6. Nick
NICK
Move On - Sunday in the Park with George
Thursday afternoon, I duck out of Les Mis rehearsal early for Dad’s physio appointment. He’s usually in too much pain or too sore to drive home, even with the special seat cushion I got him.
“That’s it, Don. A few more steps, okay?” Lucia coaches him through the last of his physio exercises while I sit on the folding metal chair in the corner.
As he finishes up, my phone buzzes on the chair next to me. It’s his doctor’s office. My jaw tightens as I press the answer button. I’ve spent the last three days trying to get someone in their office to sign the prior authorization form and send it to his insurance company. “Hello?”
“Donovan Harper?” the nurse asks.
“Speaking.” Yep, still weird.
“We’ve got your form scanned and emailed,” his nurse confirms.
I lean my elbows on my knees, exhaling. “Perfect, thank you. And you’ll forward me a copy?”
“I uploaded it to your file on the Patient First app. Do you still want it emailed?”
“No, I’ve got the app, thanks.” After a quick goodbye, I hang up and turn back to Dad. “Good news, your prior authorization was sent, hopefully we’ll get your pills tomorrow.”
He looks up from his seat, sweating and red-faced.
I flick my eyes to Lucia, but she’s not concerned.
I chew on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from asking if he’s doing his exercises at home, but guilt spears through me.
He’s doing all this without his meds this week because it’s taking me so long to get the proper forms signed.
“Let’s get going, then, Nicky.” He stands, waving off his therapist when she takes a step to help him. “I got it. See you next week, Lucia.”
“Bye, you two!” she calls back, but her eyes are on her clipboard.
Once we’re situated in my SUV and I pull out of the parking lot, he mumbles, “Thanks. For straightening all that out.”
It’s not that I expect effusive praise for this stuff—I’ve been helping my dad ever since his accident at work last year, and I’m glad to do it—but more than a few grumbled responses between us would be nice.
A real conversation. Except, I can’t bitch to him about how hard it was to get this prescription figured out because I don’t want him to feel bad.
So, I can’t feel let down when his thanks is so …
lackluster. “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “No problem.”
Ethan texts, asking for help, so I drop Dad off at home, and rather than getting to enjoy my evening, I head back to Kinney Run. At least he didn’t call this time. He—allegedly—needs help in DPAC, but he just wants to grill me about June.
And … what can I say? We’ve sat together in morning announcements the past four days, but that’s it. There hasn’t been an opportunity to talk about Sunday night.
Lie .
I didn’t make opportunities, because I’m chickenshit. Because she said one week. Because how am I supposed to go from holding her hand and putting my arm around her to pretending like we’re strangers again?
I pass the courtyard, nearing DPAC, when a high-pitched giggle echoes from the side of the building, pulling me from my thoughts.
A few steps off the path, and Shaw comes into view.
Even his back looks smug. He’s got some girl with long brown hair backed up against the building—definitely one of the counselors, and definitely not his fiancée.
She giggles again and he, barf , nuzzles her neck.
I practically sprint into DPAC to get away, debating how much it’d hurt if I bleached my eyeballs.
When I enter the auditorium, I’m greeted by the squeal of dragging music stands, echoing with the top-notch acoustics.
I drop my messenger bag on the apron of the stage and hop up.
“You texted for help setting up chairs and music stands? Dick.”
“You love me.” He grunts, moving a chair into place. “The rest are in that weird spot under the stage, and you know it gives me the heebs.”
“I don’t know what’s more cringe, a grown man saying heebie jeebies, or shortening it to heebs.”
“Agonizing over whether or not I’m cringe is a prison, and I am divesting from the carceral system. Now, I need six more chairs.” Ethan sniffs and waits for me by the backstage stairs that lead to the basement.
“Nothing would thrill me more.” I groan, accepting my red-shirt role in this horror movie. The staircase is so slim that I only haul one stand at a time, otherwise, I’m scraping the walls. But with the two of us, it goes … well, not fast. But it goes.
Once all the new chairs and music stands are perfectly lined up, I flop into one, ignoring Ethan’s grunt of displeasure when it slides a few inches out of line.
“Listen,” he says, fingers tapping against his thighs as he sits next to me, “I know I said it already, but it bears repeating. I didn’t know that was her at Shaker’s on Sunday. I’m sorry.”
“And I already said it’s fine. I can’t dictate who you talk to, or who she talks to for that matter.”
“She was gonna shoot me down, anyway.”
“How could you tell?”
“Trust me, I know.” He smirks.
“Yeah, but if you both liked each other, I wouldn’t stop you.” I wring those words from my throat, but I get them out. If June had a genuine attraction to someone else, I wouldn’t stand in her way. Even if it killed me.
