2010 had been a big year for me, but 2011 was shaping up to be even bigger.
In January, I followed Nick’s advice and terminated the lease on my apartment. My dad wasn’t thrilled about me “officially” moving in with Nick, but he let me store my furniture and appliances in the spare bedroom at his house, and I packed everything else – including Hambelina – into Nick’s Escalade for the drive back to California.
In February, after applying for my California nurse practitioner’s license, I landed a job at an outpatient geriatrics clinic in Los Angeles. It was a full-time position, but the hours were good, no nights or weekends, so I still had plenty of time to spend with Nick.
He had gone back to work, too, finishing his solo album. He had written and recorded some songs in Nashville with Dan Muckala and Jason Ingram, and once we got back to LA, he hooked up with Matthew Gerrard again, along with another songwriter, TD Mischke. He worked with them every day, while I worked at the clinic, and played me demos when we were home together at night. Each new song he shared was better than the one before it, and I couldn’t have been more impressed or proud of him.
Some of his songs were deep, emotional, and obviously personal, like “Falling Down,” while others were more light-hearted and fun, like “I’m Taking Off,” which he’d decided to use for the name of the album as well. It fit, but I noticed that none of his new material, even the most personal stuff, seemed to address the health crisis he’d faced, and I found that strange. “Have you considered doing a song about what you went through last year… you know, being sick and everything?” I asked him one night.
“No,” he said, scowling. “I thought about it, but I figure, that’s what people will expect me to do, and I want this album to go way beyond their expectations. I don’t want it to be all about having cancer, and I don’t want people to buy it out of charity, because they feel sorry for me, or because they’re just morbidly curious about what I went through. That’s personal, you know? It’s private. I’m better off sticking to songs about shit that everyone can relate to, like relationships and stuff. I’d rather be known as a Backstreet Boy who sings love songs than that boyband guy who got cancer.”
I could understand that, but still, I wondered if this was just yet another sign of his denial. He’d hidden his illness for so long, tried so hard to live his life like normal and pretend nothing was wrong while he was sick, and now that he was better, he wanted to forget the whole thing, pretend it had never happened. I couldn’t blame him for that, except that it had happened, and surely, it had changed him in ways that didn’t show on the outside.
Around me, he acted the same as he always had. Sometimes he was funny, flirty and charming; at other times, he was quiet, closed-off and distant. I didn’t know if the mood swings were a side effect of his lingering fatigue or the medications he still took daily, or if that was simply his personality. I realized I’d never known him before he got sick, so I couldn’t say if cancer had made him that way or not. I couldn’t expect him to be like his stage persona all the time, though, even when he was well.
We’d been back in LA for a month when Valentine’s Day rolled around. I didn’t set my expectations too high for that, either, not sure what Nick would feel up to doing, or if he’d feel like doing anything at all. Secretly, though, I hoped he’d at least take me out on a date. We’d had plenty of quiet dinners at home; I wanted to do something different, something special. But whenever I made a suggestion or dropped a hint, he blew me off. Either he was planning something big and secret, or nothing at all.
When I woke up on the morning of February fourteenth, all the signs pointed to big and secret. A single, long-stemmed red rose in a crystal vase was sitting on the bedside table, and Nick was mysteriously missing from the bed. Before I could summon the energy to drag myself out of it, he came into the bedroom, still in nothing but his boxers, carrying a tray filled with breakfast.
“You’ve made me breakfast in bed plenty of times… figured it was a good day to return the favor,” he said, pecking me on the cheek as he set the tray down in front of me. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“You’re sweet… thank you!” I was delighted; no guy had ever cooked me breakfast in bed before. Nick was right – that was the kind of thing I did for other people. It was nice to be on the other side of the tray for once. Nick had gotten up early and cooked up a storm – either that, or he’d had it catered. I didn’t ask, just sampled the bacon, eggs, and raspberry cream cheese muffin and told him how good everything tasted. “Get in here and help me eat all this,” I commanded him, patting the empty spot on his side of the bed. He scrambled in, and we ate breakfast in bed together. It was even harder to get up and get ready for work after that, but at least I left with a smile on my face.
He had more roses delivered to me at work, which earned me plenty of attention from my new co-workers. “Ooh, you are one lucky girl,” said the receptionist, who knew exactly who the flowers were from.
