21. June #2
While I wait for the bartender to take my order, I turn to the shoddy platform, as Nick called it, still there.
I bite my lip, but it doesn’t hide my grin.
Nick came alive when we performed together at cabaret.
His passion and love shone all over his face.
We worked so well as a team, too. Effortless, seamless, perfect. We made music .
Maybe it’s corny, but I don’t care. That kind of partnership doesn’t come around often.
After ordering, I return to our group just in time for my turn. We play the rest of the game, throwing shade at each other and cracking jokes, and as I’m finishing up, the buzzer device from the bar goes off.
I grab the first tray, and a server helps me with the other two. We set them at the high-top table behind our lane, and Chelsea says, “This pizza better be as good as you say it is.”
“No way. Nothing’s better than New York City pizza.” Nat grabs the paper plates and doles them out.
“This is better,” Nick counters.
Chelsea’s lip curls up. “How? It’s from a bar. In a bowling alley.”
I merely smirk, licking my lips. “Bet.”
Nothing smells better than cheese, garlic, and bread. And that tangy zing of tomato sauce. My mouth literally waters.
Natalia takes a bite, a string of cheese pulling between her lips and her plate, and groans. “No, this isn’t pizza.”
Her wife laughs. “What is it then?”
“It’s what dreams are made of,” Natalia replies, mouth full of gooey cheese.
I bite into my slice, my moan joining hers. I can’t remember the last time I had Memory Lane pizza. They don’t deliver, and whenever I’m home, I’m too lazy to drive and pick it up. Big mistake.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this.” Chelsea licks grease from her fingers. “But, hard same. This pizza’s better.”
We eat, talking about our favorite spots in New York City, which turns into all the places we miss that have closed.
“Remember Blockheads?” I ask.
Chelsea and Natalia both shriek, and we all yap at once about their patio and the bulldog margaritas.
Nick laughs. “That sounds like the fastest way to get alcohol poisoning.”
I wipe an imaginary tear from my eye. Okay maybe the tear’s real, but it’s a happy one. “You had to be there.”
Nick’s back stiffens.
Way to kill the vibe .
Natalia, bless her, tries to get the convo back on track by saying, “Nick, when you come to visit, we’ll all go to Marie’s Crisis one night.”
But that only makes it worse.
“I—I might have an audition. For a tour,” I mumble.
Nick’s hand finds mine in my lap, and he squeezes gently. Fuck, why is he so supportive? Why can’t he be a little bit of a dick so I wouldn’t feel so horrible about touring?
Because he’s Nick .
I’m the asshole; love that for me.
And now the bridge of my nose stings, and all this frustration is going to leak out of my eyes in a matter of moments, especially when Natalia says, “Really? I was gonna ask if you’re interested in ADing my fall show.”
“Me?” My voice is thick with the tears I’m doing a shit job of holding back. This is it. What I hoped for when I agreed to teach here this summer.
Well, not exactly. Assistant Directing isn’t the same as acting.
And I want to act. It’s what I went to school for, what I’ve been working toward for over a decade. Helen doesn’t even think I can do straight plays, I don’t know what she’d think about me directing.
“Absolutely. You’re incredible at coaching the kids,” Nat replies.
I blink, and a tear escapes. Nick gives my hand another squeeze. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’ve never … this is my first time coaching.”
“You’re a natural,” Chelsea says.
“Of course she is,” Nick chimes in, too.
“Umm, can someone say something shitty about me now?” I wipe at the second tear to fall. At this rate, I’m going to be a mess.
Nat doesn’t miss a beat. “You are the worst bowler I’ve ever seen.”
A surprised laugh erupts from my chest. “Much better.”
After pizza, Natalia asks if we’re down for another game, but Nick’s gaze locks onto mine. Maybe it’s the blacklights, but his eyes darken, flipping a switch inside me. His stare doesn’t leave mine, even though his words are for Nat. “We’ve got plans.”
We place our rental shoes on the counter where we got them, and I pray that Nick’s not actually a foot guy because mine don’t smell great after wearing shoes shared with a thousand other people.
We’re both quiet on the walk to the car and the drive to his house.
At first, the silence is soothing after the chaos of the bowling alley. But after a few minutes, it’s clear there are things we want to say. Not with words, though. With touches, with glances, with the way the space between us shifts and shrinks until even his eyes on me feel like a caress.
Nick’s hand rests on the gearshift, so I cover his with my own.
He turns his palm up, laces our fingers together, and brings our hands to his lips, warm against my skin.
Our entwined hands drop to his lap, and I let go, running my palm over his thigh.
He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. I don’t bother hiding my pleased smirk.
Nick gives as good as he gets, though. Because his fingers skim my leg, drawing the hem of my dress up. His hand slips to my inner thigh, his pinkie stroking closer and closer to my heat. “Please tell me you live close by.”
His pinkie makes another pass, so close that he must feel the arousal seeping out of me. He groans, and it shoots right to my pussy.
His voice is guttural, devastating, when he replies, “Real close.”
He turns down a narrow street, made narrower by the maple trees lining each side. I bet they’re on fire in autumn, but I won’t be here to see. A yawning ache churns my gut, a hole so big all the pizza I ate can’t fill it.
I imagine it in excruciating detail. Greeting Nick at the door when he gets home from work, cooking together, sitting with my feet in his lap as we read or watch TV. I blink the fantasy away before it does irreparable damage to my already breaking heart.
Nick pulls into a driveway next to a compact white house, old but well-cared for. I picture the trick-or-treaters we’d get, the arguments over stringing Christmas lights. I’d be happy with him. I feel the truth of it down in my bones.
But our relationship would be the one bright spot in my life if I moved back.
When I stepped off that bus three weeks ago, I was unmoored, my future as elusive as dissipating smoke. Nothing tied me back to the city I love, and it frightened me how easy it would be to cut ties and move here like Mom suggested.
And the bitch of it is, it took me finding someone I can’t bear to lose to realize even that’s not enough to make me stay.
He leads me up a walkway and through his red front door.
The inside of Nick’s house is so him . Cozy and familiar.
Shelves and shelves of records dominate one wall.
Vintage music posters hang everywhere, but not in that frat house way—held up with tape, wrinkled and torn.
No, these prints are framed, eclectic pops of color.
Sister Rosetta Tharpe at the Apollo, Bob Dylan live in concert, Nina Simone at L’Olympia in Paris.
I study the last one as Nick comes up behind me, the heat of his body bleeding through the fabric of my dress. He moves my hair over my shoulder and kisses the back of my neck. “Want to dance?”