In Real Life (8 page)

“I don't know if I can do this,” I say into Lo's ear. “I'm freaking out over here. What if I don't recognize him?”

“Hannah, you have a million pictures of him on your phone. You've video-chatted with him. Don't be ridiculous. You're going to recognize him.”

She's right—I know she is. But I need to look at a picture of him, just in case. My hand shakes at the thought of real-life Nick, though, and I have a hard time controlling my phone. I somehow manage to sort through my saved pictures until I find one of my favorites. He texted it to me a couple of months ago, when Alex found a stray dog wandering around the skate park and they brought him home. In the picture, Nick holds the dog they named Bobo—a schnauzer mix with a majestic mustache—close to his face as he licks Nick's cheek. The picture catches Nick's surprised laughter, and I can imagine the sound of his laugh in my ear—full and loud and sudden—when I look at it. His laugh always sounds like he's having a much better time than anyone else in the room, and it makes me want to join in as soon as I hear it. In this picture, his light brown hair is spiked up in a faux hawk and his black glasses are sort of slipping down his nose, his eyes are crinkled on the side just enough, and he has this huge, genuine smile on his face. He's absolutely beaming. I love this picture because it's totally natural. I know this is how Nick looks when no one is watching.

Lo peeks over my shoulder at the image on my phone, then looks at me, her mouth hanging slightly open.

“How have you not driven to Vegas and jumped his bones before now?”

“I don't know, okay? It's seriously not like that with us.”

“Let me see more pictures,” she says. “You know, so I can help you spot him.” I hand her my phone so she can scroll through the pictures herself. “Not that we'll have any problem finding the hottest guy in the room. Jeez, Hannah. I don't know why you don't go for guys like this at home. Your usual guys are so boring.”

“Fine. I get it. I'm stupid.”

“I'm not saying you're stupid. I'm saying you better not mess this up tonight.” She hands back my phone. “Let's find a place to strategize. It looks like we have about thirty minutes until the show starts.”

We push our way through the small groups of people gathered so far. Grace always says most people don't care about the opening bands, and these kinds of things don't get packed until closer to when the opening act starts. I wonder if these people here are friends of Nick's and of his band. It's a bit dark for me to recognize anyone from the pictures I've seen, but I search the faces anyway.

“Is he here?” Lo asks as we move through the tiny crowd.

“I don't see him.” I try to play it cool, but the thought of seeing Nick for the first time,
really
seeing him, has me so undone, I don't think I can actually get words out. I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans again and turn to face her.

Clearly my nerves are written all over my face, because Lo grabs my shoulders and pulls me close. “You can do this,” she says. “It's obvious how he feels about you. Seeing you here will absolutely make his life. You know that.”

Somewhere in the back of my head, I do know that. In the place where I keep our whispered late-night phone conversations; all the secrets he's shared with me, like the constant tensions with his brother; and the softness in his voice when he calls me Ghost. I try to hold on to these things I know, but the part of my brain that wants to tell me what a mess I am won't shut up.
You are wrong, Hannah,
it says.
He's going to be embarrassed. You are ruining everything. Leave now before you eff things up.

I try to smile at Lo.

“You look like you're in pain,” Grace says as she squeezes up behind Lo, drink in her hand. “Nick's not going to want to make out with you if you look like you're about to throw up on his shoes.” She jerks her head down to the stage area, where there's an empty space off to the side.

The three of us maneuver through the small crowd and gather in a circle.

“Okay,” Grace says. “We need a plan of action.”

“I think it's important you see him before he sees you,” Lo says. “That way you won't be taken by surprise.”

I nod, still unable to talk.

“That's why this spot is perfect.” Grace sucks up a long sip of her drink. “We're sort of in the corner, so we can see everyone. Ideal for spying.”

“And we have a good view of all the hot messes,” Lo says. “Look at that guy over there. I hate when guys think basketball shorts are acceptable attire for going out in public. Dude, you look like you're in pajamas. Put on some real pants, por favor.”