“Don’t let my wife hear that you got flowers. Might give her ideas,” grumbled my supervisor, a physician who was practically geriatric himself and wouldn’t have known who Nick Carter was even if he’d delivered them in person. “I haven’t bought her flowers in thirty years. It’s guys like him who put guys like me to shame.”
I laughed. “Well, maybe you should pick up a bouquet on your way home this afternoon,” I suggested brightly. “It’d be a nice surprise for Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh yeah… she’d be surprised, alright,” he muttered and shuffled off to see his next patient.
“Don’t mind him,” said Amanda, the receptionist, rolling her eyes. “It’s good to know chivalry isn’t completely dead. Some guys still remember how to be romantic. So…” She grinned at me, raising her eyebrows. “You think you’ll get a private serenade or something tonight? Will he show you the shape of his heart?”
I giggled again and shook my head, feeling my face heat up. “I have no clue what we’re doing tonight.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll enjoy every minute of it. Like I said… lucky girl.”
I did feel like a lucky girl, as I drove back to Nick’s place that afternoon. I felt even luckier when I saw what was waiting for me there.
“Check the bed,” Nick said, waving me on into his bedroom, after I’d kissed him and thanked him for the roses. Curious, I wandered into his room and found a long, white box lying across the foot of the bed. I opened it, folded back layers of tissue paper, and gasped at the sight of a gorgeous gown made of burgundy silk. I took it carefully out of the box, the satiny material sliding between my fingers, and was holding it up when Nick walked in. “Like it?” he asked, and I turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, a smirk on his face.
“It’s beautiful! But where am I going to wear something like this?” I loved dresses, but this wasn’t just a dress; it was an evening gown, way fancier than anything I had in my closet.
“Out for dinner and dancing with me tonight,” Nick replied, his smirk broadening into a full-fledged smile. “I know this place downtown; it’s like a vintage nightclub, with a live orchestra and ballroom dancing and stuff. Sounded like something you’d enjoy.”
I could have melted on the spot. Of course, he knew how I loved vintage fashion and big band music, but I still never would have expected him to do something like this. I was giddy as I got dressed for our date that night. The gown fit me perfectly; it had a high-necked halter top that showed off my shoulders, a plunging, open back, and a floor-length skirt that hugged my curves and flared out at the bottom. I felt glamorous in it, like a silver screen starlet.
“How on earth did you get this to fit me just right?” I asked Nick when he came in to change clothes, poking my head out of the bathroom. “Who helped you?”
“Rochelle,” he admitted, with a sheepish grin. “She loves all that vintage stuff, too; I figured she’d be the best person to ask. She picked out the dress; I let her snoop through your closet while you were at work to figure out your size.”
“Well, she did a great job.”
“I know. She got you this, too,” he said, and he handed me a shoebox. Inside were a pair of black gloves, matching heels, and a small, beaded purse.
“Wow,” I said, holding up one of the gloves. It was long, the kind of glove that would go all the way up to my elbow when I put it on. “And people really dress up like this to go to this nightclub?”
“So I’m told. I’ve, uh, never actually been there before, myself.”
I smiled. “Let me guess – that was Rochelle’s suggestion, too, huh?”
He just grinned.
“So what are you wearing, then?”
He wiggled his eyebrows, which were finally starting to grow back in. “Wait and see.”
I could take a hint. “Okay…” I sighed and went back into the bathroom. I styled my hair in old-fashioned finger waves and applied my makeup, finishing it off with my favorite red lipstick.
It took me a long time to get the hair just right, and soon I heard Nick calling, “Hey, Cary, you ‘bout ready? We have dinner reservations at eight. We should probably go soon; I bet traffic’s gonna be bad.”
“Almost ready!” I gave my hair one last spritz of hairspray, put on the new shoes and long gloves, and picked up the beaded bag, stopping in front of the full-length mirror long enough to strike a few red carpet poses and admire my hardly-recognizable reflection before I went to find Nick.
He was waiting for me in the living room, all dressed up and ready to go. For a few seconds, I had to just stop and stare. He was wearing an ivory, double-breasted dinner jacket with black pants, black shoes, and a black bow tie. I had never seem him look so suave, or so sexy. His hair was an inch long now and darker than it had been before he’d lost it, and he had a faint mustache coming in over his upper lip. He didn’t look like a cancer patient anymore, just a guy with a short haircut, and on that night, he could have been Clark Gable, and I, Vivien Leigh.
