Nick's Girl

8 | together

"Who's that at the door, Eva?" My mother screeches.
I'm frozen, her shrill voice brings me back to reality.
"No-one. Just the neighbours, mum."

"Neighbours? Why on earth are they round here at this time of night?"

I falter, scrabbling around my brain for an explanation.

"Just... complaining about noise."

"What noise?"

"My records, mum."

When my mother goes quiet in the next room, appeased by my story, I waste no time in ushering Nick inside, indicating him to be quiet with my fingers pressed fiercely to my lips.

When we've reached the safe sanctuary of my room, I crank up the record - just to mask the conversation from my annoying intuitive mother.

"What the hell happened, Nick?"

I say it like a mother to a pestering child.

Nick crumples onto my bed, blood dripping onto his chin. He wipes it away with a guilty smear.

"I..."

"What? For Gods sake, answer me."

I don't quite understand where this anger is routed, and why I sound so incensed with rage. But his face, it shakes me. Deeply. The bright red blood against his angular, tanned face sends fright right through my bones like lightning.
He just sits there; looking somewhere in the corner; avoiding my glare with a lazy, exhausted lilt in his eyes.
I want to shake him, and hug him tightly at the same time.

"She locked me out." His voice is like gravel.

"Who locked you out?"

"My mum. She... said I wasn't allowed to come back."

My temper falls from me in an instant.

"What... did you do?" I encourage quietly, floating down next to him on the bed. His eyes still won't meet mine. I give him time. His words come with reluctance.

"It's not exactly a secret that money's been tight for us. We don't live in the lap of luxury, you know. You've been in my house - perhaps you noticed the lack of a television set."

He breaks; I give him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.

"Anyway, we um, make money where we can. Mum, Dad - when he bothers to show up - Chrissy and Connie, they need more than we've got. So," he stops, swiping more drying blood from his face, which is coming from a burst lip. I run over and pluck some fresh Kleenex from my dresser. As I blot his face - not something that's strange to me, of course - I nod, giving him then go ahead to continue.

"I, um, sort of decided to get resourceful."

I raise my eyebrows at his careful choice of words. Reading between the lines, the words theft, brokering, and fighting spring to mind.

"Oh, Nick..." I bit my lip, my mind spilling with worry.
"Tonight, it was a fight. Didn't end up in my favour. Eva, I don't have a choice," he sighs. I can understand his initial hesitancy now. He didn't want to admit the darkness surrounding his position. He continues:
"My job - if you can even call it a job! - pays next to nothing. The situation got desperate, a few years back, and, Eva believe me, you never want to see those who you care about go without."

I don't say it, but I'm aware of two tears pricking the corner of Nick's eyes. My heart wrenches for him. I keep blotting the blood, rigidly determined just to listen. For his sake.

"I made connections," he explains, collecting himself with drilled-in, masculine, stiff-upper-lipness, "with guys who told me where to go... what to do... how to get things under-the-table and sell them off for profit - even if it cost me a fight or two."

"But you don't have to do that!" I protest.

"How would you know!" he flashes at me curtly, cutting me off with spite.

"You have no clue what it's like having to fend for yourself to get just a scrap of cash. You do live, if you don't mind me saying, Little-Miss-Perfect-Avon-Lady, in a fairly well-to-do little house here."
I gasp, incredulous.
"Now-just-hold-on-a moment!"
There is no way I'm going to be told how it is!

We start squabbling; he flails his arms around, pushing his face up to mine; I scrunch up the tissues, throwing them down, and defending myself with matched conviction. The Doors record on the turntable grows louder, providing a very hostile, slightly crazed backdrop to our shouts.

"You live here, in this goddamn ivory tower!" he demands.

"Oh, stop over-exaggerating! We live in practically the same house, Nick!"

Our words are barely coherent. The heat of our words rises, our words almost spat at each other.

Then he embraces me. Tightly. Our words evaporate like angry mist, as Nick grabs me fiercely; and we freeze, clasping each other in desperation.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, stroking my hair.

"It's alright," I mumble into his shoulder. "It's alright.

It all becomes clear me then, as we sit there, in our bubble. Nick's social pride is a battle. He doesn't want to reveal how desperate his situation is, so he covers it over with a tougher-than-life outward look. He lives on a tightrope, doing it all for the sake of his family, only they don't understand.
I understand. And he understands me, too. He doesn't despise my house, or my job - although he claimed to just then - but rather knows that my demons lie elsewhere.

I know then, in that moment, while The Doors serenade us, that we're together now.

OMG it feels like - and has been! - so long since I last updated! I've been grateful for every Comment, Vote and Read, so thank you all 🖤
I'm sorry for such a long wait, but now I hope a normal schedule will resume. Thank you!
As always, (kind + constructive) Comments and Votes are so appreciated! X