3

Nick


Three days later, I find Dempsey’s card in the pocket of some jeans I forgot to throw in the wash. Normally that wouldn’t be possible because Magda is a sorceress when it comes to taking care of my shit, but she’s on vacation, gone to Minnesota to see her new grandkid. I told her I’d be fine. And…I’m fine. Ish. Might’ve eaten pork rinds and cheap beer for dinner more than once, but it happens to all of us.

Probably not Dempsey Lawrence, though. That woman seems like she’s got her shit together in a serious way. Like in a kale-eating, yoga-doing, retirement-fund-having kinda way. I wonder if she has glasses. I like girls with glasses. Maybe she’d wear them when she was making salmon or quinoa or some shit that definitely isn’t pork rinds for dinner.

I shove some crap off one of the chairs in my bedroom and pick a tennis ball out of a basket beside it. Sometimes people think it’s some sort of design statement that I have baskets and bowls and trays of balls and other knickknacks around my house. It’s not. I need something to do with my hands, and playing with balls and cubes and fidget spinners, or hell, this is probably some kind of blasphemy but I’ve even got some rosaries—those babies are fantastic for fidgeting. Do nuns have ADD or are they all too busy with Jesus? And how weird is it that nuns marry Jesus? Like, how is that even possible? I thought Christians weren’t so keen on that whole marrying more than one person thing—polygamy, that’s it—but Jesus has like a million wives? Doesn’t seem fair at all.

I could sit, but that’s a no-go right now, so I take a lap around my room, which is littered with so much stuff I have to dodge piles of god-knows-what.

Magda’s gonna be wandering around the house tsking so hard when she gets back. But at least this happy accident gives me an excuse to give Miss Dempsey Lawrence a call. Eh, more like Ms.—wait, is she married? I didn’t notice a ring, but I wasn’t looking. I guess I should come up with an alibi for why I’m calling. Wait, that’s not right. A cover story. That’s what I need. Alibis are what your buddies give you when you’ve killed someone. And maybe what some other guy’s buddies would give him if he cheated, but no fucking way is that working around these here parts. Teague’s got a thing. We might be rock stars, and up until about a year ago we might’ve all been fucking around kind of a lot, but one thing we weren’t doing is cheating. Because Teague’s our friend and his dad cheating on his mom fucked up their family pretty good back in the day, so it’s an absolutely-not around here.

Teague. I should call him. And the other guys. But I’ve been avoiding them. Not that they’ve noticed, because they all have better things to do which is part of why I’m avoiding them. I don’t need to hear about that. But I do need to hear Dempsey Lawrence’s no-nonsense voice from the other day.

Need might be a strong word, but I’m gonna go with it because I’m not the one who’s good with words. That’s Zane. But I am good at putting myself out there and not too worried about making a fool of myself. Which was useful in the early days of the band and in getting my friends laid. And in getting me and Benji more broken bones than is probably advisable over a lifetime. But yeah, I don’t need an excuse to call Dempsey. I’ll just call her and ask her out. And if she says no, well, then she does. I’ll find another redhead to fuck who could maybe talk sexy about 401ks and shit.

I dial her up, punching the numbers on my cell, and it rings twice before someone picks up.

“Dempsey Lawrence, how can I help you?”

Right. This must be her work number.

“It’s Nick Fischer from the other day. We both did the thing at the high school. I called a kid a piece of shit.”

Way to go, Fischer. That’s probably not the way to a girl’s heart. Women like it when you’re nice to babies. They go all googly-eyed over it. Whatever, I’m awesome with kids.

Dempsey laughs, though, and even though I didn’t get to see her laugh when she was doing her talk, I can picture it, and she looks real cute. “Uh, yes, I know who you are. That was rather memorable. How can I help you? Are you looking for a new financial consultant? Or wanting an audit on your existing arrangements to double-check that your current consultant is doing their job?”

I toss the tennis ball up toward the ceiling. I used to have baseballs and lacrosse balls and golf balls and stuff, but Magda switched them all to tennis balls and fucking ping-pong balls. I guess I break less shit this way? And of course I catch it. Once Benji and I went like six hours tossing a ball back and forth without dropping it, but then Teague wanted to play and he bobbled the fucker, let it fall. We were super-mad, but we didn’t do anything about it because he could squash us both like bugs and not break a sweat.

