In Real Life (10 page)

So I just kept word-vomiting out the lie. It's like I couldn't stop. “I mean, I couldn't have more platonic feelings for you. You're hardly a dude to me. You might as well be Lo.”

Nick let out a long sigh. “I get it. You don't have to keep saying it over and over.” His voice was still mushy with beer, but it was resigned now. Defeated.

My emphatic insistence that there would never be anything between us was such a knee-jerk reaction, I didn't stop to think of how he would take my flat-out rejection of him. And when I heard that sadness in his voice, and understood it was my fault—well, for a second I considered taking it all back. Apologizing and saying,
Never mind. I lied. I'm sorry.
Because if a lie was making him sad, why not fix that with the truth?

But there was a commotion from his end of the phone, and the opportunity passed.

“Alex is done,” he said. “I mean, he's here. He's going to take me home. I have to go now.”

With everything hanging between us, I didn't know what to say. So I said, “Okay.”

“Can we just—?”

But I didn't let him ask me if we could pretend it never happened. Things were already uncomfortable enough between us.

“Text me when you get home, okay? Let me know you got home all right.”

“Nick! Hurry up!” Alex's yelling was so loud, I could hear it clearly on my end of the phone.

“I will. Um. Bye, Hannah.” And before I could say anything back—tell him good night, give him crap for using my real name, make a dumb joke in a halfhearted effort to cut the weirdness between us—he hung up.

I sat up straight on my bed, blinking into the darkness and trying to process the conversation we'd just had. He was drunk—he was so drunk. His words were slurred, and he had no idea what he was talking about. Me and him together. There was no possible way he'd really meant it. Shooting that idea down right away was the only logical thing to do, the best way to avoid tomorrow's inevitable awkward conversation.

Right?

I looked at the time on my phone: 2:15
A.M.
This was not the time normal people made phone calls to express their feelings. This was the booty call hour. It must have been the booze talking.

I clicked on my incoming texts. Three, and all of them from Nick at various points in the night.

At
11:57: YOU AWAKE, GHOST? THIS PARTY SUCKS. I WISH YOU WERE HERE.

At
1:03: WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO FAR? THIS COUCH NEXT TO ME WOULD BE A MUCH BETTER PLACE FOR YOU TO LIVE.

Then, at
1:41: ME AND YOU. WHAT DO YOU THINK? ASKING FOR A FRIEND.

I stared at the screen of my phone, trying to make sense of any of this. Drunk texts should never be taken seriously. I learned that from being friends with Lo. I had to physically restrain her from texting at parties sometimes, because I knew she'd be telling all her exes nonsense she didn't mean at all.

That meant this, all of this, was nothing I should take seriously. And if it was nothing to take seriously, I shouldn't feel bad about lying to him.

Right?

Sleep was impossible after that. He texted me about fifteen minutes later to tell me he was home, but for the first time in four years, I didn't know what I was supposed to say to him. I replied with a thumbs-up emoji, like I usually did, and I tried to close my eyes, but my mind replayed his texts and our conversation and my reply on an endless loop.

My reply? Who was I kidding. My lie.

It took at least an hour before my mind calmed down enough to get sleepy again. I didn't get a restful sleep, though. I tossed and turned and half-listened for my phone, thinking he might call or text back with something more.

Thinking I might get a chance to take it all back.

The next morning, I knew I needed to say something to him, but I didn't know what. After hours of thinking about it and not being able to concentrate on my homework at all, I decided to go for it and text him.

HOW ARE YOU FEELING THIS MORNING?

There. Totally innocent, but opens a conversation.

I turned my phone over in my hand until he replied about a minute later.

NEVER DRINKING AGAIN, BUT I'M ALIVE.

GOOD. I WAS WORRIED ABOUT YOU.

SORRY FOR CALLING SO LATE.

NO WORRIES. YOU KNOW I DON'T MIND.

THAT'S WHY YOU ARE THE BEST, GHOST.

I frowned at the phone. How was I supposed to respond? Did he want me to say something about what he said? It would be best to get it out of the way, move beyond it, get things back to normal ASAP.

