Every Wrong Reason(30)

“Holy shit!”

“Are you okay?” Fiona asked on the other end.

Nick gave me an apologetic wave but didn’t make a move to stand up. “Uh, um, er, yeah.”

Fiona’s voice echoed through the kitchen as I pulled the phone away from my ear. “K, what’s going on?”

I put the cell slowly back to my mouth. “I’ll call you back, Fi. Something came up here.”

“You’d better!” I heard her call, but I pushed end without saying goodbye.

“Was that Fiona?” Nick asked without preamble.

“Yeah.” I took a solid minute to adjust to his presence, and then demanded, “What are you doing here?”

He took another bite of ice cream to hide his smile. “You literally say that every time you see me.”

“You just… I’m just… Nick!”

He grinned at me and I was surprised to see his easy expression. His beard had been trimmed neatly, back to just barely there and his hair had been styled away from his face. I noticed his nice dark blue oxford and black dress pants and wondered what that was about. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms and I swallowed in a desperate attempt to stop staring at his tanned skin and lean muscle.

It was a shock to see him, but even more so to find him so attractive. It felt like I hadn’t seen him in years or like maybe I’d never seen him before. My entire body reacted, took notice of every angular cut to his body and unique characteristic to his face.

When was the last time I had looked at him like this?

When was the last time I had seen him?

“Kate, you okay?”

I cleared my throat and nodded curtly. “I’m fine. Just, you know, surprised to see you.”

He tilted his head toward the kitchen window. “Mr. Kirkpatrick asked to borrow my jack. I swung over to get it to him.”

“You could have called me. I could have walked it next door.” He raised one eyebrow and I found myself smiling. “Okay, point taken.”

“It only took a minute anyway.”

“And the ice cream?”

“I skipped lunch and somebody was taunting me yesterday with texts about Ruby’s. I’m starving. I was actually looking for something more substantial.”

I felt a blush stain my cheeks. “I’ve been meaning to go to the store.”

He watched me for a minute. I didn’t know what he was looking for or I would have tried to hide it from him. His silence grew awkward so I turned toward my discarded bags, deciding I should put everything away before I forgot.

“Do you have a gig tonight?” I kept my eyes on my task, hoping to avoid his forearms and the silly things they did to my insides.

He didn’t answer right away and it was just on the tip of my tongue to ask him to leave if he wasn’t going to talk to me when he said, “No, not tonight.”

“Then what’s with the clothes?”

“The what?”

I glanced over at him and our gazes locked for a moment before I tore mine away. “You look nice. I just thought… I thought you might have somewhere to be tonight. It’s Friday.”

I felt his smile from across the room, even though I wouldn’t look at him. “I know it’s Friday.”

“Well, you usually have gigs on Fridays.”

“Not every Friday.”

Irritation bubbled through me. “You’re right; sometimes they’re on Saturdays instead.”

He pushed back the stool and stood up. I heard him clattering around as he took his dish to the sink and washed it out. Leaning over, I noticed that he’d already washed the dishes I’d left in the sink. They sat on the drying rack perfectly clean. “I, uh, I’m taking a little break from the band. You know, while I figure shit out.”

My heart tripped in my chest. That was something I had wanted to hear for a long time. I had never wanted him to quit music entirely. I knew he couldn’t. And I also knew he shouldn’t. He was too good. And it was too vital to who he was as a human.

I never wanted to crush his dreams.

But I had also wondered if maybe his dreams needed to change. He had been tired of constant shows that paid little and got him nowhere. He had been exhausted from feeling like a failure and never getting to the place he wanted to be.

When we first started dating his music gave him life, it made him come alive. After his shows, it was like he was riding a high, completely buzzing with the energy that performing gave him.

But lately he had come home angry and irritable. Gigs were more likely to suck the joy completely out of him than give him that same rush of adrenaline and fulfillment.

He hated it when I pointed that out. He hated that I didn’t believe in him… that I didn’t think he could make it.

What he didn’t realize was that it wasn’t that I didn’t think he was good enough, I saw that he had started to think that he wasn’t good enough.

And it killed me as much as it killed him.

I stopped fiddling with my bags and set them down on our kitchen table with a long sigh. “You really don’t have a show?”

He turned around and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I really don’t have a show.”

“Oh.” I tried not to stare at his clothes. He worked part time for a moving company, so he never would wear nice clothes to work.