Ethan narrows his eyes at me. “Dude.” You fucking dumbass.
“Dude.” I’m not an asshole .
“Dude.” You’re still a dumbass .
“Why?” I dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets.
“As soon as you walked over, she forgot about me. She likes you .” His palms slap his legs in exasperation.
“No, she doesn’t.” She’s an actress, a good one. I can’t even imagine hoping for more. The hope would destroy me. “She hasn’t said anything to make me think she does. Oh, except that I have nice hands.”
His eyes widen. “She said you have nice hands?”
“Yeah.” I stare at said appendages, but I’m not sure what constitutes “nice hands.”
“Wow, she’s down bad.”
“Because she likes my hands?”
“Yes! What the hell are you going to do about it?”
With a sigh, I murmur the truth that’s been gnawing at me all week. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I had no idea she was even teaching here this summer and before I knew it, she was telling Shaw Richards we’re dating.”
Ethan shifts, irritation lacing his tone. “Is this about Shaw?”
“No, I asked her.”
“I’m not surprised his fiancée wanted to teach with him here after last summer.” We share a look.
“I’m surprised she’s still with him. He’s currently around the side of DPAC, up to his same old shit.”
“With who?”
“One of the first-year counselors,” I answer.
“Someone new who doesn’t know what he’s like. Great.” Ethan rolls his eyes, then continues, “Enough about that ass monkey. What happened with June?”
Damn, he wasn’t even deterred by hot Conservatory goss.
“She was saving face at first, but then she met Chessie and Nat, and word spread around the bar. June said she has to make a good impression on Nat for some show she wants to be cast in and asked if we could keep pretending for a week.” When I say it out loud, it sounds more absurd than it did Sunday night.
“And the week’s almost up. Are you going to ask her out for real?”
I huff a laugh. “Easy for you to say. I’m not?—”
“I refuse to tolerate any Nick Harper slander. You are a beautiful man, any woman would be lucky to have you.” He ruffles my hair.
“Thanks, sweetie.” My voice lights with false cheer, and I do my best to smooth the mess Ethan made.
The door at the back of the auditorium bangs open, and Chessie strides down the aisle, carrying a banker’s box presumably filled with programs for tomorrow’s concert. “Evenly placed, evenly spaced! Your seating arrangement is porn for Virgos, I swear.”
In Rent terms, she’s the Joanne in her marriage, and Nat’s definitely the Maureen.
“Chessie gets it, I don’t know why you don’t get it.”
I shake my head but laugh at Ethan butchering Billy Idol’s line. “I never should’ve asked you to play in the pit for Wedding Singer the Musical . And while you forced me to set up chairs, nothing on this earth will get me to fold programs.”
Chelsea slides the box onto the stage, then climbs up herself. “I have minions for that, anyway.”
“Hey, Chessica,” Ethan calls. “If a woman told me I have nice hands, what do you think that means?"
“Who said that to you?” Her eyes are bright, laser-focused.
“Tell me what it means.”
“She wants to hit it,” Chessie replies, like it’s common knowledge.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“So? Who is it?” She folds her hands under her chin, still staring at Ethan.
“No one.” He laughs. “Just asking.”
She rolls her eyes. “Speaking of piping hot Conservatory tea?—”
“Is this about Shelley?” Ethan asks.
“What’s up with her?” My brows rise.
“I don’t know. I just …” He taps a finger against his chin. “She’s different this summer. I was wondering if she’s dating again.”
“Her divorce was hard, I know that. But it was four years ago, so maybe?” Chessie shakes her head. “Don’t sidetrack me. I need Nick to spill the tea about his girlfriend.”
My palms are sweaty. Mom’s spaghetti, or whatever the next line is. Does she suspect something about June and I? I want to wipe them off on my jeans, but then I’d look guilty. “Y-yeah, what’s up?”
“How are things going with her and Shaw?”
“ What ?” Before I know it, I’m on my feet. My brain ever so unhelpfully replaces the image of Shaw and that counselor outside with him and June. Tension curls my hands into fists.
“Come on, man. Stop scooting the chairs every time you sit down or get up.” Ethan leans over, adjusting my seat.
I ignore Ethan, doing my best to keep my voice calm, and failing miserably. “What happened?”
“Yikes, you’re upset, I get it. But dial back the testosterone. Reason number 732 why I date women.” Chessie eyes me closely. “Shaw’s playing for her in acting while singing.”
“Oh.” My pulse still pounds, but it’s slightly less erratic. “I didn’t know.”
“Really? Nati said she saw them after class and Shaw looked … intense.”
My voice is hoarse, mouth suddenly dry. “What about June?”