Before I could think about it too much, I typed

I KNOW YOU WERE DRUNK LAST NIGHT AND DIDN'T MEAN WHAT YOU SAID, SO WE CAN FORGET IT HAPPENED, OK?

and hit Send.

Whew.

He didn't reply right away, which was odd because I got his earlier texts almost immediately after sending mine. It took about five minutes before my phone buzzed with a response.

OK
was all he said back.

After that, just like Barstow, it was like it had never happened.

And just like that, I started living a lie.

 

CHAPTER

10

It takes about twenty more minutes, two more drinks for Grace, and three panic attacks for me before it's time for Automatic Friday to take the stage. I wrap my hair up into a bun and then shake it back out about seventy-five times, and I practically chew off my thumbnail. Lo and Grace, in an attempt to distract me, make up dirty stories about almost everyone in the place, and I try with every ounce of self-control I have not to look at the stage, run out the door, or cry about all the ways my most treasured friendship is now ruined.

It's damn near impossible.

My main focus is getting myself out of this situation. I'll watch the band play one song, then I'll tell Grace and Lo I drank too much or ate too much or whatever, and I'll cab it back to our hotel. I don't need to have this girlfriend conversation with Nick in person. And certainly not with her standing right next to us, big boobs all in my face.

Nick and I do everything else online or on our phones. This can happen there, too.

I'm trying to craft the perfect exit strategy when the lights dim and the cheesy pop-punk music shuts off mid-song. The crowd whoops halfheartedly and my phone vibrates in my back pocket.

I look at my text as the band takes the stage. It's from Nick.

I AM SO SORRY GHOST.

Sorry for what? For the weirdness? For Frankie? For keeping her a secret? I shove my phone back into my pocket in disgust, annoyed with the sight of his name on the screen for the first time ever.

My fingers drum my thigh as the lights go up onstage, and I feel a rush of excitement despite myself. Yes, I'm mad at Nick, but this music has been the soundtrack of my life for the past few years, and a thrill rushes through me at the thought of seeing the band perform live. Jordy the Player at the front; I recognize him right away from his tagged pictures on Nick's profile and the band's YouTube videos. He's wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off to showcase the tattoos all over his arms, and a grin spreads over his face as he licks his lips and scans the crowd. He's loving this. There's Oscar with his bass draped over his shoulders, toe tapping the pedal at the end of the stage, '80s hair pointing everywhere. Nick was so right about that. On drums is their new guy, Drew: short, chubby, and not in with the rest of the guys quite yet. Then, on guitar—

“That's Alex.” Grace grips down on my arm so tightly, I think she touches bone. “You didn't tell me Alex was in this band.”

Sure enough, the guy plucking on the guitar isn't Nick. It's Alex, his older brother.

If I hadn't seen Nick already, if I had walked into House of Blues right as the band took the stage, I probably would've thought Alex was Nick. Same build, same height, same brown hair, and he's wearing a trucker hat pulled down low over his forehead, hiding the details of his face in the semi-dark, and a leather motorcycle-style jacket, similar to the one Nick is wearing, hiding the tattoos on his right arm.

But it isn't Nick playing the guitar. It's his brother.

The band launches into one of their faster-paced songs. Despite all the tats and ripped T-shirts onstage, their music is surprisingly mellow. They sound great live, and Jordy's gravelly voice totally pops in this small club. They've slightly changed the arrangement of the song “In My Head,” one of my favorites, just enough to make it different from the recorded version I play in my room on repeat when I'm alone.

But what happened to Nick? Why is Alex onstage in his place?

“They sound killer, don't they?”

Somehow Frankie sidles up next to me. She holds a small tablet in her hand and a huge camera dangles from her neck. She's not looking in my direction, her focus is totally on the tablet as she taps on the screen, but I know she's talking to me because she's pretty much screaming in my ear.

“Yeah.” I shake Grace's hand off my arm and shoot a look to her and Lo, both of whom are staring, confused, at the stage, exactly as I had been a second ago. “So, uh. Where's Nick?”

