Saint Nick

Chapter 9

9

L ow

I came so close to asking Nick yesterday, the words on the tip of my tongue right as we pulled into the driveway. But then we saw those people on his porch—clarification, I saw them while Nick looked on as though seeing two ghosts standing in front of him with pitchforks—and the request died before it had a chance to form. Not the one about helping him with boundaries—obviously that one didn’t go well. I almost asked the other one, the one I’m still mulling over now. The “plus one” one, the impossible one that seems equal parts sad and laughable now. Why would Nick possibly agree to it anyway? He doesn’t know that I’m five days away from self-imploding a longed-for career that has barely even started yet. He doesn’t know I’m desperate. He doesn’t know that for all my bravado, asking a simple “Would you consider being my date to a book-themed Christmas party?” has turned me into the worst kind of helpless coward. What he doesn’t know only hurts me.

I drop the invitation from Doubleday on my desk and drag my feet toward the window once again, feeling like a seventh grader stalking her crush, the one always at the forefront of her mind but never quite making an appearance. Nick disappeared inside his house yesterday, and I haven’t seen him since. Despite his promise, he never even brought the Christmas tree over.

With a sigh of resignation, I walk toward my grandmother’s artificial one and study it. If I squint, it doesn’t look so bad. A little large, maybe, a little stiff for sure, but not entirely unconvincing. Sure, the fake snow seems a little out of place indoors, but it’s still Christmassy, still tree-like. Right? With a handful of the ornaments I found in the attic, I might be able to make it passable. Best tree I’ve had in ten years, considering I haven’t had one at all.

Always look for the upside; that’s my motto.

I’m hanging my third strand of lights when the doorbell rings. A couple things about this: one, tangled Christmas lights are the opposite of festive. I broke one bulb and yelled three cuss words in the process of getting them untangled, then sliced my finger on a box lid while looking for a replacement bulb. And two, of course, the doorbell rings while I’m standing on the fourth rung of a ladder because that’s what life does—comes at you all at once, inconvenient and pummeling, usually when you’re busy trying to get happy.

Therapist, soothing-voiced Low is nowhere to be seen in this moment. If I had a shovel, I’d bury her in a ditch.

With a growl, I descend the ladder and throw open the door, expecting to see that dang mail delivery guy with yet another misdelivered package. Instead, Nick is standing there holding my Christmas tree like an elf on a mission. Except his bulging biceps and general demeanor don’t look elf-like at all.

Darn him and his red sweater that might as well be a plaid shirt.

“Well, look who decided to show up.” Resisting sarcasm has never been my strong suit. “And only…” For extra emphasis, I dramatically mime, checking my non-existent watch, “Twenty- seven hours late. That tree should be sufficiently dead by now. Fa la la la freaking la.” Man, I’m bitter.

“Don’t start. It’s been a horrible two days, and I’ve had it standing in a bucket of water at home. The only thing dead is my sense of humor. Now, where do you want it?”

“At this point, probably at your house. I’ve already started decorating this one.” I point my thumb over my shoulder, and he looks crestfallen.

“You can’t be serious.”

Okay, this just ticks me off. “I am serious. Did you expect me just to wait around for you to show up? I’m in the mood for Christmas today. I want to string lights and hang some stupid ornaments, and I couldn’t very well do that with my tree over there in your garage. So, either help me with this one or go away.” It occurs to me that we’ve known each other only a handful of days and we’ve already argued more than once. It also occurs to me that my foul mood has nothing to do with Christmas trees or lack thereof. It isn’t nice to just disappear on people. Ghosts are only cute in cartoon form. “Where have you been, anyway?”

“I’ve been trying to convince my in-laws that I didn’t, in fact, kill their daughter.”

My anger poofs and collapses right on the tacky shag carpet. There are a lot of flimsy excuses people use to get out of doing things: “I’m super busy, I’m sick, my dog threw up on our cat, I need to wash my hair, my kid has a tummy ache, my wife hates your guts”—okay, that last one is private and personal—but this one wasn’t something I expected to hear. Kill their daughter? Lack of boundaries might actually be the least of Nick’s worries.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, incredulous. Nick leans the tree against the house and walks inside. I close the door behind him and walk over to the sofa, indicating that he should sit. Therapist Low is back but treading lightly. No one dislikes therapy more than those who didn’t ask for it.