“I don’t know, Nick, what about June?” Chessie tips her head to the side.
“We’re not—” I physically can’t get the words out. Nat’s play meant so much to June on Sunday night, and no matter what happens between us, I don’t want to ruin her chances. “We’ve been busy since Conservatory started. I haven’t talked to her much.”
“But why are you worried about her?” Chessie doubles down.
Ethan shoots me another look. He’s going to dude me again. So, I sigh and tell as much of the truth as I can. “Shaw and June were, ah … together, when they were campers here.”
“Gross,” she replies.
“You need to talk to her.” Ethan sits back in his chair, arms crossed, like he figured out the killer on Dateline .
“It’s not that easy,” I bite out.
“What’s going on?” Chessie’s gaze volleys between us.
A boulder sits on my chest. A boulder the size of my fifteen-year crush on my fake girlfriend.
“I’m—it’s just that—” I take a deep breath and focus my thoughts.
“I had this massive crush on June in high school, right? And I built her up in my mind so much that now I can barely function when she’s around. ”
The boulder’s still there, but it’s lighter at least.
“She does vocal warm-ups one scale at a time, just like everybody else,” Ethan says.
Chessie purses her lips, exasperated lines bracketing her mouth. “I get that this is hard, nobody understands yearning like a lesbian. But have you talked to her about high school?”
Ethan fake coughs into his hand. “And now.”
Her brows shoot into her hairline. “Nick, seriously?”
I slump back, defeated. “I know, okay? I know . But when I’m near her, I’m—I’m happy to bask in her light. It’s safer if I don’t tell her.” That last thought slipped out, but judging by Ethan’s intake of breath and Chessie’s frown, they both heard.
“You have to tell her eventually,” Chessie warns.
“I will. I just need to wait until …” Until when, you dipshit? Until she’s cozying up to Shaw? It happened. Until she’s getting on a bus bound for NYC? It’s happening in five weeks. When’s the right time to tell someone you are irrevocably and mercilessly in love with them and have been for years?
“Anyway,” Chessie continues, like my world wasn’t rocked, “my wife told me to ask you and June out for drinks at Shaker’s after the concert tomorrow.”
“Thanks for the invite,” Ethan mutters.
Chessie rolls her eyes. “Of course you’re invited, princess.”
I run a hand down my jaw, sore from how hard I’ve been clenching it since I got to DPAC. “This isn’t just friendly drinks, is it? You two want to grill June.”
“Por qué no los dos?”
“I knew it.” I sigh.
“Hey.” She shifts closer. “I’d never say anything about the whole high school thing, you know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“This is the first girlfriend of yours I’ve ever met. And I’ve known you for five years. So, forgive me if I’m a little protective.”
June said one week. Does it extend to Friday night?
And all Nat and Chessie’s attention will be focused on us—there’ll be no hiding that we’re not a real couple.
With a resigned sigh, I answer, “I’ll ask her, but I don’t know”— if we’ll still be pretending to date —“if she has plans. Because of my history , it’s hard to gauge her sometimes. Like, am I reading into things?”
“You’re not, trust me,” Ethan replies, leaning his elbows on his knees. “What if, instead of telling her about your history, you show her? Show her how you feel.”
“Ooh, go off. What’s her love language?” Chessie asks.
“I don’t know,” I say at the same time Ethan asks, “What’s a love language?”
Chessie kicks him in the shin. “Weren’t you raised by a single mother? Do better. Jesus.”
“Ow.” He rubs his leg.
“Suck it up, baby girl.”
My friends’ bickering recedes as a plan forms. I can’t tell June how I felt about her in high school, not when our fake relationship is four days old. But Ethan’s right—not that I’ll ever admit it. Maybe if I act like her real boyfriend it’ll turn into something genuine.
If June doesn’t reciprocate my feelings, then I’ll go back to pretending this was all for show. I don’t need to put myself out there and risk getting hurt.
And there’s one thing I can do to show June how I feel, as long as I catch Shelley before she leaves for the day. And if Ethan agrees. “Hey, bestest friend. You’d be willing to help me, right?”
“Whatever you need,” Ethan answers without hesitation as he tips his chair so it’s only resting on the back legs. As much shit as he gives me, he’s a good guy.
“Perfect. I need you to teach my 8:30 a.m. music theory class for the rest of camp.”
He snort-chokes, all four chair legs slamming down. “8:30 in the morning ?”
I pat his shoulder and hurry for the exit. “Gotta run.”
As my plan solidifies, something light and delicate unfurls in my chest. And it scares the fuck out of me, because that boulder could come back any time and crush this tiny tendril of hope.
Hope .
Yes. Tomorrow is a new day.