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Chapter Eighteen
Point of View: Narrator


It was almost a whole month later before Nick heard from Krystal again; and the reason she had for calling was anything but perfect. It was September 11, 2001. Nick was in the middle of a frantic airport in Buffalo, NY, where their flight from Boston to Toronto had been grounded upon the news that a plane had flown into one of the two World Trade Center towers. Brian was having a miniature breakdown to Nick's left, and everyone else in the airport was having that same reaction. "Hello?" Nick called into the phone, which was hissing with static.

"Nick? Are you okay?" Krystal's voice was worried.

"Krystal?"

"Nick? I heard it was a plane from Boston, are you okay?"

"It wasn't our plane," he answered. "How'd you know we were in Bo--"

But the line was already dead.

It was December before Nick heard from her again.

When Nick got home from the tour, he'd stood at the end of his driveway studying Krystal's house, willing a light to turn on or some other sign of life to come from within it, but nothing happened. Every time it rained, he imagined he heard her outside, singing about clams in the sand on the beach and a couple times he'd run outside, chasing a dreamed mirage of red galoshes and flesh dancing through the street.

He was in bed when she called. The phone rang into the pitch darkness of his bedroom at 12:41 AM, and he bumped his head on the wall trying to reach for the phone before it stopped ringing. He dropped the receiver once and pressed it to his ear. "Hullo?" he moaned into the phone, sleep weighing down his words.

There was nothing but silence for a moment.

"Hullo?" he said again, more of a grunt than a moan this time.

"Nick?" her voice was strangled and shattered.

Nick recognized it right away and sat up quickly, his palms sweating. "Krystal?" he breathed back.

"Nick..." she sounded sleepy. Drugs, he thought.

"Krys, I'm here."

She murmured, "I needed to hear you..."

"I miss you," He said, his voice straining with desperation. Nick wanted to beg her to come home, but he didn't dare to; he was terrified she'd get mad and hang up on him again.

She probably would've.

"Save me," she whispered.

"Save you?" Nick asked, confused. His heart started pounding super fast like a jackhammer. "Where are you? Whatsa matter?" he asked.

"Nick..." her voice was quieter this time.

"Krys, where are you?" he demanded, his voice urgent.

She giggled, "The club."

"What bar?"

Krystal giggled again, "The one I work at, silly bean. I’m a dancer," she added, her voice deepening to emphasize the word.

"What club is that?"

Krystal let out a peal of laughter, "I'm so hungry, Nick."

"I know, baby," he muttered. "But where are you?"

"Honey Pot,” she mumbled.

Nick’s mind raced. The Honey Pot was a burlesque club in downtown Tampa. They were a relatively new, trendy hotspot, known for their thriving gay and lesbian crowds. Krystal was working there?

“I’ll be right there.”