an end table.
In Ardenia, I live in a castle that’s cleaned everyday.
There is no stray paper, no crooked picture.
Nothing out of place. It’s majestic and beautiful, but not cozy.
I follow a path of framed pictures on the wall of Brody, from little boy to young adult. The pull of having a child—an heir—tugs at me.
“Brody’s seventeen, yes?”
“Yep.” Hank cracks open a pair of beers for us, hands one to me. “He’s off to college next year.”
“Does he know where yet?”
“He has his heart set on Stanford.”
“You don’t seem pleased. That’s a phenomenal school.”
“It’s on the other side of the country. I was hoping he’d go to a school that’s closer.” Hank gazes at the wall of Brody’s photos, and it’s obvious how much he’ll miss him.
“There are airplanes,” I assure him.
“I hate flying. It terrifies me. There’s a reason why Brody and I only took road trips for vacations.”
I love flying, but I get to fly on a private jet. I’ve done it so much, I’m immune to the fears. I can see how it’s a scary proposition. Sitting in a metal tube that hurls itself into the sky, held aflight by the graciousness of nature, is quite the leap of faith.
“I haven’t told Brody. I don’t want that to influence his decision. If he gets into Stanford and wants to go, I will face my fears. I heard the seats don’t go back anymore. Is that true?”
“I don’t know. I took the train up from Baltimore.”
“There’s a train?”
I sip my beer to hide a quick surge of panic at being caught in a lie.
“Of course there’s a train. There are trains everywhere.” Hank laughs to himself.
“Wait. Come here a second.” I reach behind him and fix his collar. It gives us a moment to lock eyes and reaffirm that what happened last night wasn’t a fluke for either of us.
Hank steps forward and closes the space between us with a soft kiss that has me levitating. Gentle, but firm. He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, and I sink into his touch. The taste of beer coats his tongue.
“I didn’t want to wait until the end of the night to do that,” Hank says in a soft growly voice that makes my stomach flip.
A door upstairs slams shut, breaking the moment.
“Dad!”
The thundering clumps of a teenage boy barreling down the staircase causes the pictures on the wall to shake. I smooth out my sweater and make sure my dick isn’t protruding out. That would be an awkward first impression.
“Dad!” Brody rushes into the dining room. His brown eyes are jutting out in full-blown panic.
“What’s wrong?” Hank immediately goes into protective dad mode. (Sexy! But not the time to ogle him for that.)
“I’m screwed.”
“What happened?”
“I’m never getting into college.” He paces the length of the dining table. “I’ve been emailing with my guidance counselor, and I’m missing a required class. My transcript is incomplete.”
“How is that possible? Seems like something you should’ve gotten, I don’t know, guidance on. Brody, try and relax. Take a seat.” Hank looks at the six-pack of beer for a second, but wisely thinks otherwise. He pours him a glass of Sprite. Brody takes a huge gulp.
“I was supposed to take one marking period of public speaking. It’s required.
I was going to take it sophomore year, but then I wound up doing that independent study, and I forgot to add it to my junior or senior year schedule.
” He chugs the rest of his soda, then holds out the glass to Hank not unlike a bar patron begging the bartender for another shot.
Hank refills his glass. “How did your guidance counselor miss that?”
“They hired a new guidance counselor, and I guess the old one forgot to leave a note for her in my record. I don’t know.” He rips a piece of pepperoni pizza from the pie and takes a huge chomp out of it. “Oh, hi. I’m Brody,” he says to me with a full mouth.
“Nick. Nice to meet you.” I consider trying to shake his hand, but that’s too formal. Plus his hands are coated in pizza grease and Sprite. “Certainly there has to be an alternative solution.”
“You’re a straight-A student. They’re not going to hold you back a year,” Hank says.
“No. That would be better than what Mr. Bright is suggesting.” He takes another bite by placing the pizza in his mouth and yanking it away.
“Isn’t Mr. Bright your history teacher?”
“He wrote my recommendation letter. I called him up because I was freaking out. He’s friends with Mr. Calloway, the drama and public speaking teacher.
Since theater is performance based, it can be an alternative for the public speaking class.
Dad,” Brody says, looking up at both of us with wide-eyed fear, “they want me to be in the musical!”
“That could be fun, pal.”
“Getting on stage and singing and dancing in front of my classmates?”
“You’ve presented at science fairs and competed in quiz bowls.”