“No, no, my guy is fine. He’s cool, actually. And from that talk you gave, I bet you’re great at your job, but also I’m assuming you don’t date your clients, right?”

“No, absolutely not. That would be incredibly unethical.” She sounds insulted that I would even ask, and it makes me like her more. LA is messed up and there is all kinds of shit going down that shouldn’t be, but Dempsey seems like one of the good ones. The diamonds in the rough, the wheat from the chaff—what the hell is chaff anyway? I’ll google it later. I’ve got a woman to ask out.

“That’s what I thought. So, yeah, you can’t work for me because I’d like to take you out sometime. Where do you live? I travel a lot with the band, so odds are I’ll be nearby in the next few months. Or if I’m not, I sleep like a rock on planes. Travel doesn’t bother me at all.”

There’s a beat, and I hope she’s not going to hang up on me. I didn’t say anything offensive. Not yet, anyway. And she’s seen me in action. She’s gotta know it’s coming sooner or later, what with the calling a high schooler a piece of shit and all. But maybe she could hold off on deciding I’m a jackass. Maybe I’ll be able to get her to laugh so much it won’t really matter. Some women like funny guys, right? But so far, it hasn’t mattered enough. I can get laid readily, but dating someone’s a lot harder. I’m a go-to guy for fun times, but not serious shit. But I could be? I think?

“I…I live in LA.”

In LA? Then why didn’t she just come to the school to give her talk? Maybe she was traveling somewhere else and couldn’t make it back in time? That room she skyped in from did kind of look like a hotel. But whatever, that’s great news.

“Cool, I’m here for the next few weeks. I know a bunch of spots around, but I’m not picky. Let me know if there’s someplace you’ve always wanted to go and I’ll get us in.”

Except Conrad’s because I totally got banned for life. So anywhere but there. And maybe even there, if I asked really nicely?

I heard about this guy who once accidentally trashed a hotel room by leaving sausage or pepperoni or some other processed meat product on a windowsill and seagulls came to eat it, and they let him back into that hotel. After like twenty years or something, but still. What’s the statute of limitations on stealing—borrowing—an accordion? Wait, that’s not right. Statute of limitations is how long after a crime’s been committed you can still get in trouble for it. I already got in trouble for stealing—borrowing—Lawrence Welk’s accordion, so that doesn’t matter. I bet Christian would know what I mean. Or Jordan. Yeah, Jordan would know because she’s a hotshot lawyer lady. But Benji still won’t give me her phone number. Does he think I’m going to embarrass him in front of his fancy badass attorney girlfriend? To be fair, I might. But—

“That’s really sweet of you, but I don’t think so.”

Whoa, what? Did I just get rejected? It happens sometimes, but not a lot. And way more from other famous people than from civilians. Even if girls aren’t really interested in me, they at least want to go out on a date to say they’ve been out with a rock star. What the hell?

“You seriously don’t want to go on a date with me?”

There’s a huff of a laugh on the other end, and for some reason, I can see Dempsey looking to the sky with those brown eyes of hers and shaking her head. Maybe I could charm her into it? I can be charming. Sometimes. To some people.

“We don’t have to go anywhere fancy. I like In-N-Out as much as the next guy. Maybe more. I mean, what’s not to like about a place where you can order stuff Animal Style? Or I like the beach. Do you like the beach?”

Maybe the beach isn’t a great idea. Large bodies of water and really poor impulse control don’t mix super-well, and I usually end up injured and/or making an ass of myself. Not that there isn’t the potential for either of those things in any place at any time. What can I say? I have a talent.

“Or, hey, I just got a new car. Want to go for a drive? It’s a sweet ride, and I haven’t put like any miles on it. Do you like Vegas? I fucking love Vegas. We could drive there.”

Hmm, there might be a couple of hotels there that would rather not have me back, but surely someone will take me? I like to gamble, and I have pretty deep pockets, even though my financial planner basically gives me an allowance when I go. That’s cool. I don’t mind getting cut off at some point since it means I don’t have to feel like a total asshole in the morning.

“Do you always talk this much?” Dempsey sounds kind of… Impressed isn’t the right word, because there’s definitely an element of she’s staring but maybe because I’m a car wreck and she can’t look away, not because she’s lusting over me and my hot bod or my sweet ride or the sick time I could show her pretty much anywhere but especially Vegas.

“Yes.”

