Chapter Twelve: “The Reckoning”
Chapter Twelve
“The Reckoning”
NICK SPUN AROUND
.
They stared at each other.
They lowered their phones. Or, more accurately, their phones lowered themselves.
Nick was the first to speak. What he said was, “Holy mother of shite.”
Sewanee had a whole dump truck of things to say, but the hydraulics were broken.
So Nick said, again, “Holy mother of shite!”
Then he grinned. He grinned and then he threw back his head and he hooted. He clasped his hands in front of his chest and laughed. He grabbed his head and spun around and did a little jig.
Then he moved toward her, his eyes twinkling like Christmas morning. Like the gift of his dreams lay unwrapped at his feet.
She stepped back.
Way back.
He froze.
She looked at him from the corner of her eye, a dog guarding a bone.
Nick’s smile faded slightly. “What?”
“What?” she said, incredulously. “What?!” she said, more incredulously. “Who
are
you?”
Sewanee watched him attempt to banish the smile, to give the circumstance the sobriety she needed. It only made him look like he’d licked a sour ball. “I’m me. Nick!” He couldn’t do it. The smile came back with a vengeance. And a laugh for good measure. “Don’t you see how incredible–”
Her finger shot up. “Wait. Stop. Questions.”
His arms went out. “I’m all yours.”
Sewanee took a breath. “June French’s nephew?”
“Yes!”
“And?”
He nodded. Once. “Yes. I am also Brock McNight.” He said it in Brock’s voice.
“What.”
He said it again, and again in Brock’s voice. “I am also Brock Mc–”
“No, no, no, no, no, no don’t do that.”
“All right.” His arms lifted, reaching toward her. “And you’re Sewanee Chester. And Sarah Westholme.” It wasn’t a question. “Fantastic. Nice to meet both of you.” He gestured at the bench, stiffly, like his arm didn’t belong to him. “Shall we sit?”
She didn’t move.
“Or we could stand. Standing is good.” He watched her, waiting for a signal.
She sat.
Nick placed himself carefully at the other end. He pointed at the large space between them. “Now there’s room for all four of us.” At her silence, he said, “Right, too soon.”
“Could have been ‘a wee bit’ more honest, too?” she said, tightly.
He shook his head lightly. “Yes, let’s clear everything up. One:
I don’t work for a venture capital firm. That’s my dad, my biological dad, he does that.”
“And the accent?”
“Well.” He spoke the next words with a stronger burr. “I do tend to thicken it up a bit when I’m looking to meet someone. Women do love a good accent, you know.”
She dropped her head into her hands. “Oh my God.”
He dropped the excessive lilt. “Sorry, just being honest.”
She inhaled sharply. “Okay. Okay.” She breathed. “I know why I lied.” She looked at him. “Why did you?”
He spread his arms wide, as if to show her he held no weapons. “I’m not you. I don’t have a career under my own name. I’m just a pseudonym. A ghost. So, when–if–I say what I do for a living? People–women–they want to know what I’ve recorded and what do I tell them? Out myself as a vocal porn star?”
Sewanee kept trying to clear a path through the mounds of mental clutter. “So the Brock McNight voice is–”
“Fake. It’s entirely put on.” He sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“Give me the short version.”
“When the band fell apart, I started narrating. One of June’s friends gave me a shot–”
“The band’s real?”
He blinked at her. Seemed to finally understand the gravity of her confusion, her reticence, her suspicion. She was doubting everything, not only Vegas, but also their correspondence. He inched over to her on the bench, carefully. Cautiously. She didn’t move away, but she stiffened and folded her arms across her chest. He paused his advance. “Everything–every single thing I wrote to you–that was real. That was me. Just a different name, that’s all. In fact, the band mate, my best friend? That’s Jason.
Casanova
’s producer.”
Sewanee threw up her hands. “Sure, why not? And the cocktail
waitress in Vegas was your sister.” She looked at the ground, but could feel him peering at her.
If everything was real, then why did she feel duped?
The night had already been too much. This officially put her over the edge she could have sworn she’d already fallen off.
Nick was talking. “This is good, you realize that, right? It’s amazing. Have a laugh, darling, it’s funny.” The last few words were infused with a gentle chuckle. He reached out to lay a comforting hand on her knee.
But she wasn’t ready for that. It actually angered her. The fact that he found this funny seemed to prove he wasn’t nearly as invested in either version of her as she’d been in both versions of him.
Plus, she was covered in spit and mud and makeup and tears while he looked like James Bond.
She stood. “This is stupid. I’m done. Enough. I have real concerns, real problems. My grandmother’s in there trying to kill herself, my father’s an asshole, and . . .” Something boomeranged back around. “I lost tonight! I was nominated in
one
category and I lost, and that hasn’t happened since I started doing audiobooks, so I don’t know what that means, if anything, but it’s probably not good, and I just . . . goodnight.”
