“Or stupid,” I laughed.
His expression straightened, turning serious with his sentiment, “Well, you’re definitely not that.”
My stomach fluttered unexpectedly. I hadn’t been anticipating such a sweet compliment. “Thank you,” I told him. “Again.”
He moved toward the door, offering me a small wave as he pulled his black-framed glasses from his pocket. “Any time. I mean that. Any time you need to talk, I’m just a few doors down.”
I was too flustered to respond, so I nodded slowly and pressed my lips together to keep from smiling too big.
He disappeared through the doorframe and I stood there for a long time after, just staring at the blank space. I needed to prep for my next class, but I couldn’t get over Eli and his surprising friendship.
I hadn’t been open with anyone that wasn’t Kara in a long time. And I hadn’t had a man’s opinion in my life for longer than that.
Nick didn’t count since he rarely gave his.
Neither did my dad or brother since I never listened to theirs.
And not only had Eli been nice… but he’d understood too.
He hadn’t judged me. He hadn’t dismissed my feelings or made me feel bad for having them. He’d been through what I had and promised it would get better.
I held those words close to my broken heart. I let them take root in my chest and bloom with promise.
I needed it to get better. I needed to know I could survive this.
Because right now… right now leaving Nick… healing from our brokenness… moving on with my life…
It all felt impossible.
Chapter Five
12. We never talk anymore.
Friday night used to be the best night of the week. Once upon a time… before my age started skirting thirty and responsibility became more important than tequila shots and dancing the night away.
Also, since when did hangovers evolve into the bubonic plague? In our younger years, Nick and I could walk the thin line between alcohol poisoning and passing out in a friend’s bushes, then wake up the next day refreshed and ready to do it all over again.
Now two beers were enough to land me on my ass for the rest of the weekend with a nasty headache and Exorcist-style puking.
Nick wasn’t like me, though. He could still party unapologetically like he was at his bachelor party every single night. Which worked well for him.
He was in a band. A band.
But not the Backstreet Boys. Nick was the farthest thing from a Backstreet Boy. Thank god.
He had been named Nick Carter before the crooning boy band member had ever made the name famous.
Nick hated that he shared his name with someone else. I loved it. Not because I had a thing for boy bands. But because I could give him an endless hard time about it.
Come on. It never got old.
Plus, I could sing I Want it That Way and pretend like it was just to get under his skin.
At the age of thirty, my husband still hadn’t given up his dreams of becoming the next big thing.
Our entire marriage had been centered around his big break, the big break that never came. Our weekends were booked with gigs and late nights at seedy venues. His college degree that he’d earned with honors was all but forgotten in his pursuit of happiness.
He was good at it. I would never claim otherwise. My husband could sing and play guitar and rock out on stage as if he belonged on the radio and in stadiums surrounded by hundreds of thousands of fans. He was something to see on stage. I was transfixed from the very first moment I saw him up there. He never failed to make me fall in love with him every time he took the stage and opened his mouth.
But the music industry was not a fair place. He knew that more than anyone else.