“I’m not the other guy… Don’t ever wanna lie… to you, baby…”
Taking my eyes off the road for just a second, I couldn’t help but glance over at the man sitting next to me in the passenger seat, singing along to his own song. I grinned. It was better than stereo, hearing Nick’s voice blasting out of my speakers and also singing live in person, right into my right ear.
“Girl, it should be you and me tonight, so don’t leave me waiting… oh-ohhh… I’m not the other guy…”
He sounded like classic Nick – just a little bit nasally, with the rock growl he liked to force into his voice – and he was starting to act more like the old Nick again, too.
It was amazing, the difference music could make. Not even I could have predicted the impact it would have on him. In just two weeks, he had made quite the turnaround. He had stopped lying aimlessly around the condo all day and started writing and rehearsing songs whenever he felt up to it. He’d reached out to some songwriter friends he knew in the business, and they had responded with enthusiasm, eager to help with his solo record. Whether they were genuinely that excited or just felt sorry for him, I didn’t know, but in any case, Nick had spent the previous week working with Matthew Gerrard, who had written “Help Me” for his first album, and a couple of others. The fatigue kept him from working more than a few hours a day, but even in that short time, I was impressed with how productive they had been. Nick had burned a CD with a few demos he’d recorded, and we had been listening to it off and on the whole way to Illinois.
“Would you take… my heart? Would you take all my love if I gave it?” Nick sang along to the second verse of a track called “Not the Other Guy.” “There’s no place… too far. I would always get to you…”
Thanksgiving was in two days, and I had all but insisted on spending it at home. “If you were planning on doing something with your family or one of the guys, that’s fine,” I’d told Nick, “but I really want to go home and see my dad for the holidays. If you’re up for making the trip, I’d love for you to come, too, but don’t feel like you have to.”
Nick had gotten this panic-stricken look on his face and said, “Uh… and what if I already invited the whole Carter clan out here and told my mom you were cooking Thanksgiving dinner?” But he couldn’t keep a straight face for longer than few seconds; as soon as he saw the look on mine, he started cracking up and flashed me a shit-eating grin. “Just kidding. I did get invited to Florida, but I haven’t been to a Carter family Thanksgiving in years – why start now? I’ll go home with you, if you’ll have me.”
“Sure, lemme just check with my old man,” I’d teased him back, secretly elated to be able to bring him home for the holidays.
“I’ll be there… when you call,” I joined in the singing, letting my voice blend with Nick’s as I sped past empty fields and clumps of trees that had already lost their leaves. “Take the weight of the world off your shoulders…”
“Girl, you’ve found the one, who won’t ever run; no, I’m never gonna stop ‘til you know…” Nick sang on. It was too bad he couldn’t have come here a month ago, to see how pretty fall in the Midwest could be.
Since Nick hated flying and hated the thought of wearing his mask on a plane full of people even more, we had decided to drive to Illinois. Sure, it had taken us four days, instead of the four hours it would have taken to fly, but we had avoided the crowded airports and cramped planes in favor of the open road.
Nick said that, not counting touring, he hadn’t been on a real road trip in a long time. “We don’t get to do all the touristy stuff, unless we’re in a city more than one night. Usually there’s no time, between press obligations and soundcheck parties and all that. You saw how it was.”
I had seen how it was, and even though I knew traveling the country in a luxurious tour bus was far better than riding in a car, I did my best to make it a fun adventure for him. We paced ourselves so that we only drove about eight hours a day, which was really all Nick could handle. We took turns driving, but a lot of the time, he would doze off while I drove. The car was kept well-stocked with snacks, since Nick wasn’t supposed to eat in restaurants yet, and we only booked hotel rooms that had a kitchen, so we could prepare our own meals. We stopped near Flagstaff the first night, spent the second night in Albuquerque, and stayed just outside Oklahoma City on the third night. Along the way, we took detours to visit random roadside attractions, like the Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo, Texas, the World’s Largest Pop Bottle in Arcadia, Oklahoma, and a giant talking bust of George Washington Carver in Diamond, Missouri. We took plenty of silly pictures that I couldn’t wait to show my dad when he asked about the drive.
By the fourth day of our trip, most of the fun had worn off, but we’d finally made it to Illinois and were getting close to my hometown. I remembered bringing Nick there during the tour and smiled when I thought of how far we’d come since then.
We made it just in time for Tuesday night dinner at my dad’s. I shivered as I stepped out of the car in his driveway; I’d been adding layers of clothing at every stop, as the temperature dropped. Central Illinois felt a lot different from Southern California this time of year.
As usual, my dad had the porch light on, and I saw the curtain twitch in the front window, a sure sign he’d been watching for us. Sure enough, by the time we reached the porch, he was already opening the front door to greet us. “Hi, sweetheart! Come in, come in, out of the cold.” He waited until I’d cleared the threshold to pull me into a rib-crushing hug. When he finally released me, he reached past me and said, “Nick.”
Nick took his outstretched hand and shook it. “Frank,” he replied, smiling. “Good to see you again.”