No sense in lying, because it’s not like it’s something I can control. I mean, I can. If I really have to. Like, in court or something. But it’s hard and I don’t like to, and it kind of feels like I’m suffocating if I try to slow down my brain or keep the words inside. They just pile up, up, up, until I can’t breathe. So, yeah, I can shut my pie hole if I really, really have to even if it makes me feel like I’m holding my breath underwater. But most of the time, do I talk this much? …Yes, yes I do.

She laughs. It doesn’t sound mean, though.

“I do appreciate an honest man.”

“So is that a yes? We’re road-tripping to Vegas this weekend? I can make some calls. Well, texts, because who talks on the phone anymore? Except I guess I’m talking to you. But I don’t usually. It’s way easier to text. Do you text? Or is this your work number? Like a landline? Do you have a cell number where I could text you? Although it’s kind of fun talking to you. Maybe the phone is better.”

“Whoa, there, cowboy. I can’t go to Vegas this weekend. But I’m flattered by the invitation.”

She could be blowing me off, but her voice sounds like she’s still smiling. It’s weird how you can tell that, right? Without seeing a person? But you can, sometimes. And I like that I can tell with Dempsey.

“Are you busy? Of course you’re busy. You’re a gorgeous girl and smart, and you make a good living. No kidding you’re busy this weekend. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that of course you’d be free. You seem like the kind of girl who makes plans. Do you have a planner? My sister’s crazy about that stuff. Spends hours putting washi and stickers in her bullet journal, which always kind of sounds to me like it’s a hit list. If you met my sister, you’d think that was hilarious, because she’s basically a human dumpling. She’s adorable. Which would probably make a great cover for a hit man? Hit woman? I don’t know. Assassin. Yeah, that’s better. Do you have siblings?”

Dempsey laughs again. Maybe she didn’t believe me that I’m always like this and thinks that this is me being nervous. I’m not nervous. I hope she says yes, but if she doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world and I’m not going to be embarrassed about it.

“Do you mind if I answer you in bullet points?”

“Only if you’re an assassin.”

She laughs again, and I like the sound of it. Like how it feels to get her to laugh. But of course it makes me happy. I fucking love attention. It lights me up inside when eyes and ears and focus are on me. Usually the more, the better, but the weight of Dempsey’s interest is off the charts somehow.

It’s kinda weird since I’ve never actually met her? Not in person, anyway. Usually I have to know someone better before they have that effect on me. But her attention is heavier, pushes against me harder in a way that makes me feel seen, heard, focused on. It’s like it doesn’t follow the rules of gravity or whatever. Was that the one with the apple? I could use an apple. With peanut butter. I hope Magda got the chunky kind. I like both, but I eat the chunky a lot faster. It’s usually the one I run out of first. Did I put it on the grocery list? Probably not. Maybe I should go down to the kitchen and check.

“First, I’m not busy, but I appreciate the compliments. Second, I do have a planner, but it’s pretty bare bones. I color-code my pens for different activities, but that’s about it. Third, I’m sure cute people do make great assassins because no one expects to get taken out by a Cabbage Patch doll. And fourth, I do not have siblings. I’m an only child.”

“I have no idea what that would be like. I’m one of nine. Smack in the middle, too.”

Dempsey


No wonder the guy talks so much. He probably never had the chance to get a word in edgewise, what with eleven people in the house. It should bug me, the sheer volume of words spilling out of his mouth. Some people go on and on about themselves, and it’s tiresome. But listening to Nick jabber on is…pleasant. Easy. He said he’s always like this, and at first I thought he must be joking, but now I think it’s true. For some odd reason, that pokes something in me that’s usually pretty well buried.

I do actually wish I could go out with him.

What would it be like, to sit outside at a trendy restaurant with a fancy cocktail and listen to him follow his own wild conversation? He’s like a needle, Nick is, and he’d pull me behind him as though I were thread. I haven’t wished for that in so long, and the stab of it is keen. Thankfully, the impulse doesn’t last.

I remember what happens too well for that kind of fantasy to survive the light of day. It feels a whole lot like walls closing in on me, everything getting black, overwhelming nausea, not being able to breathe, feeling like I’m going to die, and if I’m lucky, I pass out. If I’m not…

Nick is reciting the names, ages, and familial status of his siblings, and that, too, manages to find its way under the thick hide I’ve developed against these things. Family. I used to have one of those. Though I’m better off without mine, it sounds like Nick genuinely enjoys his. They probably have holidays together. I bet it’s cute, and while I could probably dream up a whole scenario involving Nick in an ugly holiday sweater, I shouldn’t. Imagining partaking in family celebrations is not something I should ever allow myself to fantasize about. I ought to shrug it off, shrug him off.