“God, you look… amazing,” he said, licking his lips as his eyes gave me the onceover.
I blushed. “So do you.”
“You ready to go?” Grinning, he offered me his elbow, like a true gentleman. I took it, my heart fluttering with excitement, and we strolled out of the condo together.
Walking into the Cicada Club was like walking into one of my dreams. I felt like I’d traveled back in time, or been sucked into a scene from one of the classic old Hollywood movies I loved. The nightclub was housed on the ground floor of an art deco-style, historical high-rise, and the inside was even more impressive than the exterior of the building. The club was decorated in dark wood with gold accents, lit by chandeliers overhead and candles on all of the tables, and had a dance floor laid out in front of a small stage, where a jazz orchestra was setting up to play. When the live swing music started, the dance floor filled up with couples, all of them dressed up in either modern suits and evening gowns or vintage formalwear like ours.
I couldn’t wait to get out there and dance, but before that, Nick and I sat down to an elegant, four-course meal that included smoked salmon, crab ravioli, filet mignon, and chocolate mousse for dessert. I drank quite a bit of wine with dinner, and by the end, I was feeling pretty giggly. “Come on!” I pleaded, tugging on Nick’s arm. “Let’s go dance!”
He looked less than enthusiastic, but I’d already figured out this was my night and knew I’d get my way. Sure enough, he joined me on the dance floor – grudgingly, it was true, but I didn’t care. “I thought you didn’t dance!” he shouted over the big band music, as I pulled him into an empty space on the floor.
Smirking, I leaned in and replied into his ear, “I seem to remember you telling me once that if you got enough drinks in me, you’d get me to dance. Well, here we are!”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know how to dance like this,” he complained, as he placed his hands awkwardly on my hips.
“It’s okay; I don’t either, really. I can show you the basics, and we’ll just have to make up the rest.” I removed his left hand from my waist, raised it into the air, and placed my right hand in it. I put my left hand on his right shoulder and pulled him a little closer to me. At first, we just sort of rocked back and forth, feeling out the rhythm of the music. Then I said, “Okay now, if you wanna try a real swing step, it goes something like this… We do sort of a shuffle this way…” I led, dragging him with me. “…and then do a rock step back with your other foot – my left, your right. Then we just go back the other way…”
For a guy who could pull off such complicated choreography in his concerts, Nick was kind of a klutz at swing dancing. “You know, I bet your brother would be a lot better at this. Maybe you should do Dancing With the Stars so you can learn a few moves,” I teased him, before we gave up trying to do any sort of real dance steps and just made up our own. He twirled me under his arm and dipped me backwards until I was light-headed and dizzy, my head spinning from vertigo and too much wine. I was having a blast, but it was still a relief when he suggested that we take a break.
“You doing okay?” I asked, when we sat back down at our table to catch our breath.
Nick swallowed a sip of water. “I’m good. Just hot.” He’d already removed his jacket and tie; now he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
You are hot, I thought, watching him with a little smirk, but I didn’t say it.
“You havin’ fun?” he asked, looking over at me.
“Are you kidding? You knew I’d love this, and you were right!” I sighed, looking around dreamily. “We should come here every week.”
“Ha… you better let me get back in shape first. You’re gonna throw my back out with all that dancing.”
“Ha-ha, okay, old man.”
“You wish.” He grinned, a devilish gleam in his eyes.
“Shut up; no I don’t. There’s no one I’d rather be here with than you, and you know it.”
“Aww… you love me.” Still grinning, he scooted his chair closer to mine and threw his arm around my shoulders, hugging me to his side. I could smell his sweat and feel his damp pit stain against my bare skin, but I couldn’t deny it. He may have just been kidding around, but I wasn’t.
“I love you,” I whispered later, when we were lying in bed together, both of us streaked with sweat, our dress clothes on the floor.
He rolled over, propping himself up on one elbow, and smirked down at me for a few seconds. Then he wrapped me up in his arms again and kissed me so deeply, my brain went fuzzy. It wasn’t until later, after he’d dropped off to sleep and left me lying awake, that I realized he’d never said it back.
***
