When I stepped into the gate and looked around, I realized I knew right where I was. LAX was starting to feel familiar to me. I’d flown there in January for Hollywood Week, then again in February for the Idol semifinals. Before that, I’d been far from an experienced traveler. I hadn’t grown up in the kind of family that took vacations. After my mom died, it was just Dad and me, and he wasn’t big on traveling. We went on road trips now and then - the kind where we’d stop at antique shops in small towns and take pictures of random roadside attractions, like the World’s Largest Catsup Bottle in Collinsville or the giant statue of Superman in Metropolis - but we never really made it out of the Midwest. Believe it or not, I’d never even been on a plane until I was twenty and flew to Florida with some college friends for spring break. So it was pretty weird to think I had flown halfway across the country three times in five months.
Despite my best efforts to dawdle, the gate was still pretty crowded. I wandered around, wondering how in the world I was supposed to find my driver. It turned out to be a lot easier than I’d thought - I suddenly spotted a man in a dark uniform, holding up a sign with my name on it. Seriously, just like in a movie! He looked up and saw me at the same time I saw him, we made eye contact, and I hurried over, smiling in relief. “Hi!” I said brightly. “I’m Cary.”
“Right on time,” said the driver, smiling back. “Almost never happens here. Do you have checked luggage?”
“Lots,” I replied apologetically. I hadn’t had a clue what to pack for a two-month tour, so I’d pretty much packed it all. We made our way to baggage claim, where we stood around for a long time, waiting for all the luggage from my flight to make it onto the carousel. Finally, the bags started tumbling out of the chute. I pointed out my two bulging suitcases and ukulele case, and the driver helped me haul them down from the carousel. Then we made our way outside, my luggage split between us.
It was a typical California afternoon: bright, sunny, and much hotter than the Illinois spring I’d left behind. I started perspiring on the walk to the car, which turned out to be not just a car, not even a cab, but a limo! A genuine, shiny, black limousine! I was quite impressed when the driver opened the door for me and then went around back to start loading my luggage into the trunk. Jeez, Nick Carter, I thought, as I slid across the soft, leather seat. We’d gotten to ride in limos on Idol, but that was American Idol, the number one show on television. I didn’t think the Backstreet Boys were doing quite so well these days.
I still wasn’t sure what I’d done to warrant the whole royal treatment, but my best friend Jessica had some ideas. I texted her from the backseat after calling my dad to let him know I’d landed, and she replied, “Wow, is he trying to score points or what! Don’t let him get u in his bed yet tonite or he’ll think ur a groupie!”
“I’m not gonna sleep with him!” I texted back feverishly. “Pretty sure he has a girlfriend.”
Her response to that was, “Since when has that ever stopped a celeb?”
I rolled my eyes. “Please,” I typed into my phone, my fingers flying over the tiny keypad. “He could score any girl he wants. Why me?”
“Why not?” came her reply. “He obviously thought u were hot on Idol, or he wouldn’t have called u. No offense!” And before I could decide whether to be offended by her implication or not, my phone beeped with a follow-up text. “Just be careful. Remember he dated Paris Hilton. He’s prolly got VD!”
I texted a two-letter response - “EW!” - and put my phone back in my bag. I was starting to feel nervous. It wasn’t the thought of Nick’s possible STDs that freaked me out - it was the thought of meeting Nick at all! I’d been a Backstreet Boys fan since I’d gotten their first album for my sixteenth birthday. I’d seen them in concert several times, but I’d never met any of the guys before. I hoped I wouldn’t clam up and embarrass myself around him.
Traffic was bad, as always, and it took a long time to get to Santa Monica, which was apparently where Nick lived. That gave me an equally long time to prepare myself for what I would do and say when I found myself face to face with him, which really just made me more nervous. When the limo finally stopped, I still didn’t have a clue.
The driver jumped out and opened the door for me. As soon as I climbed out, I looked up. I was standing at the base of a gorgeous high-rise, right on the waterfront. I could see the Pacific Ocean sparkling in the sunlight behind the building. “Wow,” I breathed.
The driver chuckled. “Swanky, huh?” he remarked, as he set my luggage on the curb.
Like a fancy hotel, the high-rise had its own doorman, who came over to help me with my luggage. I thanked the limo driver, quickly digging some cash out of my wallet for a tip, and followed the doorman inside. As he escorted me into a sprawling lobby, I tried not to look around too much. I didn’t want to act like a tourist, even though I felt like one. The interior of the building was even more impressive than the outside. I wondered how much people paid for the condos in it and if there were any other celebrities living there. Maybe I’d ask Nick once I got to know him better.