Looking at the clock, I really do need to get prepped for my next client call, though I’m disappointed to be letting go of Nick and his constant stream of narration. What I should do is end once and for all this farce that we will ever be going out on a date, that he has any chance in hell of having a filthy weekend in Las Vegas with me anytime ever. But selfishly, oh-so-selfishly, I don’t want to? That is wildly and cruelly unfair, however. So despite being all in my wants, I decide to let him down gently. As gently as I think I can and still make an impression on this bouncy ball of a person at any rate.

“I guess our dogs don’t technically count as siblings, but we’ve always had them. At least two, sometimes three or four because my parents like to get a new puppy when the oldest dog is on the downslope, if you know what I mean, because I don’t think they’d be able to get a new one right after the oldest one died. So, yeah, rotating cast of English bulldogs. They’re ugly little fuckers, but sturdy enough to survive nine kids. So, what’re you gonna do, amirite? Do you have any pets?”

Wow. I wonder if he actually remembers the answers to any of the questions he asks? But I’ll just pretend that he does. Because I like Nick, and it will be nice to think of him thinking of me and my answers to his twenty—no, that’s definitely a lowball, more like fifty—questions.

“No, I don’t have any pets. I’m a dog person, but having a dog doesn’t really work with my life. I’d feel bad about it. Do you have any?”

No, Dempsey. You are supposed to be getting off the phone with this guy, not asking him questions and getting to know him better. Tormenting yourself with more things you can’t have. But before I can backpedal, Nick’s answering, because of course he is. There’s a pretty obvious lack of a filter between his brain and his mouth, so I can’t imagine it ever takes him long to answer questions.

“Oh, yeah. Bulldog like my folks. Just the one, though. Hey, Fiona. C’mere, princess. Say hi to Dempsey. Come on, say hi!”

His voice is all sweet, cutesy baby talk. It should make me want to hurl because baby talk can do that to a person, but there’s a bark on the other end, and then Nick’s telling Fiona what a good girl she is. Sweet. But I really shouldn’t get caught up in picturing Nick giving Princess Fiona head scritches or belly rubs. I have to go. It’s better to go.

“It’s nice to meet you, Fiona. And good to talk to you, Nick, but I’ve got to go. I have a client in a few minutes, and I need to prepare.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Of course.”

More of Nick loving on his dog, and I suddenly want a fuzzball of my own very badly. A dog would be such good company—a constant companion, another living, breathing thing in my empty house. But I’ve been through this before. A dog is…not a good fit for me. For how I live. But maybe I could get one to visit? Maybe I can get Oona to bring Fillmore next time she’s here. Yes, I’ll ask, and she’ll do it because I make her feel guilty. Not on purpose, but by existing. Which is less than awesome.

And what I should say to Nick is that, while it’s been good talking to him, he needn’t call again. I’m never going to say yes, so he shouldn’t waste his time. I should be kind but firm, the same way I am with my wayward clients. I don’t get the feeling that Nick is one of those douchey guys who insults women who turn him down. He’s just got too many other things to do, people to see, tangents to go off on. But before I can, he speaks again.

“So, hey, I know Vegas this weekend is a no-go and I won’t keep you, but can I call you some other time? I like you.”

Oh. When’s the last time someone called me because they liked me? Not that my clients dislike me, but I provide them with a service. That’s why they speak to me. If our business relationship ended, so would our contact, and that’s fine. That’s how I like it. Vivian is the reverse. She speaks to me because I pay her. That’s what therapists do. And while Oona may very well like me—and I hope she does—she also feels responsible for me. She feels as though she’s atoning for past neglect by being here for me now. Not that she neglected me when I was her client, but what could she do when my parents fired her? She had no choice, and yet she still feels as though what happened was her fault. Which makes me an item on her calendar, I know for certain. That in and of itself doesn’t mean it’s something she doesn’t want to do, but it’s still—I’m still—an obligation.

So it’s at least understandable, if not excusable, when I say, “Yeah, you can call me again sometime.”