26. Nick
NICK
Too Late to Turn Back Now - Bonnie she’s supposed to be overseeing everything, but she’s never directed before.
Les Mis is on my shoulders. Of course she’ll help, and she’ll be amazing, who am I kidding?
But the bulk of the behind-the-scenes work will fall to me simply because I already know what needs to get done.
Luckily, by the end of week four, the entire show’s blocked. So I don’t have to decipher Nat’s notes on blocking. But some of the group numbers have intricate choreography that the kids haven’t nailed yet, and without Nat, I worry we won’t even come close.
“Hey,” June calls from the entrance to the basement. I didn’t hear her on the stairs. My chest goes up in flames.
See? It’s heating up.
“Hey.” It comes out gruff, full of grit and longing, even though I didn’t mean for it to happen.
June needs time. We need to figure out Les Mis .
I don’t want to pressure her, and I can’t split my focus between her and the show.
Nat and Chessie shouldn’t worry about this when they’re already dealing with so much.
She walks over, stopping just shy of arm’s length, unsure if I’d welcome her touch. Like she doesn’t know she could smash my heart into a thousand pieces and I would beg her for more.
I clear my throat, chanting professional , professional , professional , in my head before speaking, “Nat’s choreo for ‘One Day More’ is ambitious. We should switch it to a park and bark at rehearsal today.”
“Yeah, sounds good.” Relief washes over her face, either at making her job easier or pretending that everything is fine between us, I don’t know.
Because despite saying she wants us to stay together, something was wrong last night.
And it’s killing me that she doesn’t feel safe enough to tell me.
We promised each other honesty what feels like a lifetime ago now, but I want that promise to hold forever.
“I told Shelley we’ll have to drop out of Con choir these last two weeks, just to give us more hours in the day to tackle everything. Oh, and I mentioned we’ll need another rehearsal pianist because I can’t wear both those hats.”
“Fair,” she murmurs.
We stare at each other, and she crosses her arms and chews on her thumbnail. I can’t pretend any longer. “Come here.”
She walks into my embrace, shoulders curling forward, and sighs. My hands splay across her back, fingers curling into her shirt. But holding her tight doesn’t mean I get to keep her.
“Everything’s really overwhelming right now,” she says against my neck, her lips brushing my skin.
“It is.” I rub soothing circles over her spine. My hand grazes the swell of her ass and her breath hitches. “But you’re amazing. You love these kids, and you love this show. You’ll kill it, like you do everything.”
“Thank you. I just worry there aren’t enough hours in the day.”
“We’ll make time. Meet before rehearsal and stay after.”
“It’ll take forever to get through the whole show bible.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “Probably all night .”
She pulls back, her eyes lighting up in a way I haven’t seen since yesterday morning. “Nick Harper, are you flirting with me?”
“Is it working?” I slide my hand beneath her shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of her back, so soft and smooth. Just that little touch gets me half-hard.
Her hands slip to my waist, pulling me closer. She fits perfectly under my chin. “Yeah.”
“So you’ll come over to my place tonight? You know, to work.” I keep it light, teasing, but I need to know if she still needs time.
“To work. Sure.” There’s a smile in her voice; I feel it against my skin.
“And if it’s late, you can stay over again. If you want.” My whole hand’s under her shirt now, gliding over her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her bra. Fuck, I wish she weren’t wearing one.
“Can I? How generous of you.”
I skim my lips up the column of her throat. “I’m a very giving man, angel.”
“You are,” she says, but her voice is thick.
It’s my turn to pull back this time. That light in her eyes is too bright now, like she’s holding back tears. “How was last night with your sister?”
“Really good, actually.” Her nose crinkles when she smiles, so I know it’s genuine. “We just talked, watched a movie. My neck’s worse, though, from sleeping on her couch.”
I move my hands to her neck and shoulders, massaging, and pretending the little groan that slips from her doesn’t turn me on.
“Any updates on Nat’s mom?” she asks.
