Page 57 of P.S. I Miss You

Nick was supposed to text me and let me know when I was good to come home, but that text never came (not surprisingly).

It’s almost dark when I approach the four-way stop at the end of my street. From here, I have a clear view to my house, which is half a block down.

As I get closer, though, the faces of the two figures hugging by some silver car become clearer.

Nick and Melrose.

His arms are wrapped around her waist, her arms around his shoulders.

He’s swinging her.

She’s laughing.

They climb inside the car as I pull into the driveway.

I don’t look back. I don’t wave. I’ve already seen enough.

She got what she wanted—she wanted Nick. I don’t care what she claims she felt with me, we barely had a month together and she hated me for a significant portion of that short little month.

She’s had a lifetime of crushing on Nick.

I picture her smile again, open-mouthed, throaty laugh, arms holding Nick’s shoulders tight, and my jaw tightens so hard I bring on a tension headache.

But at least she’s happy, and that’s all that matters. That’s all I could want for her, even if it kills me.

Making my way in, I trudge upstairs and find Tucker sprawled on my bed, his nose in a book. He glances up when he notices me.

“Are they gone?” he signs.

“Yes.”

“Did Nick make you stay up here?” I sign.

He sits up, peering up at me as if to ask, “What do you think?”

“They left together,” I sign, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, next to him.

“Are you okay?” he signs.

“Yes,” I lie.

“I liked her,” he adds.

I turn to him, offering a half-smile. “I did too.”

I can think of a million things I’ve wanted in my lifetime, a million things I’ve never had. Disappointment and heartbreak has been a reoccurring theme for as long as I can remember. I thought I’d be immune to it by now, but every time I think about the fact that she’s with someone else now, I struggle to breathe and my chest caves like there’s not enough oxygen.

I’ve never wanted anything—or anyone—this much in my life, and knowing I’m never going to have her … I suppose that’s something I’ll have to find a way to reconcile.

Lying back, I lodge my forearm over my eyes and lie there, in the quiet, with my thoughts but not alone, racking through my mental to-do list.

I need to call my attorney back.

I need to check on a new place to live.

And I need to let her go.

“WHY ARE WE AT Malo Bar?” I ask when Nick escorts me to a high top table by the bar.

“Do you remember when this used to be Dexter’s?” he asks, flagging down a waitress.

“I do.”

“This is where I booked my first gig.”

“I remember. I think I sat here and watched.”

His eyes return to mine, searching them almost. “You did.”

The waitress makes her way to our table and takes our orders: Old Milwaukee tallboy for Nick, Moscow Mule for me.

“This is where it all started.” His gaze flicks to the empty stage where some roadies are setting up for tonight’s show. The sign out front said the Flying Possums were playing tonight, but I’ve never heard of them. Nick was always my “in” with the indie music scene, and after I went away to college, my supply of Nick’s famous mixed CDs quickly dwindled. “You were the reason—the only reason—I had the balls to get up here that night.” His mouth lifts at one side as he watches the guys set up, and it’s almost like he’s replaying his memories in real-time.

Our server returns with two sweaty drinks and a small stack of cocktail napkins.

My drink is weak.

Nick is rambling.

And I can’t stop wondering what Sutter’s doing right now … and what he thought when he came home to the remnants of Nick’s haphazardly orchestrated show of emotion.

“You’re the reason I never quit guitar,” he continues. “You had the biggest fucking crush on John Mayer.”

I laugh. “I did, didn’t I? Totally forgot about that.”

“I wanted to impress you. I wanted to play John Mayer songs better than John Mayer could.”

“How did I not know this?” I take a sip and then trace my fingertips around the thin metal rim of my copper mug.

“You’re also the reason I studied my ass off for chemistry.” He shakes his head. “God, I hated chemistry, but I was crazy about you. We were lab partners, remember? And I didn’t want you to think I was some dumbass slacker making you do all the work.”

I remember now.

Junior year.

Organic Chemistry I.

“I remember being blown away by how well you knew the material,” I say. “And thinking it was kind of cool when you’d correct Mr. Keller in front of the whole class.”

“Pretty sure that’s the only class I ever aced.” Nick reaches for his beer, and I spot his knee bouncing. “They made me take the final twice, remember? Mr. Keller swore I was cheating.”

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