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Fifteen
Olivia, wake up.” Nick’s voice calls me back to consciousness while he shakes my shoulder. I blink my eyes open. “You fell asleep?”
I peel my head off the backstage couch cushion and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Not all of us got to take a disco nap.”
“I think people stopped calling them disco naps when Carter was president.”
“What time is it?” I ask with a yawn and peek at my watch. 12:05 a.m. How long was I asleep?
“Time to head back, Grampa Simpson.”
After two back-to-back shows at the end of a very long, very odd, very exhausting day, I decided to sneak back to the greenroom again after my last, slightly more successful and fully audible set.
“Did you get all those laughs I wished you?” I ask, reaching for my glasses on the cushion next to me.
“Oh, yeah. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” He smirks, wiping the sweat off his face with a plushy black towel.
“Careful, Nick. Your ego’s showing,” I tease, but his head’s so inflated, he doesn’t seem to care. “I noticed you stole my two comedians are stuck on the side of the road joke.”
“What’d you think?” His brown eyes meet mine in a hopeful way that makes me think he not only wants to know but actually cares what I think. From bigheaded to humble in under fifteen seconds. I don’t hate it.
“Not bad, adding the girlfriend-date part.”
“It’s funnier if we’re dating.”
Dating? What a charming idea. With freshly flushed cheeks, I swipe my finger across my bottom lip. Then Nick pops a cigarette in his mouth. Ugh. The sight of it burns away all the swoony feelings. It’s probably good that his nasty habit can easily reset any mounting attraction back to zero.
“Want a souvenir?” He tosses a black T-shirt my way. It’s his merch tee—an illustrated graphic of his head, dimples present, with the phrase Buh-Bye framing it.
Owning a shirt with Nick’s face on it feels a little counterproductive at the moment. Of course, I don’t want him to know that so I say, “Thanks, but my suitcase can’t take any more.”
“Fair enough,” he says, retrieving the shirt.
We head outside where the sauna-like air is sticky and thick. Gravel crunches beneath my Converses as we make our way back to the Jeep.
“So listen, would you mind sitting in the back?” Nick asks, sparking up his cigarette. “I offered someone a ride.”
“And where exactly do you expect me to sit?” I ask, seeing as Nick’s back seats are folded in to make room for his merch boxes and our luggage.
“I’ll move things around. There’ll be plenty of room.”
“I’m supposed to sit on the floor and risk my life with no seatbelt while you drive around D.C.?”
“Relax. It’s a fifteen-minute drive.”
Relax?Did he not just wake me from a nap on the greenroom sofa? I am relaxed.
“Can’t he sit in the back?” Like a gentleman.
“I’d rather she not.”
“She?” Heat creeps up my clenched jaw. But I blame the D.C. heat.
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Yeah, she’s a friend.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why can’t your friend sit in the back? Her legs broken?”
“Olivia, please,” Nick begs. “Be a friend. My Elaine.” He needs a wingwoman. No wonder he wanted to establish our buddy dynamic.
