26. Nick
NICK
Hank helps Brody run his lines for Little Shop of Horrors.
The acting seems about accurate for a high school kid.
Some beats Brody stumbles through as he tries to remember his lines, and other beats he goes over-the-top.
I’m not one to judge. I can barely act as a prince or a Baltimorian.
I doubt I’d be much better at playing a maniacal dentist who gets killed and fed to a demonic plant.
Brody serenades us with the two musical numbers he’s a part of, “Dentist!” and “Now (It’s Just the Gas).
” All three of us are shocked at how well he can sing, and when it comes to musical theater, isn’t that the most important part?
Brody sheds his bookish self when he plays Orin, showing off major pizzazz.
Hank beams with pride through every line and lyric. He gives his son a standing ovation when he’s done.
I wish this could be every night for me. Shepherd’s pie and hanging with my boyfriend and his son. It beats every swanky soiree I’ve been to.
“Bravo!” Hank takes fake flowers from a vase and throws them at Brody. “Pretend those are real flowers.”
“I still have work to do memorizing my lines.” Brody flops onto the couch.
“I’m impressed you have most of them down,” I say.
“I memorized the Periodic Table in seventh grade for fun. I got this.”
We eat dinner around the coffee table, a fire going in the fireplace.
“I can’t wait to see you in costume on that stage. My son the actor.”
“I’m not an actor, Dad. I’m doing this to fulfill a requirement and ensure my transcript is spotless before applying to colleges.”
“That’s what they all say. I don’t know, Brodster, I think you could be an actor. Stanford or wherever you wind up must have a theater department. You could do some more shows,” Hank says.
“We’ll see.” If he’s caught the theater bug, he’s not telling us.
“You’d be okay if he dropped science and tech and majored in theater?” I ask Hank, galled at his openness.
“Yeah. Do what you want. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out,” Hank says with easy confidence. He gives Brody’s knee a sweet, soft pat. “My chips are always with you.”
My father could never and would never. He had very strong opinions on what I could study…and what I could do with my life. I didn’t have the opportunity to figure things out. How different would my life have been if I had that latitude and the unwavering support Hank has for Brody?
“Did you submit your applications yet?” I ask. The university application process in America strikes me as byzantine and expensive, like so much in this country.
“I have until the thirty-first. I’m still working on my application essay…” He shakes his head, as if he’s recounting a war memory.
“What does the application essay have to be about?” I ask. Hank throws an arm behind me, gently massaging my shoulder.
“It’s my personal statement. Who am I? What do I want to study? What do I want to do with my life? How am I passionate and unique enough to deserve a slot in your institution? All in 650 words.”
“No pressure,” Hank deadpans.
“I’ve thrown out the last three versions.” Brody lifts his shoulders and releases them in a hopeless exhale. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Hank asks. “I don’t know much about college application essays, but pretend we’re made of rubber and bounce some ideas off us.”
Brody chews on his bottom lip. “That’s okay, Dad.”
“You sure? You should write about that microplastics thing you made for the science fair.”
“They’ve admitted kids who’ve done stuff like that when they were seven.”
“Those kids sound boring.”
“I guess.” Brody gets more downtrodden the more we talk about his essay. I regret bringing it up. I try to signal Hank to drop it.
“So there’s this song by P!nk,” Hank says, ignoring my hint. “‘U + Ur Hand.’ She sings ‘Keep your dreams. Just give me the money.’”
“Okay?” Brody arches an eyebrow at him and squirms in his seat.
“Maybe it’s time to move onto dessert,” I say. There were so many uncomfortable conversations I had to have with my father, times where he told what I was doing wrong and the right path. I can sympathize with Brody.
“Trust me. I’m going somewhere with this. I thought that was so profound. This song is about a woman who’s been beaten down by life, so all she has left to care about is money. She’s too jaded to dream. What does something cost? That’s the only thing that matters for her.”
“Her mindset is solely transactional.”
“I love when you use ten dollar words, Brodster.” Hank pats his knee.
“The song really touched me. I listened to it when I was going through rough times with your mom. But a few years ago, I discovered that I was mishearing the song. The line is ‘Keep your drink. Just give me the money.’ The song isn’t about being beaten down by life.
It’s about a woman telling a guy at a bar to leave her alone, and that he should just go home and masturbate because he ain’t gonna be getting any action from her. ”
“The song is called ‘U + Ur Hand’…” Brody points out.
“Oh my god. Like jerking off. I just got that!” Hank lets out a big, barking laugh.
“But my point is, millions of people listened to ‘U + Ur Hand,’ but I’m probably the only person on earth who heard that song and not only misheard the lyric, but found this whole new meaning from it.
There’s a unique way that you see the world that nobody on this planet does, and that’s interesting. Write about that.”
I brace myself for a teenage eyeroll or for Brody to explode in teenage fashion, yet the wheels in his head seem to be turning.
“I think you gave me an idea, actually. I’m going to go upstairs and write.” Brody stands up and takes his plate. He turns before entering the kitchen to give Hank a hug. “Thanks, Dad. Love you.” Hank seems as startled by the display of affection as I am. “Good night, Nick.”
Later, Hank and I get into bed, an act that feels remarkably normal, as if we’d been doing this for the past decade. He turns to me under the covers, caresses my cheek with his rugged hand.
“Nick, you’re leaving in a week.”
“I know.” I won’t even get to see Brody’s play. It’s killing me.
“I need to tell you something.” He pulls me closer, his eyes wide with earnestness.
It makes all of me tense up. “It’s only a four-and-a-half hour drive to Baltimore from here.
Three-and-a-half if I take the toll road.
And Nick.” He grabs my hand and squeezes with all the love in his heart. “I would take the toll road for you.”
It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me. He kisses my hand, then up to my lips.
“We can make this work,” he mumbles against my mouth. “We can do long distance. It’s not even real long distance. It’s medium distance.”
Dread seeps through my veins, becoming a lead weight in my stomach. Everything Hank is saying to me lifts my heart, but reality is here to smash it into pieces.
“We can see each other on weekends,” he continues. “On weeks when Cathy has Brody, I can even come down for longer.”
But I won’t be there.
“You can come up here after tax season.”
But I don’t do taxes.
“This won’t be hard. We’re in the same zone.”
But I’m actually living on another continent.
“We can make this work because…because we care about each other.” Hank smooths his hand over my hair. His touch only makes me more nauseous with guilt. “Because this thing between us is real. I really like you, and not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty sure you really like me, too.”
I want to leave this bed, run away. But I also can’t imagine my life without Hank.
“I’m going on and on. What do you think?”
What do I think? I think a lie can only build and build for so long. It’s a snowball rolling down a hill. At some point, it has to crash into something. That’s just physics.
“Hank…” I kiss him once more, one more sweet kiss before everything changes. “I can’t.”
While his body doesn’t move, he crumbles from the inside out. His face loses all energy.
“Oh.”
“I haven’t been honest with you about who I am.”
“Are you a spy?”
“Worse.” I clear my throat. “I’m a prince,” I say with my real accent.
A soft chuckle escapes his lips.
“I’m…Prince Nicholas of Ardenia.”
He blinks at me, processing, searching my face for the punchline.
“Give me your phone,” I tell him. He reaches over to his nightstand and unplugs it, hands it over.
I google “Prince Nicholas Ardenia.” Pictures of me from formal events flood the screen. I toss it into his lap.
His expression shifts, surprise giving way to something deeper, harder to read.
Hank gets out of bed, his face glued to his phone. “Excuse me. I just need to…I just need a minute.”
He leaves the room, goes downstairs. And just like that, my Sourwood bubble has been popped.