Nick runs both hands down his face and leans his head back. “My in-laws, or ex-in-laws, or whatever in-laws are called when they never liked you, and your wife is dead.” I flinch, but otherwise, don’t react. He isn’t looking at me anyway. “They blame me for Sherry’s death.”

I’m reeling at the many revelations he just unveiled. Like, his wife’s name was Sherry. That her parents blame him. Why? What happened to her? That even though I already knew he was a widower, it’s only just now hitting me how young his wife was when she died. Likely, even younger than me. A sobering thought if there ever was one.

“Why would they blame you? Did you do something?” Judging by his reaction, it’s the wrong thing to ask. His head comes up to look at me, his eyes narrowing like he’s offended. Just as quickly, he grows tired, like he’s been fighting the same battle for months, and it keeps turning around to land another punch.

“Depends on how you look at it, I guess.”

The sentence hangs between us, tied to a leather rope, the tension building. What kind of death could be analyzed both ways? I’m afraid to ask, but the therapist in me has to know.

“What happened to her?”

He sighs, long and deep. “Plane crash.” Two words that make my insides plummet.

Dying by plane crash is my secret lifelong fear. Everyone has them, even if most don’t admit it. Being buried alive, kidnapped and forced into the trunk of a car, trapped inside a burning building… The list goes on and on. Things humans fear most, and you’ll see. Mine is death in a plane crash. From takeoff to landing, I still hate to fly. What a horrible way to go.

“I’m so sorry. But…I don’t see how they could blame you for that?”

He shakes his head. “Because the crash isn’t even the worst part.”

A bold statement that’s hard to believe. “What’s the worst part?” I’m afraid of his answer.

His head falls back again. “That I was supposed to be on that plane but canceled last minute because I’m a selfish jerk who wanted to stay home and watch basketball instead. We’d only been married a month.”

It’s an irrational statement—even worse that his in-laws have transferred it onto him—but I see where it’s coming from. Guilt. So much guilt that he wears it like a second skin in his downturned eyes and sometimes pained smile. The way he uses it like a shield, keeping himself busy with other people’s projects, children, and puppies to avoid his own troubling thoughts. More than one person has called me discerning, and this is why. I can read a person’s intentions like other people read paperbacks—sometimes slowly, sometimes in a single afternoon—but I always make it to the end. No wonder Nick acts like a saint. He’s been on a year-long running quest to keep himself from feeling like the devil.

“No one can see the future, Nick. Not getting on that plane might have been a little selfish at the time, but it also saved your life. And for what it’s worth, most men in your position would have made the same decision.” It’s the only thing to say, even as my psychological training screams at me inside my mind. Tell him you’ll listen if he wants to talk. Tell him to lie down, close his eyes, and spill his guts all over the sofa. Tell him you’ll dim the lights and offer a non-judgmental ear. Tell him purging is good for the soul and takes us back to our center.

I tell my master’s degree to shut up and will my heart to take over the show. Being an expert in something means nothing if you lose your humanity along the way.

“I’m sorry, though,” I say. Sometimes, that’s all a person can offer.

“Thanks,” he says. “My head knows you’re right, but I’m still working through it. My in-laws are another story, though. They will always hate me for not being there with Sherry.”

“Maybe, but that just might be the way they’re also working through it. Having a scapegoat tends to help when grief has you trapped in place.”

That blasted training always emerges despite my best efforts. To his credit, Nick gives a sad smile.

“Wow, Low. You learn that in college?”

I swallow at the sound of my name on his lips. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“You should put that on a plaque and hang it above your door.”

“Tell me you haven’t been in my bedroom without telling me you haven’t been in my bedroom.” I was halfway into that sentence when my face started to burn. Right now, my skin is scalding me from the inside out. Bedroom, really? My thoughts don’t need boundaries, they need a whole room to themselves.

“Please tell me you’re kidding.” If Nick notices my embarrassment, he doesn’t address it.