“You too. How are you doing?” asked Dad, looking him over. He knew better than to say so, but I could tell he was shocked by the change in Nick’s appearance since he’d last seen him back in July. Nick had lost more weight, to the point where it no longer looked healthy; the muscle and definition he’d worked so hard to achieve had wasted away, and his clothes hung loosely on him. His face, no longer puffy, just looked gaunt and pale. The knit cap pulled low over his head hid his baldness, but even his perfect eyebrows had thinned down to hardly anything.
Nick still smiled and answered, “Doing better, thanks.”
“How was your trip? You guys must be tired.”
“We are,” I spoke for both of us. “We won’t stay too late tonight.”
“Well, come in and make yourselves comfortable, get warm.” Dad ushered us into the living room. “I made chili – your mom’s old recipe. Don’t know if it’ll taste as good, but I gave it my best shot.”
I smiled; my dad wasn’t much of a cook, so it was cute that he had tried. Usually when I came over for dinner, I cooked for him, or we ordered takeout, but I’d warned him that Nick couldn’t eat anything from a restaurant or deli yet because of the risk of germs. I could tell from the effort he’d put into preparing a homecooked meal that Nick met with his approval. “Well, it sure smells good,” I said.
“Smells great,” Nick added, sniffing.
My dad swelled with pride. “Well, come and get some. It’s all ready to go; I’ve just been keeping it warm on the stove.”
“I will in a minute. I wanna say hi to Hammy first.” As I turned the corner into the hallway, I could hear the banging of cupboards and the clink of bowls, but I listened for oinking sounds as I called out, “Hambe-li-na! Where’s Mama’s baby?”
I waited in the hall, and after a minute or so, my little pig came, not scampering into my arms as usual, but nosing her way cautiously out of my dad’s bedroom. I felt a pang of sorrow as I knelt down to reassure her, holding my hand out for her to sniff. “It’s me, Hammy girl,” I murmured. “Mama’s home.”
Hambelina grunted softly, her snout working overtime as it took in my scent, but finally, she nuzzled against my hand. Smiling, I scooped her up, planting a kiss right on her snout. “There’s my baby,” I cooed, cradling her in my arms. “There’s my Hambelina.”
I heard a snort that did not come from my pet pig and turned to see Nick standing behind me, smirking at the scene in front of him. “Don’t even try to make fun of me,” I warned him, smirking back. “I happen to know what a pet-lover you are, too, Mister.”
He held up his hands in defense and backed away. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.” He still looked pretty amused, though.
“Smart boy.” I lowered Hambelina to the floor and said, “C’mon, let’s go get some chili.”
We ate dinner around the kitchen table, spoons scraping the bottom of our bowls as Nick and I gave the highlights of our trips, the sights we’d seen and stops we’d made along the way. My dad talked about what had been happening in Decatur – not much – and told us funny stories about the neighbors and people he worked with. His circle of friends was small, and I had been just as much of a homebody, until American Idol changed my life. It hadn’t shot me to stardom, as it had Chris Daughtry and Jennifer Hudson, also eliminated far before the finale. It hadn’t landed me a record deal, like Lee DeWyze, the winner of my season, who had released his first album a week ago, or Crystal Bowersox, the runner-up, who would release hers in December. But I couldn’t forget that, if not for American Idol, I wouldn’t have Nick Carter at my family’s dinner table… or in my bed.
That was where we headed as soon as we got back to my apartment – to bed, together. No messing around with air mattresses this time… but no messing around with each other, either; we were too tired. It felt amazing to slip between the sheets of my own bed for the first time in four months. I was so stiff and drained from driving all day that I could only imagine how exhausted Nick had to be. He had seemed lively enough in front of my dad, but this, I quickly realized, was just his old act. He put on a brave face for the benefit of others, but now that it was just the two of us, the show was over. Nick stretched out next to me and was snoring within minutes.
I lay awake for awhile, watching him sleep. Sometimes it was still hard to believe that he was real, that this was real and not a dream I’d been living in for the last few months. If it was a dream, I didn’t want to wake up. Despite all the worry and stress of the stem cell transplant, I loved every minute I spent with Nick, and my biggest fear, short of him getting sick again, was that he didn’t feel the same way about me. What if, when he was all recovered and didn’t need me anymore, he decided to send me packing? A part of me would be relieved to come back here, to the place I called home, where I had family and friends, but if that happened, I would be leaving my heart in California with Nick. Against my better judgment, I’d fallen in love with him, yet I was afraid to let him know, afraid of scaring him away.
If only he knew that the lyrics I’d written for him, the words that he’d said fit so perfectly within his song, were straight from my heart, every last one of them true. I stay awake, stay awake all night, ‘cause I’m afraid you won’t be there in the daylight. I’m so amazed, but I gotta play my cards right. Don’t wanna make the wrong move…
***
I got up early the next morning to go grocery shopping, leaving Nick asleep in my bed with a note on his chest. I half-expected to find him in the exact same position when I came back, so it was a pleasant surprise to see him up, dressed in a pair of sweats, and waiting to help me haul in the groceries.
“Holy shit, girl!” he exclaimed, when he got a look inside the trunk of my car. “You got enough food to feed an army. Who else ya invitin’ to this Thanksgiving dinner?”
