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Nic slips back into himself for a second, his eyes hardening. He’s all but scowling at me when one of the teenagers asks about the next Warwick movie.
He reaches for that persona, but it fails and it’s just Nic standing there, staring and looking lost, unable to talk.
Shit. Did I break him? I told the truth. That stupid movie with bad singing and ridiculous dancing is my favorite. It’s the one movie where he didn’t play someone too powerful, too enigmatic, and too perfect.
Nic’s eyes land on me again and drop to the floor before he answers the kid. “I don’t know if I’ll do it.”
Stunned silence.
What the actual hell?
I narrow my eyes at him, but he won’t look at me.
The family bursts out with “Oh, no, you have to,” “No one can play Warwick like you,” and “We love you in those movies.” On and on, in a rising cacophony that’s sure to attract more attention. The corner of the store we’re in isn’t busy—just a few older people stopping to give us confused looks—but it won’t take long, with the busy street outside, for us to get overwhelmed here.
Nic smiles, laughs uncomfortably, and tries to pass it off as a joke.
Shit. He’s lost his ability to be Nic Fontana, Hollywood star. We need to leave—now—because I have no idea if he can handle a stampede of Warwick fans.
My eyes land on the perfect mug.Tinsel Tits, with tinsel wrapped around the text. “Found it!” I say, snagging the mug before turning to the family. “Sorry, we have to go. It was nice meeting you.”
Nic echoes me, and I drag him to the front of the store. “Go wait by the truck.” I snatch his hat, shoving it down over his dark hair. To be safe, I wrap the scarf around his face. Tightly.
He tugs the scarf down and ignores my instructions. Screw it. If more fans crawl out of the kitchenware, he can scare them off with that scowl.
There’s no line and a minute later, we make our escape onto the streets.
Nic pulls me out of the way of pedestrians, holding my arm and keeping me close.
“Summer Camp?Really?” His eyes flash. “Do you always have to come at me swinging like that? It fucking hurts, Jessie.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to reply before he releases me and stalks off.
I want to shout after him that he’s hurt me too, but a deep breath and the interruption of my phone cost me the moment.
Get your asses to the truck, if we lose this year I swear—
Timothy
Nic’s already in the truck when I climb in. He refuses to look at me. Fine. I get it. He hatedSummer Camp, even skipping the premiere, according to the tabloids. I’d always assumed he’d been embarrassed by the role, but he admitted it hurt. I struck a nerve.
We’ve caused enough damage to each other over the years that he can’t understand my answer was honest. It’s like we don’t know how to stop. Maybe we can’t and this is just who we are.
I don’t know why that depresses me, but it does. I want…I don’t know. A truce.
I reach over, poking him in the thigh. He turns to me, wary. I mouth the wordsorryand pull the chocolates out of my handbag, offering them to him. After a tense few seconds, he inclines his head slightly, takes one out of the box with silent precision so Timothy doesn’t realize we have food in his truck, and goes back to looking out the window.
Chapter eleven
Jessie
Themomentwewalkthrough the door, Timothy throws the house into an uproar, bellowing that if we’re not ready to roll in forty minutes, we’ll face his wrath. Nic bolts up the stairs to his room, so I dip into the kitchen to help my mother with the booze. When he comes downstairs, I go upstairs to change into jeans, a thermal, and my warmest sweater. Not that I’m avoiding him…I’m just trying to not be around him.
It’s chaos as we all gather in the entry, scrambling to don hats, scarves, and mittens. Timothy attempts to run us through some vocal warm-ups as my mother hands out flasks. My brother takes the lead, marching down the driveway, pinching a plastic candy cane from a neighbor’s yard and swinging it like a parade marshal.
“Watch the ice!” Timothy points the candy cane at the patch of ice that took me out on my arrival. The plastic reindeer that had been marking the spot is gone, back in the same neighbor’s yard Timothy stole the candy cane from. No doubt my mother will be bringing over a massive box of Christmas cookies later to smooth things over.
Ten-year-old Liam is a step behind Timothy, mimicking every move, and my brother pauses to ‘borrow’ another candy cane, bestowing it upon our nephew with ridiculous solemnity.