“But I didn’t have to sing or dance at them. I don’t sing! I can’t dance! I tried explaining that to Mr. Calloway, but he said I couldn’t be any worse than Russell Crowe in Les Misérables.”
Hank has told me how smart Brody is, how he’s going to invent something that’ll change the world one day. Nicola Tesla never had to carry a tune.
“The school musical is in two weeks. They’re doing Little Shop of Horrors, and Mr. Calloway wants me to be this character Orin, an evil dentist. The kid who was supposed to play him broke his leg trying to sled off his roof. I’m going to have two solos! I’m going to have to sing twice!”
I managed to see Little Shop of Horrors when it came to Ardenia years ago. Orin is a very over-the-top, loud role. Not good for a kid who wants to blend into the background.
“Is this your only option?” Hank asks.
“I think so. If I can do those two solos, they’ll let that count. And I can put it on my transcript that I met the public speaking requirement. I can still get my application to Stanford by the thirty-first. But Dad, the singing! The dancing!”
“Maybe it’ll be good for you to step out of your comfort zone.” Hank shrugs, forever looking on the bright side.
“I like my comfort zone. It’s comfortable. Why do I need to sing and dance in order to get through high school? Isn’t school supposed to be about academics?”
“You’re like fifty years too young to be saying something like that. I believe in you, Brodster.”
Brody is unconvinced by Hank’s support. Hank seems lost on how to proceed. He silently apologizes to me.
I’ve never been a parent, but I take a stab at helping.
I sit next to Brody. “I’ve seen Little Shop of Horrors, and Orin steals the show.
His character is wild, crazy, over the top, fun.
If you can pull that off, you’re going to be a legend.
I once had to give an impromptu speech. I was terrified.
But it turned out to be one of my most impactful speeches. People still compliment me on it.”
“Was the speech for accounting?” Hank asks.
It was for the UN.
“An accounting convention. About the future of income taxes.” I grab a piece of pizza. “You can do this. I think you have some theatricality in you, judging by the dramatic way we met. I think you’re going to be a hit.”
“And ladies love a man who can sing and dance. Look at all the women who swoon over Hugh Jackman,” Hank adds. “Let’s watch the Little Shop movie. Steven Martin plays your character.”
“There’s a movie?” Brody and I ask at the same time.
“Have you two been living under a rock? It’s settled. We’re watching it. And bonus! After the movie, we’ll go on YouTube and watch the original ending that was deemed too bleak by the studio.”
“You are a fountain of knowledge,” I tell Hank. Secretly, I’m swooning like a middle-aged woman watching Hugh Jackman.
Brody takes a breath. Hope rings his eyes. “Okay. I can do this. If this is how I’m going to get into Stanford, then I will…sing and dance.”
We have a wonderful dinner of pizza where Brody tells me all about his science projects and ambitions for the future. Hank watches him talk, bursting with pride. And I watch Hank, whose love for his son is oddly a turn-on.
I regale them with tales of tubing with Millie’s family, as well as going to the Christmas market in downtown Sourwood.
“You’re covering all of the bases,” Hank says, lounging on the couch. “There’s the Christmas train, but that’s more for young kids.”
“Millie said I don’t have the quote ‘emotional fortitude’ to handle a packed Christmas train with children.”
“Yeah. It can be a lot. Most kids cry when they have to leave, Brody included.” Hank raises his eyebrows at whatever memory he holds of it.
“I didn’t cry! Did I?”
“You did. And then you fell right asleep the second we got in the car to go home. The candy cane was hanging out of your mouth like a cigarette.” Hank chuckles at the memory, and I feel a brief spike of jealousy. Ever since coming to Sourwood, my biological clock has been ticking louder.
Hank sits up, a sneaky grin sliding onto his red lips. “You know where Nick hasn’t been this holiday season? The D’Angelos’ house.”
“Do they still do it?” Brody asks.
“Oh yeah. It’s bigger than ever. We should go!”
“I don’t know. Does Nick even want to see it?”
“Yes! Brodster, can you be cringe with me for one more night?” Hank saying cringe makes his son cringe.
I move my head back and forth, covering this verbal ping-pong match, of which I’m in the middle, and yet have no idea what they’re talking about.
“Could someone fill me in?” I ask. For all I know, the D’Angelos’ could have an escape room. I haven’t been, but they sound scary.
Hank rubs his hands together. “The less you know, the better. We don’t want to ruin the surprise.”