“Chessie texted this morning. She had surgery yesterday. They’re trying to stop the internal bleeding in her abdomen. But she’ll probably need another. She’s not—it’s still touch and go, is what she said.”
“Terrifying.” Her shoulders tremble beneath my hands.
“We need to proceed like Nat’s not coming back. So it’s just us until sitzprobe. Chessie said she’s still coming back for it and staying until closing on Saturday.”
“If something happens and she can’t, could you conduct the orchestra?”
I rub my eyes again and blow out a breath.
Running a sitzprobe rehearsal—the first-time actors come together with the orchestra—is hard enough.
At River Valley, I buy the Broadway Junior scores for the high school orchestra.
The arrangements are easier and fewer instruments are needed.
But Chessie got the full rights, not the school edition. “Not well enough.”
“So, she has to come back. Sucks she’ll leave before the gala, though. The kids will miss her and Nat. And me too.”
“You too?” I ask, but then remember her audition. “I thought it was just that availability check thing?”
“Helen emailed me earlier this week, saying the director wants me to audition in person.” She blinks, her chin ducking.
“And you didn’t tell me?” Shit, maybe I should’ve tempered my reply, kept a lid on my frustration. But so much has happened in the last twenty-four hours that it’s blown that lid clear off.
“I’m sorry about that. But I—I had to say yes. I have to work.”
“This is also work. You made a commitment.” We made a commitment, unless she changed her mind after last night.
“I know that, Nick.” Her fingers slip from my waist to tangle in front of her, hands wringing together. “I won’t miss the shows, I swear. But I have to make it to the next audition. I have to keep working.”
She’s right, I’m being selfish. But I can’t stop the word vomit. “But you’re so great with the students. They’ve already lost Nat and Chessie, and now to lose you? They’re depending on you. How can you leave them like that?”
How can she leave me like that ?
It’s not supposed to go this way. I’ve thought about her leaving every second of every day since that night at Shaker’s, so I should be prepared for it by now. But hearing I have one less day with her sends me spiraling.
“I told you. I told you I would disappoint you,” her voice is so quiet, so sad. So resigned.
I inhale, searching for calm, for anything to stop my knee-jerk reaction. “I understand what you’re saying. But you committed to Conservatory first, you committed to the kids first.”
“You want me to put children before my career?” Her voice isn’t quiet anymore.
My mouth drops open. “That’s … not at all what I said. What’s really going on? This isn’t you.”
There’s enough space between us that she crosses her arms again. I didn’t even notice she’d backed up. “Maybe it is.”
A faint ringing buzzes in my ears. “Then maybe you’re not how I thought you’d be.”
“You mean back in high school when you had a crush on me?” She can’t even look at me.
The faint ringing intensifies to a blaring alarm, and all my muscles tense. “You knew ?”
“N-not back then. But I found out. Yesterday.” She pauses, voice wavering. “Were you ever going to say anything?”
My hands curl into fists so tight my fingers ache. Was I ever planning to? “Does it matter?”
“I know we were just kids, but?—”
Voices and footsteps echo from the stairs. Rather than run through the show bible, we’ve spent our time arguing.
The students filter into the basement, laughing, talking, not a care in the world. They trust the adults to put this show together, to lead them, to help them shine onstage. And I’ve already failed them.
At least we’re just rehearsing a park and bark today.
June
“Give me some glissando, we’re sad here, Bailey!” I yell, then wince. I didn’t mean to be short with her.
“Who, me?” Haley shouts from downstage.
“Bailey!” Half the cast shoots back.
At least Kaylee hadn’t piped up as well. But I’m too exhausted and frustrated to appreciate the “Who’s on First?” of it all.
I’ve spent the last three hours with the tummy ache to end all tummy aches. I didn’t mean to confront Nick about his crush, not right before we had to get through rehearsal anyway. My anxiety’s definitely rubbing off on the kids too.
Ugh. Kids.
At least we got through a good portion of the show. I was worried I wouldn’t remember Nat’s notes since I spent every rehearsal staring at Nick with my tongue out making awooga noises like an old timey cartoon. But apparently, some part of my mind was paying attention.