The doorman brought me to a front desk, and the security guard sitting behind it asked my name and business. Apparently he’d been told to expect me, because once I introduced myself and said I was there to see Nick, he got up, came around the desk, grabbed my suitcase from the doorman, and grunted, “This way.”
I followed, lugging my other suitcase into an elevator. I shifted my weight from foot to foot on the ride up. There were butterflies in my stomach, making me feel jittery. When the elevator doors slid open again, I took a deep breath before stepping out into a long hallway. The man with my suitcase took me down the hall and stopped outside one of the doors. He rapped on it three times, then moved aside, leaving me standing in front of the door.
It took a moment, but then I heard footsteps on the other side. A lock clicked. The doorknob turned. I drew in a sharp breath. Then the door swung open, and there he was. Nick Carter.
“Hi,” I breathed, with what I’m sure was a dopey smile and total deer-in-the-headlights expression.
“Hey,” he said casually, flashing his trademark half-smile. “I’m Nick.”
He held out his hand, and I took it. “Cary.”
“Glad you made it. Come on in. Lemme grab your luggage here.” He ushered me inside, thanked the security guard who had walked me up, and dragged my bulky suitcase in behind him. Closing the door, he said, “You can just leave all this stuff here, till I drive you to your hotel.”
I wondered why he hadn’t just had the limo take me to the hotel first, but I didn’t ask. I had so many questions, I didn’t know where to start. I let Nick do most of the talking at first. He made small talk as he showed me around his condo. Had my flight been okay? Was traffic bad on the way over? What did I think of the view?
“It’s beautiful,” I said, gazing through the sliding glass doors that opened onto his stone balcony, overlooking the ocean. “We don’t have scenery like this at home, that’s for sure.”
“Illinois, right?” I was glad he remembered to leave off the “S” at the end. Any Illinois resident will tell you they can’t stand when people pronounce it “Illinoise.”
“Yep. Mostly just flat land and cornfields, where I’m at,” I replied, with a self-conscious giggle. “It’s sort of pretty when it’s green in the spring and summer, but not like this.”
“Yeah... I like to have the ocean nearby,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes as he followed my line of sight.
My eyes shifted to him, studying his profile. He looked different in real life than he did in pictures. He was gorgeous, of course; his eyes were just as blue as the water outside his window, and with his face thinned down, I was able to follow the angles of his cheekbones and jawline, which was covered in a fine, blond stubble. I could definitely appreciate how attractive he was, but up close, he looked older than I’d expected. There were lines on his face, creases in his forehead and little crinkles around his eyes. I figured his weight loss made them more noticeable. I knew he’d lost quite a bit, but it was even more obvious in person. He was smaller than I’d expected, too - tall, but lean. Skinny, even. His baggy jeans and t-shirt hung on him, but his body had never looked better.
“So,” he said, turning back to me, and I promptly blushed, caught in the act of giving him the once-over. “You want something to drink?”
“That’d be great.”
He gestured for me to sit down in his living room while he went to the kitchen. I couldn’t stop looking around, marveling over the fact that I was really sitting in Nick Carter’s condo. I felt like I was in the plot of some teenybopper fan fiction story. When Nick came back, carrying two cans of soda, he handed me one and flopped down on the white couch across from the chair I was sitting in, stretching out his long legs. “So,” he said again, and I could sense him searching for something to say. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who felt awkward. “Tell me about yourself.”
I hated that request. It made it feel like an interview. Then again, maybe that’s what this was. I’d been interviewed a lot for Idol, but I still never knew what to say. I supposed there was a lot I could tell him, but most of it wasn’t very interesting. The most exciting thing that had ever happened to me, before this, was being on American Idol, and he already knew about that.
“Well...” I was grasping at straws.
He laughed at my hesitation. “Sorry - I guess that was pretty broad. So you’re a nurse, right?”
“Nurse practitioner,” I corrected with a smile. “It’s like a step up from a nurse. I work in a nursing home, and I do a little bit of everything there.” I left it at that, figuring he probably wasn’t interested in the finer points of my job description.
When people asked, it was easiest to just say I was a cross between a nurse and a doctor. Like a nurse, I was able to develop a rapport with the residents and their families. I gave physical therapy and ran weekly focus groups for the seniors, and I got to know most of them that way. For the sicker ones, I took on more of a physician’s role. I examined patients, ran tests and procedures, diagnosed problems, and prescribed treatments. I was a bridge between basic nursing care at the home and the more intensive treatment doctors would provide in a hospital.