I tune out their color commentary as I scan the stage and the crowd. Guys wander across the stage to set up the equipment for the first band, which has to be Automatic Friday. I don't recognize any of them at first, but then a dark-haired guy walks out with a guitar, and I know right away who he is. I would know even without the horrible '80s hair.

“That guy!” I whisper-yell, and point to the stage. “That's Oscar. He's Nick's best friend.”

“Which one?” Lo asks at the same time Grace says, “The one in the Volcom shirt?”

“Yup. Oscar Patel. He plays bass. He speaks three languages. He has a cat named Mando. He's terrified of heights.” I could rattle off the other random Oscar trivia I've acquired through Nick over the years, but I'm overcome by the large stone in my belly again. Oscar is here, right in front of me. That means Nick is in this room. Somewhere. I try to take a deep breath, but I choke on it and end up coughing for several seconds before I can breathe again.

Lo smacks her open palm on my back. “You're a mess.”

“So if Oscar is here, then Nick is here somewhere. He has to be.” Grace takes another big drink and shares it with Lo as I keep searching the crowd. Will he be wearing a hat? Will he be wearing his lucky vintage Rage Against the Machine T-shirt? Will he have his glasses on tonight? Will he look the same in person as he does in all the pictures he's sent me?

“I think that's him!” Lo squeals, and I follow her finger across the room. Now on the stage, behind the drum kit, is Nick. Rage T-shirt with a hoodie and a leather jacket layered over it. Brown hair messy and sticking up everywhere, exactly like in his pictures. Glasses. Look of concentration as he works hard to set up something or other on the drum kit.

It's him. In real life.

The world around me screeches to a halt, and my mouth falls open. I tried to prepare myself, and even hoped a little, for the possibility he might not be as cute in person as he is in his pictures. But the thing is, it's the opposite. He's even better, completely gorgeous with his mouth twisted up as he screws the cymbal thing onto its stand.

Nick. Right here. Four years of friendship and online chats and late-night phone calls, and here he is, across the room from me, more real than he's ever been.

“Stop staring and go say something to him,” Lo says.

“There's a barricade in front of the stage,” I say. “I can't—”

Grace leans over and pushes me on the shoulder. “It's not a brick wall. He can still see you. Go,” she says. “Go now, before the show starts.”

I don't know if I can make my legs move, because that negative voice in my head is back and louder than ever. What if he doesn't care? What if he's mad I'm here? But I have to see him. I have to talk to him. After all this time, at the very least, I need to stop being a ghost.

“Here we go,” I mumble, and start toward the stage. I figure I'll go up to the barricade and call his name and then … see what happens. Maybe he'll pick me up and twirl me around. Maybe he'll even kiss me right then and there. I can't keep a smile off my face at the thought of it.

Lo and Grace shout out encouragement, and I will one foot in front of the other until I'm almost there, and then—…

And then a girl walks out from backstage. A tiny girl with red hair. Not ginger red, but red like a crayon, dyed herself, probably, in some sink or bathtub like Grace this morning. Tight jeans, a loose T-shirt—but not so loose that you can't see her huge boobs—she looks the part of hipster or groupie or
oh, I'm with the band
girl. And this ridiculously cool-looking tiny girl with her red hair, she walks up behind Nick and she wraps her arms around his waist. Then she leans forward and kisses him on the neck. And right as she does this, he smiles, probably at the weight of her leaning on his back and the brush of her lips on his skin. And as he smiles, he looks up, straight into the crowd. Right at me, standing there at the edge of the barricade like an idiot, mouth open in horror as I realize that Nick has a girlfriend.

 

CHAPTER

8

Eyes locked, Nick and I stare at each other for several seconds or hours or eternities before either of us makes a move.

Actually, it's the girlfriend who breaks the gaping silence.

“Oh my God, is that Hannah?” She untangles her arms from Nick's waist and scurries to the edge of the stage, where she bends down and gets right in my face. “Hannah! You're here! I've heard so much about you!” She hops off the stage and pulls me into a tight hug over the barricade. “It's awesome to meet you. I'm so excited!”

I stand there and let this tiny girl who knows my name hug me because I don't know what else to do, but my arms dangle limply by my side and I'm still staring at Nick, who looks as shocked and confused as I feel.

