What’s of more concern: If I don’t shut down my brain soon, my imagination will take off so far about what could be with this guy, that nothing will ever be able to just be.
Nick is right, the Olsen twins do have a worrisome codependent relationship. I understand those bitches, though, I really do. Much as I want to learn more about Nick, I also want to take a time-out so I can tell Caroline about him. If Caroline were here, we could dissect Nick via My So-Called Life script/ Jordan Catalano moments.
Rayanne: I think part of him is partly interested in you. Definitely. I mean, he’s got other things on his mind.
Angela: But that’s the part that’s so unfair. I have nothing else on my mind. How come I have to be the one sitting around analyzing him in like microscopic detail, and he gets to be the one with other things on his mind.
Rickie: That is deep.
I feel like I could sit here on stupid f**king Park Avenue talking to him all night. And I hate Midtown, and I particularly hate the East Side.
Alas, wherever I’m going to figure this Nick guy out, it won’t be at this spot any longer. We’re two straight-edge B&T kids chasing a natural high, but apparently we’ve been mistaken for terrorists. Building security men have come outside to give us our marching orders—to anywhere that’s not sitting at the fountain in front of their building.
We stand up and walk, heading west. Maybe Nick is trying to figure out the pieces of me, too? He says, “Your dad, the record company executive who’s all about downtown. Is there a reason you haven’t told me his name? Would I know who he is?”
“You would,” I tell him. I need to determine which way Nick swings before I find out if he’s getting to know me just so he can pass on a demo. I can only let myself get so emotionally invested.
He lets the name issue drop, mercifully. “You must meet a lot of famous people.”
“Maybe when I was younger,” I say. “We went to music festivals and concerts all the time. I’ve lived in the same house in Englewood Cliffs my whole life, but I feel like I also partially grew up in Nashville, Memphis, New Orleans, Chicago, Seattle—anywhere that had a hot music scene, you know? I’m lucky, I have met a lot of incredible artists with Dad throughout my life, some of them legends. But something I figured out a few years ago is it’s better not to get to know them. Because if I didn’t get to know them, then I could still enjoy their music, without knowing about their exorbitant demands or careless lifestyles or how much I loved their breakout song until I found out their lead singer was making my dad’s life miserable and was the reason my dad missed my spelling bee or whatever.”
“That’s why I like Where’s Fluffy so much. They’re not like that, not about the whole star trip.”
“Maybe not, and I hope I don’t disillusion you, champ, but Lars L. is a total junkie, Owen O. is a raging alcoholic, and Evan E.’s just plain crazy. I know—my dad tried to sign them up. But Fluffy write great songs, make great music. That’s what’s important, right?”
Nick shoves against my side playfully. “You’re not disillusioning me. You can’t look at the band members and not know that. I mean, have you listened to the lyrics of ‘High Is Better Than Low’? Cuz it’s not about Evan E.’s love of stiletto Manolos.”
Damn, Nick knows designer shoe names. Bad sign.
Nick adds, “But that’s what I love about punk music. It has a sense of humor about itself, doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. It’s kickass funk with a heavy-metal edge, but with a conscience.”
Good recovery.
“Wanna know my secret desire?” I tease.
Nick turns to me and lifts an eyebrow, like an old-time movie star. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t tweeze or wax, but he does have suspiciously beautiful eyebrows. Or maybe I’m just smit. “Of course I want to know,” he says.
“I have no songwriting talent whatsoever, but I would like to be a person who thinks up song titles, especially country music ones.”
“What’s your best one?”
“‘You Stole My Heart and Left It for Roadkill,’” I tell him. “Go ahead, feel free to come up with some lyrics.”
My favorite song title by someone who legitimately thinks up song titles would have to be “Something About What Happens When We Talk,” by Lucinda Williams, the song Mom and Dad are still slow-dancing to on their anniversaries (first date, first kiss, first let’s not even talk about that, engagement, wedding, etc.—yep, they celebrate ’em all), even though they’re way too old and should know better. I’m thinking about that song now, because it’s so easy talking with Nick. I have to suppress every stalker instinct in me not to sing to Nick like Lucinda sings, Conversation with you is like a drug. With Tal, discussion was always two parts confrontation and one part actual talking. I loved that Tal could at least say goodnight, and that he cared about something other than partying, but something about what happened when Tal and I talked was more like he manifesto’d and I listened.
As we approach Seventh Avenue, we both automatically turn south, and I realize Nick and I never discussed where we were going after Park Avenue. It’s like when Nick and I held hands tight at the club earlier as I led him through the crowd to the closet. Somehow we stay together. Times Square beckons us now in all its glory. Somehow our world is alive with possibility.
My cell phone is ringing again and it says Daddy-O and I have to take it, that’s the rule for out-all-night adventures. “Do you mind?” I ask Nick. I feel bad enough I didn’t answer Caroline’s call when Nick asked me not to.