“Oh, come on!” Nick called to her retreating back, his voice still filled with mirth. “Don’t storm off! Sewanee!”
She disappeared into Seasons.
“YOU SMOKE?”
It was not what she’d intended to say, but the sight of Nick lying on his back on the bench, bringing a cigarette lazily to his mouth, made everything else she’d planned to say leave her.
He startled at her reappearance and quickly sat upright, snuffing the cigarette. He’d undone his bow tie and unbuttoned his
collar. He had no right looking so good. “Not since high school,” he said, sheepishly, “but I–It’s been . . . a rough few months.” In all of this confusion, she’d forgotten his aunt–who he had clearly been close with–had died. She walked back to the bench, but didn’t sit.
Puppy dog eyes gazed up at her. “You came back.”
She swallowed. “I’m so . . . spun out and I don’t know how much I can handle right now, but I do know I don’t want to walk away like that.”
“That’s commendable. Quite grown-up.”
Sewanee shook that off. “I tend to catastrophize. My father would tell you I have a flair for the dramatic.”
Nick shrugged. “You’re passionate.”
Her face heated at that, at the casual knowingness of his statement. Also, the erroneousness of it. She wasn’t passionate, not really. She’d only been so with him.
She gathered her wits. “I want to know why you think this is good. Why you think it’s amazing.”
He slapped his knees. “Gladly!” He stood, which had the effect of putting them entirely too close, but Sewanee wouldn’t embarrass herself by stepping back. She boldly met his gaze instead. “Because in what world could you imagine this happening to you?”
“None! This belongs in one of June’s books.”
“Right! But this is real!”
“Is it?”
“Yes!”
“What is?”
“This! The whole this.” He waved his arms, encompassing the entire universe. “We’re so lucky.”
“How?”
“Because I’ve been a mess for weeks.” The excitement in his
voice accelerated his pace. “I, Nick, couldn’t stop thinking about the woman from Vegas. You. Alice You. But I was all discombobulated. Why? Because I, Brock, was having these feelings,
real
feelings, for you. Sarah You. So I Nick and I Brock were at, like, odds with each other because we’re having these feelings for two different women, but they’re both you! Sewanee You! Don’t you see? This is . . .”
As he ran out of steam, she quirked her head at him.
What? This is what?
She sure as shit didn’t know. She didn’t even know what he had just said. But she was able to cherry-pick from it . . . how much he liked her. All of the hers.
He sighed and stuck out his hand. They were so close he had to keep his elbow tucked into his side to do it. “Hi. My name is Nick. Nick Sullivan. I’m a narrator of Romance. Nice to meet you. And you are?”
She looked at his hand, that hand that had been places. She swallowed and took the bait. “Sewanee Chester.”
He gently shook her hand. He didn’t let go. “I’m sure the answer’s no, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least offer to make good on our date tonight. Would you like some food? A Last Word?”
She chuckled softly. “As wonderful as that sounds . . .”
He patted her hand with his other one. “I get it. It’s been . . . a night.”
She nodded. “I need some time.”
Nick let go and held his hand up. “Absolutely. Text me when you’re ready to talk.”
There was no
if
in his statement. As far as Nick was concerned, this was a humorous bump in the road.
So what was her problem? Yes, she was hollow and spent and completely flummoxed, but why did she feel like she was missing something key? She had the feeling of being confused without knowing the source of her confusion. Like trying to find her car
in a parking garage and cycling through the possible scenarios: Was it stolen? Was it towed? Was she on the wrong floor? Did she even drive that night?
She tentatively smiled and stepped back. She gave him a little wave, which he reciprocated, and she turned around, walking back into Seasons.
“WHY WERE YOU
in Las Vegas?”
She hadn’t been gone as long this time, so she caught Nick as he was leaving the garden, scrolling the phone in his hand.
He startled and then laughed. “Is this a bit? Are you doing a bit?” But he must have seen the suspicion on her face because he sobered. “For the convention.”
“Why?”
“June had been scheduled to be there and when she . . . when she died, her publisher–of her backlist–they wanted to turn it into a memorial, of sorts. It seemed like the right thing to do for her fans. They could stop by, pay their respects, get a limited-edition postcard of her original covers.” He added, “She was like a mum to me.”
“But out of all the hotels, why were you staying at the Venetian?”
“June had booked the room. Because of
Casanova
. A poor man’s research trip.”
It was almost too plausible. Why didn’t she trust this? Any of this?
“Were you at the convention as Brock McNight?”
He looked horrified. “Christ, no! I don’t do anything as Brock McNight.”
