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Chapter Thirty-Seven


Nick was in New York for two days. During those two days, I tried to remember what I did before Nick came into my life, but almost everything involved Addison, and I found myself laying on my back on the couch watching the TV Nick had installed and eating everything in my fridge that wasn't healthy. Mostly the eating was because the only thing I could find on cable that was remotely interesting was reruns of Restraurant Impossible in which the guy with the weird accent says kew-cum-bah when he means cucumber.

I flickered through the channels at one point and came across an entertainment news cast. I realized after I'd changed the channel that I'd seen Addison, and I backed it up. She was coming out of the hugely iconic Macy's in the City carrying a bag and wearing dark sunglasses. She had her hand up in front of her face, her hair flowing behind her. They were talking about how she'd apparently signed a contract with the new producer the day before.

"Other artists signing on with the new producer include Cora Walters and Nick Carter of the Backstreet Boys..." The TV cut to an image of Nick and Cora - together - in an elevator as the doors closed out the press. I blinked at the screen. "The sudden death of Justin 'Z' Platt has turned the Music Industry upside down trying to find a replacement as good as the original..." the newscaster explained, "Virtually all of Hugh Walters' major clients are looking to replace ---" I turned the TV off and sat there in silence a moment, letting my head wrap around what I'd seen.

Nick and Cora. In an elevator. I'd forgotten completely that Cora and Addison were in New York, too. But of course they were, they were on GMA, weren't they? I felt conflicted. I wasn't sure what to think. I mean, it didn't neccessarily mean anything that they were in an elevator together. That elevator could've been anywhere, at the place where they signed the contracts, even. It didn't neccessarily have to be a hotel, didn't neccessarily mean that they were sleeping together or anything...

Though I'd be a liar if I tried to say I wasn't immediately filled with panic.

When Nick called almost an hour later, he didn't sound weird at all. He chatted normally, told me about the new producer whose name was Dawson and who had dreadlocks. "Honest to God dreads," he laughed. "You know I've always wondered if dreadlocks smell?"

"Smell?" I asked.

"Yeah. I mean, how the hell would you wash a dreadlock? The middle must get smelly, right?" he asked.

"I have no idea," I said, "I've never had dreadlocks."

"You'd look weird with dreadlocks," Nick snorted.

"Better than you would," I teased. I decided if I as gonna ask - now was the time to. "So... did you see Cora at all out there?" I asked, "She's in New York isn't she?"

Nick made a noncommittal sound. "It's a big city," he said.

"Yeah it is," I replied.

He paused. "Why?" I chewed the inside of my lips. "Sam?"

"You were on E news," I said quietly.

Nick paused, "E news?"

"Yes," I answered. "You and Cora in an elevator." Nick was quiet a moment too long and I knew. "You're a fucking bastard," I snapped and I hung up the phone.

I threw it across the couch and chucked a cushion at the TV. It hit the wall and fell to the floor with a soft thump. I heard the phone vibrating on the couch, but I stormed away, out into the dining room, into the kitchen, anywhere but near that phone.

I felt sick to my stomach, practically cross-eyed with anger. I scrubbed the kitchen floor.

When I checked my phone again a hour later, I had seventeen missed calls, nine voicemails, and twenty text messages. I sighed. I couldn't help but see snatches of the text messages content. Words like please, nothing happened, and explain filled the screen. I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear his explanation. I mean, I did but I didn't, too, at the same time. I wanted to hear it and believe it and go back to day dreaming about the other morning and thinking I was the luckiest damn girl in the world, but it made so much sense that he would be out there in New York, alone with Cora, and fall into old habits.

He was, after all, addicted to Cora.

He'd do anything for Cora.

The phone rang again as I sat there, and there was an almost pitiful feeling to the way it was ringing, like I could feel his resignation that I wouldn't answer it even as it rang. I know that's not possible, but it seemed that way.

I took a deep breath.

"What?" I asked coldly.

"Sam," he said, surprised to hear me answer, "Sam, please. I didn't mean to lie about seeing Cora. I only saw her for a second at the label. It wasn't anything. Please. I didn't wanna upset you. Nothing happened, I swear to God."

I sat quietly, listening to his breathing on the other end of the line.

"Sam," he begged, "Please believe me. Please."

I could feel my resolve weakening as his voice dipped into begging mode, could feel myself crumbling into letting him off the hook. "Nick..."

"Please," he begged. "What can I do to show you that nothing happened?"

What could he do, I wondered. I thought about it a moment, then I said, "Do you have any pictures of you and Cora both wearing your Journey shirts together?"

"What?" he asked, confused.

"You said you ordered the Journey shirts at the same time on the Internet. I want to see proof that there's two shirts and she didn't have your shirt that day."

There was a long pause. "Okay," he said.

"Send me that and I'll believe you."

"I don't know if that exists, though, I mean, we hardly ever wore them at the same time --"

"With the amount of paparazzi that follows Cora around it shouldn't be all that hard," I replied.

"But I mean we never were a public thing, you know?" he asked, "It's never been like that..."

"Well then you have your work cut out for you, don't you?" I asked.

He was quiet for a long moment. "Sam, I swear to you - on anything you want me to swear on - that nothing happened with me and Cora here in New York. We rode an elevator together, that's it. We stood like two feet apart the whole time. We barely even spoke."

I sighed.

"You gotta believe me," he pleaded.

"I mean I'm trying to," I said, "But I've been burned too many times."

"Sam --" he said, "I'm playing by the rules."

"What?"

"The rules," he said, "The ones you said that first night. I'm playing by the rules. I'm really trying here with you and me. It's different with us, you know? You really want to know me, you really give a crap, and I don't get that a lot. I'm not stupid enough to ruin that for some weekend fling with Cora."

I sighed. "Nick, I've been hurt enough in the past to know the signs and stuff, that's why I made the rules."

"I know but --"

"And to be completely honest, it's really hard to believe you because I know you. I mean you've been having an affair with her all this time behind everyone's backs, what's one more back?"

"Sam, you're not just one more back," he said. "I could do that to a hundred other girls, but not to you."

"Why?"

He was quiet a long moment. "Because, I know you'd Monk me out if I did."

"So you're just scared of getting caught."

"No that came out wrong. Shit, why I can't I ever say anything right, like how it sounds in my head, how I feel it?" he asked, frustration coming out in his voice.

"I don't know," I answered.

"It's 'cos I been editing myself for so damn long," he said, "Because I keep stuff locked up tight in me, isn't it? Like I trained myself not to be able to speak right about feelings because I don't want people to know'em most of the time and I'm so damn scared of saying things by accident that I'm locked up like Fort Knox."

"Maybe," I said.

"I don't wanna be Fort Knox anymore, Sam."

"I know."

"I'm so tired of secrets and lies," he said.

"I know."

Nick sniffed. "I just wish I knew how to be true easier," he said, "I wish it came more naturally, like it does for you." He paused, "But I'm trying... I'm trying."

"That's the most anyone can ask."

"Yeah," he said, "It is."