Once we finish that number, Nick calls an end to rehearsal. That’s technically my job, but I’m multitasking so much that keeping an eye on the clock isn’t in my skill set.
The kids pack up, and Nick and I go around setting up the rehearsal furniture for Monday. We also need to go over the show bible, but neither of us is ready to stand that close to the other yet. Especially not with the campers around. We barely made eye contact this entire rehearsal.
And it aches, a dull throbbing in my heart. But I was right. Once the reality of dating me sets in, I’m suddenly too much to handle.
Finally, it’s just Nick and I in the basement, and I can’t pretend to fiddle with the rehearsal furniture anymore. I drop onto one of the benches, staring at his back until he faces me.
I hate this, the sadness between us. I hate that I’m the one ruining it, even though I knew I would. Might as well get it over with. “I wish you’d told me.”
“I know. I should’ve.” He shuffles closer, one hand gripping the back of the bench.
“You said you trusted me.” I can’t keep the I-told-you-so tone out of my voice.
He sits, running his hands through his hair. “It’s not about trusting you. I was worried?—”
“Worried how I’d take it?”
“Yeah.”
“That is about trust, though. Sometimes I—it feels like you don’t see me.
You see a version of me you created in your head.
You make me out to be amazing and perfect, so I couldn’t possibly understand that you’d had a crush on me once upon a time.
Like everyone we went to high school with.
I wasn’t real to you; I was an experience.
I was a high school crush, not a girl who’s messy and defensive.
Not a woman floundering in her career, but every time we talk about it, you brush it off.
This whole summer I’ve worried I’ll disappoint you.
I’m too difficult, too much to handle, not worth it?—”
“Hey.” He wraps me in a hug. I don’t deserve his comfort, but I take it.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there, and my body feels so safe, even if my mind knows it’s temporary.
“I didn’t mean to turn you into an ideal.
It was just—easier. For me. To treat you like this unattainable thing.
Because if I could attain you, then that would mean I’d have to try.
And if I tried, I would fail,” he pauses, exhaling his next words on a whisper, “I didn’t want to fail. ”
The tears that’ve been threatening to fall this entire rehearsal finally cascade down my cheeks, hot and steady. “I wouldn’t have deserved you back in high school.”
Nick scoffs, pulling back to look in my eyes. His face falls when his gaze lands on my tears. He wipes them away so gently it makes me cry more. “ You wouldn’t deserve me ?”
“I wouldn’t have realized what an absolute catch you were. But that says more about teenage me than it does about you. I wish you saw yourself the way I do.”
He presses our foreheads together. “That’s something I need to work on.”
I frame his face with both my hands, pulling his mouth to mine for a soft kiss. “I won’t lie, that pedestal you put me on feels nice, like I’m a better version of myself. But the best version of me is the one that’s honest with you.”
“I do that a lot.” He swallows, his jaw moving, shifting beneath my hands. “Make something out to be a fantasy version, so when it doesn’t go the way I want, it’s an excuse to quit without feeling like I failed. I’m sorry. I do want to be honest with you, but I haven’t been honest with myself.”
“If this business has taught me anything, it’s that failure is inevitable. It’s our greatest teacher.”
“I say it to my students all the time,” he grumbles.
God, he’s so cute. “Well sometimes you need a reminder. At the beginning of the summer, I came home with my tail tucked between my legs. A failure, because I hadn’t accomplished as much as I wanted to.”
“You’d never be a—” He clenches his jaw. “Okay, I hear it. When I don’t acknowledge your struggles, I invalidate them. But you have so much courage, June. No one with so much determination could ever be a failure.”
“But that’s just it. I wouldn’t change a single thing about this last year that made me feel like a failure.
Because if I hadn’t come back, if I hadn’t taken a good long look at my life and what I wanted, I wouldn’t be here with you now.
And you,” I whisper, running my hand up his jaw and into his hair.
“This.” I angle his face to mine. “ Us . It means everything to me.”