The girlfriend pulls away, but she doesn't stop talking. “I am so sorry. How rude am I? I'm Frankie, Nick's girlfriend.”

I fight the urge to throw up in my mouth when she says it out loud. If there had been any doubt about my feelings for Nick, the fact that meeting his girlfriend is making me want to empty the contents of my stomach pretty much cements that.

“Nick didn't tell me you were going to be here.” She looks back at Nick, and I guess she sees the shock on his face that matches mine, so she finally catches on. “Oh snap, was this a surprise? Yay! I love surprises!” She pulls me in a hug again—freaking A—and jumps up and down. I still don't hug back. This time I swivel my head toward Lo and Grace, and I find them staring at us, mouths agape. There's hardly a closed mouth in this place.

“This is killer,” Frankie cheers. “I'm so happy you're here.”

I'm trying to make sense of what is happening, but the inside of my mind is like a bounce house, thoughts flying everywhere. Who? What? By this point, Nick has walked to the edge of the stage, but he's still silent, his eyes open wide in shock and his mouth opening and closing like a caught fish thrown on the deck of a boat.

Finally, Frankie gives me back my personal space. “Nick, I can finish setting up the drums. You two need to talk!” She holds her hand up to him and he pulls her back onstage, where she jumpy-claps, kisses him on the cheek, and walks back to the drum kit to keep doing whatever it was Nick had been in the middle of.

That leaves me and Nick alone, still gaping at each other. He's up on the stage, towering over me, so he jumps down so we're facing each other.

He's right here. Right in front of me. After all this time.

And he has a girlfriend.

“Ghost,” he says, his voice sounding so very much the same, like it always has in my ear during our long conversations. But so different, too, without the phone or computer humming between us. I consider digging in my pocket and showing him the penny, just to do something, to say something. But before I have a chance to make a move, he hops the barricade, pulls me into him, and wraps his arms around me.

I'm fighting anger and disappointment and denial and a deep, aching sadness, but as soon as Nick touches me for the first time, all those feelings disappear somewhere and I'm left with how ridiculously perfect he looks and how seeing him in real life is the answer to so many questions I never realized I'd been asking myself. I lean my head into his shoulder and wrap my hands tightly around his back, feeling him for the first time. The leather of his jacket is soft under my fingers, and he smells like hair product and some clean-guy smell. He is real. A real person in my arms, and not just a voice on the phone or a name on the screen. “Hi,” I say into his jacket.

I want to stay here in his arms all day, and from the firmness of his hands on my back, pulling me close, I get the impression he wouldn't mind that one bit. I'm surprised when he pulls away, and he shifts around uncomfortably when I tilt my head up at him again.

“What are you doing here?” He sounds incredulous and his voice is low, but it's not like anyone is around us, and even if they are, they wouldn't be able to hear over the loud music pumping through the room.

I shrug, and I bullshit. “Grace got this opportunity to come out here for her internship.” Lies come out even easier now than they did with the bouncer outside. “It was a last-minute thing, and…” Without thinking, I reach out for his hand to squeeze it, but the second we make contact, we both pull away quickly. I look at my hand. I'm not used to having this kind of contact with him while we talk, and I can't handle it. He's too real. So real, it hurts. “… I thought I'd surprise you.”

Nick's face twists up, and he runs his hand through the side of his hair, messing it up even more. The air between us shifts, and the warmth and comfort are replaced by a chilly polar vortex. Weird. While just a minute ago, hugging him and reaching for his hand felt like the most natural thing in the world, like breathing or talking, now there's something cold between us, making that breathing a struggle or that talking muffled and difficult. What changed?

“Um.” I start blabbering in hopes of getting us back to where we'd been a minute ago. “I'm excited to see the band.” I smile, but that makes him grimace for some reason, and the weirdness becomes blocks of ice stacking up like a frozen wall. “And, uh, Frankie seems nice.” “Nice” is one word for her. “Insane” is another. “Huge freaking unwelcome surprise” is also a solid choice. “How long have you, uh—?”