“I wish I could say that.” His quiet laughter rises and falls until it leaves us sitting in silence. For the longest time, no one speaks. Finally, I do. The therapist in me can’t help herself. “Do you want to talk about it?” The girl in me holds her breath.

Nick pinches the space between his eyebrows and drops his hand to his lap. “Not really. You know what I’d like to do instead?” When he levels his gaze at me, my pulse picks up speed while my brain imagines scenarios it has no business imagining. He slams both to a halt with a nod toward my grandmother’s artificial spruce. “I’d like to get that poor excuse for a Christmas tree out of this room and then decorate the one still leaning against your front porch. You game?”

I can only nod. At this point, no matter what he suggests…

I’m game.

I can’t stop staring at my beautiful Christmas tree. I haven’t stopped since Nick left last night. I’ll admit, he has a way with decorations, hanging gold and silver and red ornaments of all sizes in clusters I wouldn’t have attempted myself. The tree looks professionally decorated like it might be more at home in a Macy’s holiday store window rather than hanging out here with a woman who loves solitude and a bird who won’t stop talking. The dang thing has chirped all morning. Do parrots ever take a second to breathe? Or nap?

George wants a shot of bourbon , he says as always. It’s when he adds, please , that I jump backward, unprepared for the addition of the word.

“Did you just say ‘please’?”

“Please, please, please,” George parrots in a way that seems suspiciously like taunting. “George wants a shot of bourbon…pleeeesse.” Well, this time, it is taunting, but I’m too flummoxed to care. One time. Nick said that word one time last night—as in, “George, will you pleeeesse shut up?” —and this is what the bird instantly mimics? Granted, there isn’t much I say in front of him except be quiet! , but I have repeatedly begged him to quit asking for alcohol. I’ve responded with “no” too many times to count, but the bird has never repeated that word. Of course, he hasn’t. He never listens to me, but one word from Nick and he’s changed the rules of the game.

I shake my head and head for the front door to tell Nick about this new development but stop short when I catch sight of something unpleasant outside my window. I creep toward the window to look out, pull my grandmother’s awful pink velvet curtain halfway over my face to stay hidden and watch.

There’s a woman on Nick’s front porch. Not his mother-in-law from before, but a young woman with long blonde hair extensions, an obvious spray tan, and bigger than average you-know-what’s practically standing at attention begging to give Nick an eyeful. To his credit, he takes a step back and appears to keep his gaze on her face.

To my discredit, I hate her.

Okay, that might be an exaggerated reaction, but who the heck is she? And why is she wearing a pink Barbie-esque miniskirt and stilettos in late November like there aren’t arctic-like temperatures blasting through the front yard? And why does she keep laughing and touching Nick’s arm like she owns that part of his body? And most importantly, why is he smiling at her?

It’s just like a man to smile at a woman.

When he reaches for her phone and types something into it—I’m assuming his number or some other equally disturbing text I simultaneously want to read and vomit all over—I dream of scrubbing that smile off his stupid face. He won’t make an appearance on my podcast, but he’ll do…whatever she’s there for?

What is she there for?

I blink, wondering when I became such a voyeuristic, jealous female. I am a strong, independent woman with an online following larger than anyone else’s in this town and a slew of weekly listeners to show for it. Yet, I’m hiding behind a curtain like a suspicious hermit with an inferiority complex. Worse, I’m spying. Who cares what Nick does with his personal life? It isn’t like he owes me anything. It’s not like we’re dating or something. We’re barely friends. He probably doesn’t even remember my name.

I recall the soft way he said it earlier and the way my pulse tripped all over the sound so that theory is just me lying to myself. Like I’m still doing, considering I haven’t moved from the window. But she’s still there, and I’m a moth to a stack of matches just waiting for someone to light her up.

Speaking of matches.

My eyes flick upward over Nick’s head, and I frown.

Weird.

Something is billowing from his rooftop, like a mist or a low-hanging cloud. But it’s drifting upward—do clouds drift upward? I study it and try to process it, and then a gray streak appears in the middle of the mist. Gray, like a cigarette puff. Gray, like a patch of aging hair in a mass of black. Gray, like?—

Like smoke.