I smiled and started handing him bags. “I told you, it’ll be just you, me, and my dad, and yes, we’ll have a lot of food, but that’s a good thing. Who doesn’t love Thanksgiving leftovers?”
“Good point,” said Nick, as he turned to carry the bags into the apartment.
Since my dad had no other living relatives, he and I always spent Thanksgiving with my mom’s side of the family. When my grandparents were alive, they’d hosted all the holidays at their house, but since then, my mom’s three brothers rotated hosting duties. This year, it was Uncle Jim’s turn to have Thanksgiving at his place up in Wisconsin, but we wouldn’t be there. With Nick in the picture and his immune system still recovering, I thought a small, quiet Thanksgiving sounded better, so we were staying home and having dinner at my Dad’s house, just the three of us.
I had never attempted to cook a whole Thanksgiving dinner by myself before, but in a year full of so many other “firsts” for me, I thought, Why not? So I spread all my newly-bought ingredients out on the counter, opened a box filled with my grandmother’s recipes, tied a frilly apron around my waist, and got to work. It felt great to be back in my own kitchen, after being gone for so long. I spent most of the day there, washing and chopping vegetables, boiling cranberries, and assembling various dishes and desserts. The next day, Thanksgiving, I went over to my dad’s house at the crack of dawn to put the turkey in the oven. There, I fixed the stuffing, peeled and mashed the potatoes, baked the rolls, and cooked the casseroles I’d put together the day before, all while Nick and my dad watched the parade and football in the living room.
By the time we sat down to dinner together, I was exhausted, but exhilarated. Our Thanksgiving table was beautiful; all of the food looked good and smelled even better. I had pulled it off. But what made me even happier was sitting between the two most important men in my life, my dad and Nick Carter, and realizing how lucky I was to have them both. “I think we should say a blessing,” I suggested.
Nick nodded, but didn’t say anything. My dad cleared his throat and said, “You wanna say it, Car?”
I had figured it would be my job, knowing my dad wasn’t big on religion, and neither was Nick. “Sure,” I agreed, and we all bowed our heads. Praying out loud was something I hadn’t done since I was a little girl, but I gathered my thoughts and gave it my best shot. “Lord, we thank you for the food on our table and each of the people sitting around it. Thank you for bringing Nick into our lives and for the opportunities we’ve had this year, to travel and meet new people. Thank you for the medical professionals and treatments that have allowed all of us to be in good health today, and please help us to stay that way. Thank you, Lord… Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed the men, both under their breath. My dad added, “That was nice, sweetheart,” and Nick found my hand under the table and gave it a squeeze.
I smiled at both of them. “Thanks. Let’s eat.”
We started passing dishes and filling our plates, and it wasn’t long before our plates were empty again and our stomachs full. I cleaned up the kitchen while Nick and my dad wandered off to let their food digest, and when I popped my head in to check on them later, I found them both sound asleep, Dad in his recliner and Nick stretched out on the couch. I smiled, shaking my head.
My grandmother would have been annoyed; I could still hear her voice scolding my grandpa for not taking all the turkey off the bone, while my cousins and I bustled around the kitchen, scooping leftovers into Tupperware and tin foil for everyone to take home. I knew now just how much work she put in all those years and exactly how exhausted she must have been by the time dinner was over.
But even though I was tired, I couldn’t be cranky. I was too full, not just with turkey and stuffing, but with relief and happiness. After all of the hard times I’d gone through with Nick, the worst seemed to be behind us, and soon, I hoped, we would be able to move forward. And I was thankful.
***
Later, after naps and helpings of pumpkin pie, we helped my dad put up his Christmas tree, the same artificial one he picked out with my mom for their first Christmas as newlyweds. Thirty years later, it still looked as good as it did in a photo of them sitting in front of it, that same Christmas.
The photo was part of an ornament, a little silver frame engraved with the words, Our First Christmas Together and the year, 1980. Before I hung it on one of the high branches, I held it in my hand, just staring at that picture. My mom’s hair was long and feathered, as it had been at her wedding; it swept over the shoulders of her turtleneck sweater and framed her smiling face. She and my dad both looked so happy. How could they have known that they would only have ten more years together?
Their frozen smiles fell into shadow as someone tall came to stand behind me. “Is that your parents?” Nick asked, leaning over my shoulder. Wordlessly, I turned and handed him the ornament. He smiled as he looked at it, a little sadly. I understood.
No matter where our relationship went, we would never have the same kind of carefree happiness, I realized, as I watched the colorful Christmas lights reflecting off his pale face and shiny head. We would always have the same worries and fear that my parents had dealt with later in their marriage, after my mom got sick.
But if my dad had known, when he posed for that picture, that he would face losing his young wife in the future, would he have done anything differently? Would he have regretted marrying her or even meeting her in the first place? I didn’t think so. The fact that my dad had never remarried, never even dated after my mom died, told me how much he had loved her. He would have stayed with her, even if it meant knowingly sacrificing his heart.
I felt sure of that, just as I felt sure that, no matter what the future had in store for us, I would stand by Nick, for as long as he still wanted me to. I just wasn’t sure how long that might be.
***