She places the tablet between her knees and squeezes them tight while she holds up the camera, snapping photos of the band in action. “Oh, he's out doing merch. The usual.” She drops the camera so it hangs from its strap and picks up the tablet again. “Do you mind if I hang out here for a sec? You have a rad view of the stage, and I have so much crap with me tonight.” She scoots in toward the girls. “Hey, I'm Frankie.”

“Uh, this is my sister, Grace, and my best friend Lo.” We're still screaming at each other over the music from the stage.

“Wait. Nick always does merch?” Grace asks Frankie.

But I don't even need to hear her confirmation to know it's true. I think some small, hidden part of me must have known all along.

Nick doesn't play the guitar in Automatic Friday.

Nick sells the T-shirts and sets up the drum kit.

That's what his “sorry” text was for. Not for Frankie or the awkwardness but for another lie. For telling me he was in this band when his brother is the one on the stage.

Without even thinking, I bolt from Frankie and the girls and weave through the people watching the band. Automatic Friday has now moved on to their second song after a loud “How you doing tonight, Vegas?!” from Jordy and an apathetic mumble from the crowd. I push through the people who are paying no attention to Jordy's earnest vocals, and I apologize for knocking into their drinks. I rush up the stairs, through the door, and out to the front of House of Blues, where Nick sits on a folding chair behind the merch booth, a pile of Automatic Friday CDs and Moxie Patrol T-shirts arranged on the table in front of him and a crumpled piece of paper that says
TIPS APPRECIATED! THINK OF US AS BARTENDERS WHO GET YOU SHIRTS INSTEAD OF DRINKS!
taped to the wall behind him.

He stands up when he sees me, but his face falls as soon as we make eye contact. “Ghost.”

“Don't call me that.”

He flinches like I slapped him. “Hannah, please.”

I know I told him not to call me Ghost, but my real name sounds so foreign coming from his mouth. Hearing him call me Hannah hurts almost as much as the lying.

For the first time since he coined my nickname, I don't want him to use it. But I don't want him to use my real name, either. I don't want him to call me anything.

All I want is answers, and then I want to leave Las Vegas and never look back.

 

CHAPTER

11

“Were you
ever
in the band?” I point to the door that leads down to the stage, where “Free Fall,” another one of my favorite Automatic Friday songs, is blasting, Jordy singing my favorite lyrics. But knowing Nick has nothing to do with any of this music makes it seem so far away, like a bad cover version. “Was it always Alex?”

“I am so sorry.” His hands cover his glasses and run their way up to his sloppy hair. “I suck at guitar,” he says. “I'm really terrible. At bass and drums and singing, too. And life.”

“So why did you tell me you were in this band?” I struggle to keep my voice under control, but I can hear it wavering.

“Well, I never
really
told you. I said one time I was going to band practice and you sort of assumed.”

“That's not my fault, Nick. You should have told me.”

“No, it's not your fault. I didn't mean that.” His voice shakes in a way I've never heard before. “I know I should have told you. I'm sorry. I just didn't know what to say.”

“Say, ‘Hey, Hannah, my brother is in a band, not me.' Say, ‘I sell their T-shirts' not ‘I play the guitar.' It's not that difficult. God, no wonder you would never play the guitar for me. Did you laugh at me every time we talked about this? Did you think I was that stupid?”

“Oh my God, no. It's not like that at all. I'm so sorry.” He leans forward, flattening his hands on the merch table “Actually, there's something I've been meaning to—”

I shake my head and put up my hand to stop him. “You know what? No. I don't want to hear whatever it is you have to say right now. Just … don't.”

“Please, I need to—” He must see something in my face that changes his mind, because he gives up mid-sentence and simply says, “There's no good explanation. I'm sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

My heart aches with regret over every choice I've made in the past twenty-four hours as I stare down at the T-shirts on the merch table, including the one Nick sent me that I'd been wearing yesterday. I'm sick over every single choice that led me here, every rule broken, but most of all, I regret letting myself think there could be something between me and Nick if I came here. I'd kept my feelings for him so under control, so locked away, for the past four years. But I have this one moment of weakness, I give up control this one time, and this is what happens.