2. Nick
NICK
Waiting for Life - Once on This Island
“All in all, Mrs. MacFadden, Sumner is doing well. But if she wants to take her skill to the next level, she needs to practice more.” I grip the strap of my messenger bag slung across my chest and squeeze, quelling the annoyance creeping into my voice.
I made it all the way to the MacFadden’s ostentatious foyer before she cornered me.
“Isn’t that why you’re here? Private lessons should give her a leg up.” She crosses her arms.
My teeth grit, but I turn that frown upside-fucking-down. My salary as a public school teacher isn’t cutting it, so I need the cash from private piano lessons.
But as a schoolteacher, I already shoulder the blame for my students’ lack of interest, and I don’t want to shoulder blame from a woman who gave her child a last name as a first name.
I blink, focusing on the buttons of my black shirt.
“Yes, I am here, but only for one hour a week. That’s not enough time to improve her skill. ”
“So she needs more frequent lessons, that’s what you’re saying?” Mrs. MacFadden looks dubious, like I’m aiming for more money.
The only thing that stops me from telling her what I really think is my phone ringing. “Sorry, I need to take this. And I won’t be able to take on more private hours this summer since I’m teaching at Conservatory. See you next week!”
I power walk down the driveway, hitting the green answer button. “Never in my life have I been happier that you’re the only millennial who calls without texting first.”
“What happened?” Ethan asks.
“One of my students’ moms wants to know why her daughter isn’t Juilliard level yet.”
“Let me guess, the kid doesn’t bother playing except at her lesson?”
“Winner, winner”—I slide into my SUV, shutting the door with more force than necessary. Once the Bluetooth connects, I finish—“chicken dinner.”
“Speaking of, want to get dinner before Shaker’s tonight?” As Ethan speaks, a rhythmic tapping sounds through the phone. A drummer’s hands are never idle.
“You seriously called to ask me out to dinner?” I shouldn’t whine, Ethan did get me out of the MacFadden’s. But if we get dinner first, he’ll want to go to Shaker’s early.
“Call me old-fashioned.”
“Okay, Old Fashioned.” One more turn and I’m finally out of the winding complex of too-big, too-rich houses.
“You’re not legally allowed to tell dad jokes unless you’re a dad.”
A dad . I choke on my own spit as a traffic light turns red and I slam on the brakes.
“So, you down?”
I turn left for my neighborhood, rather than continuing downtown. “I don’t know, man.”
“Dude.” Ethan’s reprimand is only one word, but we’ve been friends long enough that I hear what he doesn’t say. Don’t be lame .
“Some of us have to teach Intro to Music Theory early tomorrow morning. There’s bound to be a few theatre or dance kids who sign up, and they’re always terrible. And they always whine about it.”
Ethan teaches percussion and conducts the jazz band, neither of which requires him to be at camp before noon.
“You just want to pull a Nick,” Ethan accuses, though of what, I’m not sure.
“Pull a Nick?” With my hands on the wheel, I hope he hears the air quotes in my voice.
“Yeah, you arrive late and leave early.” His tone is so matter of fact it grates on my nerves.
So what if that’s my MO? Shaker’s nights are always the same. Same drinks, same people, same how-was-your-year conversations. I could be at home writing music instead. “Who calls it pulling a Nick?”
“People.”
“Sure,” I laugh.
Sadly, the biggest reason I doubt anyone says pull a Nick is because I don’t have a huge circle of friends, nor do I go out much. But my job drains me enough, plus I take care of my dad, and have I mentioned staying home is free?
I run a hand through my dark, wavy hair. I let it grow long in the summer to enjoy a few months where I don’t need to look professional. “Maybe. Where did you want to grab dinner?”
“Bridge and Barrel has a patio .” Ethan sings the last syllable, horribly off-key. Thank god he can keep a beat.
My Bluetooth beeps with another call, so I reply, “Just—hang on, I’ve got to answer this.”
Pressing a few buttons on my console, I answer the next call. Dad’s pharmacy. Finally. He’s needed a refill on a prescription for a while now.
“Is this Donavan Harper?”
“Speaking.” I pretend to be my dad on these calls—it makes everything so much easier. Though it never stops feeling weird.
“Sorry for the delay, but we’re missing the prior authorization form,” the pharmacist says.
“What do you mean prior authorization?” The steering wheel creaks under my tight grip. “I’ve been on this medication for a year. It’s a little late for prior .”
“You were on the generic version. This new one’s for the name brand.”
I suck in a calming breath, swallowing the unkind response floating through my brain. It’s not the pharmacist’s fault I’m about to lose a week of my life on the phone with my dad’s doctor and insurance company.
That conversation tips my maybe right into definitely territory. I’d rather sit on a patio and have a beer with Ethan than go home by myself and spin out over my dad’s medicine. I can’t do anything about it until tomorrow anyway, since it’s Sunday.
Maybe I can convince Ethan to stay at Bridge and Barrel instead of heading to Shaker’s early. I let him know I’m on my way, and fifteen minutes later, I slide into a parking space. The sun hangs low in the sky over the Clarion River, casting the water in gold and pink light.
Ethan lives in an apartment downtown, so he’s already drinking a beer on the aforementioned patio. He takes a swig, and the anchor tattoo on the back of his hand ripples. His brown eyes size me up. “About time.”
The wicker chair across from him squeaks as I pull it out and sit. “Why do you want to show up early to Shaker’s so bad?”
“Why do you want to leave early so bad?”
I’m exhausted and exhausted ; it’s the only excuse for the honesty that slips out. “Conservatory used to be invigorating. Spending my summer with other musicians, teaching kids who’re actually passionate. It felt like—like a way to fill up my creative well that gets sapped every school year.”
Ethan blinks, beer suspended halfway to his mouth.