“Sounds like a tough job,” Nick said. “You like it?”
I nodded. “Most days. It’s not easy, but it’s rewarding.”
I was nine years old when I decided I wanted to be a nurse. Seeing the gentle way in which the nurses at the hospice where my mother was dying took care of our family had a huge impact on me. They couldn’t take away my pain, but they did my mom’s, and in time, the knowledge of that helped ease mine, too. I would never forget the way they’d accommodated my visits, bringing me coloring books and treats to help pass the time I spent sitting around in my mom’s room. They explained things better than her doctors did, in a way I could understand, showing me what each piece of equipment was for to make it seem less frightening. They gave me an old stethoscope to play with, which I kept until I was in nursing school myself, and showed me how to make balloons out of latex gloves. I remembered their compassion as much as I remembered the smell of the hospice, the sounds of the medical machinery, and the way my mother had looked in her last few weeks of life, and after I had accepted her death, I made a promise to pay it forward and provide the same kindness for other families like mine.
When he found out I was interested in medicine, my dad had pushed me to become a doctor instead. “Nurses do all the dirty work and get paid squat for it. The doctors are the ones who call the shots and make the big bucks,” he’d urged. But at the time, I’d had no desire to go to medical school. I didn’t admire doctors the way I did nurses. My mother’s doctors hadn’t done much for her. They hadn’t saved her, nor had they comforted and cared for her the way the nurses had. Even if it meant less money, I wanted to comfort and care for people, not give orders and walk away. So I’d gone into the nursing program instead and earned my license as a registered nurse.
The two extra years of school it had taken for me to become certified as a nurse practitioner had been a compromise to my dad. He was a blue collar worker who had never gone to college, and he wanted better for me. As a CNP, I made more money than I had as an RN. I also got to make more of my own decisions, take fewer orders from doctors, and do less scut work. Yet I still saw fewer patients and had more time to spend with them. It was the perfect position for me. Sitting there across from Nick, I wondered if I’d been a fool to leave it.
“I never considered singing for a living instead,” I told him. “I guess I was always practical enough to realize most aspiring singers never make it in the music business. I only auditioned for Idol ‘cause my coworkers talked me into it, and it was my last year of eligibility. I’ll be twenty-nine in July.”
“Aren’t you glad you did?”
“Oh, sure!” I said quickly. “It was a cool experience. I’ve always liked performing, but I never dreamed I’d have the opportunity to sing on national television! It was a wild ride, though. A roller coaster. First I was up, and then I was down...”
“... and now you’re here,” Nick finished for me, his lips twitching into another half-smile.
“And now I’m here,” I repeated, smiling back at him. “So... now what?”
He licked his lips and considered me through narrowed eyes. “Now... I guess I should tell you something about myself.”
“Okay...” I said, amused. When he didn’t say anything back, I prompted, “So... what are you going to tell me?”
He leaned forward. “It’s a secret,” he said in a low voice. “Something nobody else knows...”
I raised my eyebrows and waited, wondering how juicy it could be.
“I...” he started, then paused, seeming to channel Seacrest. He locked eyes with me, and when he had me at the brink of suspense, he finished, “...just farted.”
“Ew!” I cried, as I burst out laughing, wrinkling my nose. “That is charming. Just charming. Do you always woo your opening acts this way?”
He snickered. “Eh, a good belch works just about as well. I can do it on command, you know.”
“Wow. You are truly talented.”
Nick was still laughing. I grinned at him, but my smile faded as his chuckles went on. There was something strange about the way he kept laughing, like he was forcing it. When the laughter finally died down, an odd expression flickered across his face, like a passing shadow. It was just for a split second, and then he turned away from me, reaching for his drink.
I watched him take a long swig from the can. “You’re not gonna demonstrate for me?” I teased, when he set it back down on the coffee table.
“Huh? Oh.” He chuckled again, and it sounded just as forced. “Nah, I’ll save that one for next time. Gotta give you a reason to come back, right?”
“An audience for my music is plenty reason enough,” I said, smiling at him again.
He returned the smile, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “Good,” was all he said back. He glanced down at his lap, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. I stared at him, long after he’d broken eye contact. He was holding back somehow, hiding something.
There was no doubt in my mind that Nick Carter had secrets, and they didn’t have anything to do with farts.
***