Nick’s house is going up in smoke, but he’s too enraptured with Barbie to notice. Honestly, I should just let it burn. Instead, I make for my front door and throw it open.

“Oh, good lord, Nick, would you pay attention?” I mean it like a scold, but say it like a scream. He shields his eyes to look at me with one hand and drops the blonde’s phone with the other. Literally drops it. She yelps as it bounces on the pavement. Watching her bend to retrieve it might be comical if my neighbor wasn’t such a dumbass. Men and their overly stimulated sex drive. “Look at your house!”

“What’s wrong with it?” he yells back while I frantically point upward over and over like a boxer, landing a series of left hooks on an unsuspecting jawline. Dutifully, Nick follows my movements and finally looks over his head. “What is that?” he whips around to look at me before he scrambles inside.

I take off running, too, like the good neighbor I am. It seems men are always needing women to save them. Seems women are usually all too willing. I make it to his front door in record time and brush past blondie, not even caring that I’ve never been invited inside before, not once considering that running toward a fire might not be the best idea.

The first thing that hits me is the smell. What in the world is that?

“Are you running a meth lab in here? Or worse?” I cry out, nearly smashing into Nick’s chest as he bolts toward the kitchen sink carrying a charred object in his hand. That’s when I see the remains of a soot-streaked red and white pattern slashed along the side and a fire burning inside the microwave. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Popcorn? You burned popcorn ?” I open a cabinet door and then another, looking for a fire extinguisher. My throat burns, and I start to cough. Where is the extinguisher?

“I must have set the time on the microwave for thirty minutes instead of three…” Nick chokes out, turning on the faucet and coughing into his fist. There is nothing worse than the scent of burning popcorn. I’ll die on that bridge. His entire house smells like a rotting corpse mixed with charred butter. And unless Nick is a serial killer/cannibal wanted in six states, that toxic bag of popcorn is the unfortunate source.

“How much time was left on the clock?” I cover my mouth with both hands and complain as though my cross-examination skills will help the situation, then immediately start coughing. Air. There is no air in this kitchen. I find the extinguisher!

“Two minutes.” His face is red. He takes it from my hands and points it inside the microwave. After one giant blast, the fire is out. If only the foam could’ve killed the smell.

“Two minutes?” I’m choking. I’m growing lightheaded. I’m waving both hands in front of my face. We both need air. An actual house fire couldn’t be much worse.

Nick flings the extinguisher to the floor, and we burst out the front door at the same time, Barbie looking at us like she’s the one being inconvenienced here. Suck it up, Blondie , I think to myself, and then promptly start coughing violent, rib-cracking hacks.

It’s a sobering day when you realize your personal jealousy is still alive and well even as you’re choking to death. Unfortunately for me, my temper is currently rising from the grave and levitating on the porch. Turns out Nick is as shallow as every other man in existence.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask incredulously through a series of coughs; one arm crooked over my mouth even as the other arm flings toward the woman on the porch. “You’re so busy helping other people that you can’t even see your own house is on fire? You were texting on her phone, Nick. Texting .” It’s harsh, and the emphasis on other people is clearly aimed at the chick standing here, but it’s too late to backtrack. As for Nick, he goes from confused to visibly angry in one point three seconds.

“What were you doing, spying on me? Were you really that bored?”

“If I hadn’t been that bored, you’d be looking at a lot more damage to your house than a charred bag of Orville Redenbacher.” I don’t like admitting to spying on him out loud, but it’s too late for denials. And no one said I was bored. Except I was bored. Bored and ticked off at a stupid talking bird.

“Well, excuse me for trying to help people,” he says.

“Well, excuse me for trying to save your house,” I say back. And now we’re at a standstill.

We’re on a second-grade playground fighting over a bouncy ball, but I’m too far in to back down now. I’m breathing heavily. He’s breathing heavier. I can sense the blonde ricocheting her gaze between us, trying to gauge what’s going on, but I will not be the one to explain. Then, finally, Nick looks up at the sky. Sighs. And then locks eyes with me again.