“So, you didn’t know I was there?”
He blinked at her. “I didn’t know who you were, how could I know you were there?”
“I mean,” Sewanee said, starting to gather a full head of steam, but not understanding precisely
why
, “you didn’t see me hosting a panel on audiobooks, manning an audiobook booth?”
He looked more bewildered. “No! Emphatically no. I couldn’t care less about audiobooks! Sewanee . . . I don’t know you. I don’t even know how to spell your gorgeous name.”
“You’ve never heard of the narrator with the eye patch?”
“For feck’s sake, no!” She could see he was trying to figure her out. Like maybe if he looked at her hard enough her head might crack open and he could take a peek inside. “Why are you doubting that I didn’t know who you were?”
She shook her head. “You expect me to believe, you honestly, that you randomly . . .” She took a ragged sigh. She didn’t want to start crying again.
“What?” He reached for her, but she decisively pulled away from him.
She found her voice. Steeled it. “Why’d you come up to me in that bar?”
“Why that bar?”
“No. Why me?”
She watched his face change. It went slack. For the first time tonight, he finally looked as gutted as she felt. “Oh. Yes, okay. It’s not . . . it’s so daft.”
“You thought I’d be easy?”
“What? No–”
“That the girl with the eye patch would be grateful?”
Nick’s eyes shuddered closed and his hand clutched his chest. “No. You’re breaking my heart right now. How can you think that about yourself?”
Sewanee answered, simply, “Because I’ve had pity pickups before.”
“That is
not
what it was. Not at
all
. My
God
.”
“Then what?” He didn’t have a quick comeback. “Nick?”
“My darling girl–”
“Stop.” She was doing her best to give him an opportunity to surprise her, but she was bracing for the truth. “It’s okay, just admit it was a pity–”
Nick threw his arms out and walked a few steps away. He spun back. “You really want to–fine.” He huffed a sigh. “You’d been sitting with Adaku Obi. Okay? So I came over.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d get in good with the friend. I figured you were the wingman so . . .” He took a breath, widened his eyes, shook his head. “Simple as that.”
Simple as that.
Sewanee turned and walked away.
“I’m sorry,” he said and from the nearness of his voice, she could tell he was following her. “You asked me and I told you the truth. I don’t want–I
can’t
lie to you anymore about anything. Whatever the consequences.”
She said nothing.
He continued, “But while, yes, that’s how it started, that’s obviously not how it ended.”
Sewanee fired back, “Right. She didn’t come back to the table, did she?” She felt like such an idiot. Such a pathetic idiot. She’d been wondering what this guy saw in her and it had been
so
obvious, and she’d been
so
blind. Willfully blind. God.
They left the walled garden and reentered the building. They walked through the empty main room, the lobby, Sewanee’s eye on the double doors in front of her. She had to get out of here.
“Before you leave, what is it now, for the tenth time . . . ?” Nick tried to poke a hole in the tension, but she saw no humorous light come through it. “Please think about this: how it began doesn’t matter. It doesn’t! Because remember when you got the text from
your friend who couldn’t make it to dinner?” Sewanee held up her hand, willing him to stop. That text had been yet another of her lies.
Nick ignored her hand. “Did I leave you then? Did I walk away? No! I asked for the check and I went with you to dinner, because I wanted to, because I wanted to be with
you
at that point!”
“Because I was what was left!”
Sewanee breached the front doors and noticed a taxi pulling up and all rational thought fled. She wanted to escape and this was the fastest way. “I can’t do this. I need some time to–it’s too much, it’s, it’s . . .” As she got to the cab, the door opened.
“Swan!” Mitzi croaked, heaving herself out. “You look like leftovers. Like something someone scraped off a plate. Nice dress, though.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
As the driver brought her walker around the cab, Mitzi leaned on Sewanee and her eyes landed on Nick. “Hoo hah, what’s this?”
Sewanee caught the driver’s eye. “Are you free?”
“Sure, climb in.”
“Sewanee–” Nick began, but Sewanee cut him a look that could shatter glass. She turned back to Mitzi, who was now settled on her walker.
“See you Friday, Mitzi.”
Mitzi gave Nick an elevator glance. “Bring whatever this is.”
Sewanee ducked into the cab and slammed the door. Nick scrabbled to the window, said, through it, “Did I plan to have anything other than a drink? Did I plan anything beyond dinner? I was leaving! Did I plan the snow?!”
Sewanee told the driver where to go and the cab started to pull away. Nick slapped the top of it. “Sewanee! Come on!” But Sewanee shooed the cabbie onward.
She turned around, as if she actually had something to yell back at him, and watched his hands find his hips as he called out, “What do I need to do?” Then his attention turned to Mitzi, who was tugging on his jacket.
“So. You single?”