I said too much.
The wood grain of the table is suddenly fascinating, so I study it and wait for the awkward moment to pass.
But Ethan’s reply is genuine, eager. “I feel the same, man. The invigorating part, at least. Don’t get me wrong, I love playing professionally.
There’s just something about Conservatory, all those people with the same dreams, same passions.
It sucks you’re not feeling that anymore. ”
“Yeah. Maybe it’s part of getting older.” Thirty hadn’t felt like a big deal, until my back started hurting all the time and I had to invest in an ergonomic piano stool.
I could tell Ethan about tinkering with original compositions, but my stomach rolls. What if he wants to hear them? The horror. Plus, it’s only for me. A way to lose myself in where I could be, rather than where I am.
What would he say if he knew my dream is to quit teaching and perform my original music professionally?
He wouldn’t laugh at me—he’s my best friend.
But what if he encourages me to go for it, to reach for that dream?
I wouldn’t even know where to start. And even if I did, I’d never succeed.
Barely anyone makes it in the music industry.
Facing my friends’ and family’s disappointment on top of my own? The weight would crush me.
Dreams are safer when they’re just that, dreams.
Our silence isn’t awkward this time. I look out over the water as my hazel eyes adjust to the light, and a line pops into my head.
Golden river rushing with the sun’s whispered secrets.
Before I lose it, I open the Notes app on my phone, already filled with disjointed song lyrics, much like my Voice Memo app, with the snippets of hummed melodies I collect.
“Yo.” Ethan snaps his fingers in front of my face, and I blink.
The waitress is here, and we place our orders.
I need to shift away from the truth bombs, so I pick up our earlier conversation. “It’s the same shit every summer. Who’s hooking up with who, who’s fighting, who made up. I don’t need the drama to start before Conservatory does. We’ve got six weeks for all that.”
A look passes over Ethan; maybe he’s debating whether or not to call me out on the subject change. He smiles smugly, the need to gossip winning out. “I heard there’s a new voice teacher.”
My eyes widen. “Is everything okay with Mal?” Malcolm Galloway is an institution. He was part of the founding faculty twenty-five years ago.
“Mal’s fine.” Ethan’s tone is unconcerned. “Want to ask about the new instructor?”
“Not really.” Judging by his tone, it’s a woman. A gorgeous woman. I’m not in the mood for Ethan to bully me into showing up early because he wants to hook up with the new voice teacher. “How do you even know who it is?”
“I don’t. But when I was setting up for tomorrow, I saw a hot blonde chatting with Mal by the bell tower.”
“What if that’s his niece or something?” I roll my eyes.
“Has Mal ever mentioned a niece?” Ethan teases. He has a point, though I won’t admit that. “Everyone knows everyone at Conservatory, and I didn’t know her. I bet you a drink I’m right.”
“Bold of you to assume she’s into guys,” I declare loud and proud as the waitress sets down our food.
She smiles to herself, so of course, Ethan follows it up with, “Men, am I right?”
“You’re not wrong,” she mutters as she heads to another table. We better leave a good tip.
“Fine.” He sighs. “I bet you one drink she’s the new teacher, and a second if she likes guys.” He holds his hand out across the table.
When we were freshmen at Sadler U, I hated Ethan immediately.
He was everything I couldn’t be—effortlessly cool with his tattoos, charming with a way of fitting in everywhere he went, and he majored in performance while I stuck with education.
But he won me over junior year when he asked me to join a jam band that played at the local bowling alley.
I’ve gotten used to his antics, but making bets about the new voice teacher leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
“Aren’t you getting too old for this shit? ”
“That’s rich.” Ethan downs the rest of his beer.
“What the hell?”
“Aren’t you getting too old to be stalking the socials of that girl you went to high school with?”
“I-I’m—” My hand flails so fast I nearly knock over my beer. Ethan hides a shit-eating grin that I want to smack off his face. “She’s a professional actor. You should watch her videos, hear her sing. She’s really good.”
“No, thanks. I’ve carefully curated my algorithm so it’s ’90s rock covers, pedalboards, and the occasional funny cat video. If I watch one musical theatre TikTok, my For You Page will be all covers of “Seasons of Love”.” He shudders as he sips his beer.
“I mean, it’s a great song.”
“Sure. But I don’t want to hear it 525,600 times.”
“I see what you did there.”
Ethan’s hand flourishes as he takes a little bow. “Have you DMed her?”
“ What ?” My heartbeat zooms up my throat until I taste it. Guess I should’ve said that part quieter, judging by the stares of other patio patrons. “God, no. Why would I do that?”
“Because you went to high school together.” He looks at me like he’s questioning my sanity, which is usually my job.
“I haven’t talked to her in over ten years. It’d be weird if I reach out now. I’m … boosting her views on TikTok. ’Cause that’s a thing that matters. In this day and age.”
“Uh huh.” Ethan’s brows raise. “How many of those views are yours?”
“Not that many.” I think.
“So you’re just increasing her engagement?” He somehow makes increasing her engagement sound dirty, which isn’t helping my accelerated heart rate.
How do I explain it’s more than her voice?
I shake my head and sigh. What’s the point?
Anything I say will sound creepy, and Ethan’ll make another joke.
But I don’t want to be teased, not about this.
“Can you drop it? If I wanted an interrogation about my nonexistent love life, I would’ve had dinner with my dad. ”
“Fine, fine. I’ll drop it.”
“Thank you.” My shoulders relax enough that they’re no longer touching my ears, and I scrub a hand down my face.
“If you agree to the bet.” Ethan smirks, holding his hand out across the table again. At least if he’s too busy flirting with the voice teacher, he won’t notice if I sneak out early.
“Son of a bitch.” I groan, but I shake his hand.