“Thank you for saving my house.”

I shrug. “Thank you for saying thanks.”

Five seconds later, I realize we’re still both staring. I blink and focus on the porch, willing my frantic heart to slow down. It’s beating erratically, and I’m fairly certain that has nothing to do with a small house fire. A small house fire that’s still stinging my eyes and nose even from outside. Charred popcorn burns like acid droplets mixed with crack or heroine; at least with acid, you can still breathe through the pain.

“So, you know what this means, right?” he says.

My sixth sense braces itself against impending bad news. “What does it mean?”

“I’m gonna need to stay at your house tonight.”

My sixth sense didn’t anticipate this, and I startle. What was that about breathing? Because I can’t do it, once I register what he said.

“Excuse me, what?” I croak.

“Excuse me, what ?” The blonde parrots next to me. Weird how I’ve suddenly developed an intense hatred for those birds, even without George thrown into the mix. “You just agreed to be my date tonight,” she says with a whine that might put a tyrannical toddler to shame. Or maybe that’s just my interpretation of her voice.

Wait.

Excuse me, what? I raise an eyebrow at him.

“I’m afraid you can’t stay at my house. Seems you have a date with her .” Did that sound as petty out loud as it did in my head?

“I don’t have a date with anyone,” Nick says. A bit too insistently if you ask me.

“But Nick ,” she says. How can a person draw out such a short name into four separate syllables? “You said you would go with me.”

He tears his eyes away from me to address the blonde. “No, I said I would think about it. But only if Mike can’t take you. Have you heard back from Mike yet?”

She cocks a hip. “Well, no, but?—”

“Okay, then ask him and let me know what he says. But for now…” he points to my house like he owns the place. “I’ll be over there until the smell of burning skin gets out of my house.”

Burning skin? Wait just a minute. “I didn’t say you could hang out at my house.”

“You don’t have a choice. I can’t stay here.”

“Go ask Andy if you can stay with him.”

“I’m not asking Andy. Last time I stayed at his house, his wife gave me a nine o’clock bedtime like I was one of her kids. Wouldn’t even let me watch ESPN because she could hear it from her bedroom.”

I bite my cheek to kill the urge to laugh. “Why did you stay over there?”

“Because a pipe burst in my kitchen.” He rolls his eyes. “Flooded every room on the bottom floor and stayed wet for days.”

I wince at the phantom feeling of soggy bare feet, even if the bedtime thing is a bit amusing. An image of footy pajamas and warm milk slides across my brain, but I force it away. There’s still the matter of me not agreeing to any of this.

“I don’t want you staying at my house.”

“Okay, then I’ll stay at Loretta’s.”

“That’s the same house!”

“Convenient, then. Look, Low. I need somewhere to stay tonight. Surely, you’ve burned popcorn before. Surely you know how long it takes the aftereffects to leave.”

“Everyone has burned popcorn before,” I mutter. “I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone who attempted to incinerate it, though.”

He gives me a look. “You know I’ll just call your grandmother. She thinks I’m adorable. She’ll tell me I can stay there.”

He practically made my grandmother sound like a floozy. But I know he’s not wrong.

“Fine. But you better be gone by the time the sun comes up.”

He holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor. Probably.”

I glare at him while blondie says, “Ummm,” and—not to be outdone—holds up a single finger. “So, you’re not going out with me tonight, Nick?”

“Afraid I can’t tonight, Brandi. But good luck on your job interview,” he says. “I really hope you get it.”

Brandi. Isn’t it always a Brandi? But…job interview ? I make a mental note to ask him about it later.

“Alright, well, now that your house is no longer in danger of burning to the ground, I’m going home. Maybe refrain from using the microwave any time soon. Just a little piece of advice.” I turn to leave, somewhat dejectedly, seeing as blonde Brandi is still standing there with Nick, but of course, he doesn’t just let me walk away.

“I’ll be over in a few, roomie. And I’ll bring wine.”

Of course, he has to get the last word.

But even as I raise a single finger in a backhanded goodbye, my traitorous heart can’t help but give a little flip at the thought of a glass of wine.

And the guy who’s coming with it.