THE FRONT DOOR OPENS and shuts Wednesday night at five-thirty on the dot. I tug the zipper on my first suitcase. Half my things are packed. I’ve set out enough clothes to get me by these next few days.
I was under the impression I had more time, that I wouldn’t have to leave for at least another week, but the director wants me there as soon as possible, and my agent managed to get me three more days.
Three days to say goodbye to Gram. To Mom and Dad. To Aunt Catherine and Uncle Charles. Maritza and Isaiah.
Sutter.
His footsteps are heavy on the stairs, and the floor creaks when he reaches the top. His heavy presence fills my doorway a moment later.
“Hey,” I say.
He leans against the frame of my door, his white shirt covered in dirt and his skin slicked in sweat from the day’s heat.
“Packing already?” he asks with a laugh.
“I’m leaving Saturday.”
His expression falls. “You … you okay?”
“Don’t cry for me, Argentina,” I tease. “I’m excited. It’s literally a dream come true. I just … thought I’d have more time, you know, to say goodbye to everyone. But I guess it’s only two months. Three if there are weather delays and things like that. You never know.”
“I see.”
“Oh, hey, what’s this about?” She unsticks my Post-It from the top of her dresser and hands it over, her blue stare narrowing. “What did I ask you?”
“You don’t remember?”
I laugh. “Nope.”
His tanned fingers hook the back of his bronze neck as he drags in a long breath, but the moment he begins to respond, my phone rings.
“It’s Nick,” I say a second later.
He straightens his back and gives a nod. “I’m going to take my shower.”
I press the green button on my phone and hold the screen against my chest. “See you downstairs in a little bit?”
He shuts the door when he leaves, and I take a seat on my bed.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I’m having an existential crisis.” Nick’s words are slurred.
“Where are you?”
“New Jersey.”
It’s not even 9 PM where he is and already he’s hammered.
“This whole touring-with-Maroon-5 thing not turning out to be what you expected?” I ask.
He exhales into the phone, then I hear something rustling in the background, like he’s shifting around to get comfortable.
“It’s lonely as hell out here, Mel,” he says. “The different city every night thing is just ...”
“Please, Nick, tell me more about your First World problems.” I chuckle.
“I know. I know how I sound.”
“Are you homesick? Maybe you’re homesick.”
He exhales into the phone, pausing. “Yeah. I think I am. I think I want to come home, Mel.”
“You’ll be home before you know it,” I say. “And think of all the wild stories you’re going to have. You’ll be eighty years old someday and still telling people about life on the road.”
He’s quiet for a minute, thought I can make out sounds from the tour bus in the background. People talking. Doors opening and closing. Beer cans hissing.
“Maybe you’re tired?” I ask. “Maybe you should take a couple days off from partying and … I don’t know … deal with whatever it is that’s bothering you. I feel like soul searching after, like, five Jager bombs is probably a really bad idea.”
“I miss the local scene, you know? Small bars. Same faces every weekend. No need for security.”
“Nick, get some sleep. We’ll talk about this when you’re sober.”
“It’s just ...” he continues, ignoring me. “I look at Adam with his insane bank account and his supermodel wife and millions of screaming fans and I have to ask myself … is that what I really want?”
“Yeah, you have to ask yourself—”
“No, Melrose. The answer is no.”
“Okay.” I lie on my bed, shoving the suitcase out of the way. If he needs to let it out, then by all means. “Go on.”
“I thought I did,” he says. “For the longest time, I really thought that’s what I wanted. And I was embarrassed about it. That’s why I never told anyone. But now? Now that I’ve seen everything up close? It’s all a fucking facade. These people aren’t happy, they’re pretending to be happy. Where’s the meaning in any of it?”
“The meaning is in the entertainment value.”
“No, I mean …” Nick’s voice trails. “I feel like I’m not making any sense.”
“It’s okay. You’re drunk.”
I hear him laugh through his nose.
“I wish you were here.” His voice is low, like the words he’s saying are solely meant for my ears. “You always make everything better, Mel. You always have.”
Staring at the ceiling, I think back to our younger days. Childhood is meant to be carefree, nothing but long summer days by the pool and riding bikes down the street and letting popsicle juice drip down our chins.
But Nick didn’t have that.
His parents fought nonstop.
Every day.
Every night.
That’s what happens when you have two hotheaded, artistic types with raging insecurity streaks and an odd competitive component to their marriage.
I didn’t realize it until years later, but the reason he gave me his other walkie-talkie shortly after we first became friends was so he’d have someone to talk to at night … so he could drown out the screaming match that always seemed to be a precursor to bedtime.
His music was his escape.
I was his distraction.
And his band, Melrose Nights, was a culmination of the two.
“Get some sleep, okay?” I switch my phone to the opposite ear. “I promise your life is going to make more sense after a good night’s rest. And don’t think too hard about things. It’ll just make you crazy.”
“Yeah, yeah. All right.”
“I mean it, Nick. Get some sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
“Melrose?”
“Yes?”
“I miss you.”
“I know. I miss you too.”
I end the call and dock my phone on the charger. Now I’m worried. He’s never sounded so blue before, so conflicted. He should be having the time of his life, but instead it’s like he’s doubting everything he’s ever wanted for himself, second-guessing his life choices.
That’s not the Nick I know.
The lock on the bathroom door pops, and I peer past my doorway in time to get a glimpse of Sutter with a towel wrapped low on his hips making his way to his room.
Funny how a month ago, I was freaking out about his indecency, and now I’d give anything to sneak a peek at that fine derriere of his.
Making my way to his door, I give it a light rap with my knuckles and bite away a smile as I wait.