F O U R

NEW YORK CITY, NY

          Sometimes I think about what would happen if I threw all carefulness and worries about my reputation and state of mental health aside and just hooked up with Nick.

          My whole life has been spent living in a gray area, occasionally slipping to either side of a tightrope, but there's always been a clear line to me. The moment I stop thinking about that line, the moment I cross it and do something I've been holding back from is the moment of no return. I've only crossed one of those lines once, back when I decided to leave California, and I've forced myself to never look back, fully aware there's no going back to that.

          Things with Nick have always been somewhat complicated.

          Ever since his last relationship ended, after everything they'd been through—PR stunts, publicity scandals, Broadway drama, show choir drama (one would assume losing your last championship to a previously disbanded group, your biggest rival, would turn into a nasty notch in your reputation—I know he isn't interested in relationships. He's merely a year younger than me, but, as someone who constantly makes a big fucking deal of age gaps, I closed that door early on after I first met him. Realistically, it's not that big of a difference to most people, and I know it's not the age difference itself that irks me, but it's the best way of explaining it.

          He's far more well known than I am, even outside of the theater circle, and I only have a few small projects to my name, so one could argue it's the industry power imbalance that makes my skin crawl, and that's a thought I have to shoot down quickly.

          I don't do relationships, either, and casually hooking up with what's probably my only friend in this city is far from being the wisest choice to make. I don't think he looks at me that way, anyway, and it's probably something I'd be offended by if I were any other person, considering how much time and effort Sadie and I devote to making myself desirable to men, so we've fallen into a comfortable dynamic. I'm supposed to be the cool girl, after all.

          Nick doesn't require too much work. We're both like cats, reaching out whenever we need something, then vanishing for days at a time to mind our own business. He doesn't pry, doesn't demand anything from me I can't give him, and he can cook well enough to ensure I'm nourished when I forget to do it myself.

          I don't want to ruin what we have by willingly misreading the signals he's giving me, but I get lonely sometimes.

          It's exhausting coming home to a cold bed at the end of a long day of work, knowing there's no one in there waiting for me—in a good way; Sadie still remembers the stalking incident from last year—and no one to talk to. Sadie is by my side so often I can't breathe without her knowing about it, so there's never anything new to share with her. I could talk to her about my family and my Californian past, the one thing she doesn't know about me, but, since she's flying with me, it's only a matter of time before she fills herself in. I'd hate to bother her with information that contradicts the brand she's created for me, and I'm better off ruining my own life without dragging her to the eye of the hurricane.

          "You really didn't need to walk me home," I tell Nick, leaning my back against the glass doors of my apartment building. The lights are still on inside, with people sitting in the reception area, and they can see us if they look our way, so I try my damn hardest not to make any sudden moves. Nick has been here before, but I don't want it to lead to unnecessary speculation, especially on the night before I leave. "I could've gotten an Uber, or something."

          "You've had a few drinks too many," he points out. "I wouldn't feel comfortable knowing you were walking around by yourself at night in that state."

          I elbow him. "What about how I'd feel?"

          His eyes, crystal blue, are so brilliant even in the darkness I can't look away from them. "How would you feel, then?"

          "Probably not that safe. Still, I can take care of myself. I didn't spill that drink on purpose, you know. It was just convenient that those guys were pissing me off."

          As much as men infuriate me, they also terrify me, and I know I can't have it both ways, the best of both worlds. I find it abominable to be in the presence of the vast majority of them, but I swallow my disgust and act like I tolerate them, like my distaste for gross, dehumanizing jokes and comments about me and my body only fake offend me, because that's what the cool girl does. Sadie actively has me pursue close professional relationships with men for the sake of my reputation and my career, particularly older men, and I can tell by her eyes she's not amused by it. She, too, stiffens whenever they reach out towards her, whenever their hands linger on the small of her back one second too long, and I know she's looking out for me, but sometimes I wonder if we share a past.

          Before being my agent, she's a woman. It's something intrinsically connected to being a woman; if you don't have one of those stories to share, you probably haven't processed it properly or never saw things that way.

          "I'm sorry," Nick says, fixing the lapels of my jacket—his jacket. "They were closing in on you. I didn't want anything bad to happen to you."

          "Nothing bad happened." I stare at his shoulder. I find it's easier to get emotional around him when I look him straight in the eye, so I choose against it. My chest still feels so tight, with an invisible hand squeezing and threatening to make my heart explode, and I reach for the door before I can do something stupid, like bursting into tears. "You can't protect me forever."

          "I know."

          I push open the door, back turned to him, and hold it open as I step inside with a sharp inhale. I feel his hesitation even without looking at him, and an eternity passes before he decides to follow me into the lobby with quick steps, dodging the curious looks the receptionist throws our way.

          We don't speak on our way up to my floor and I lean against one of the walls of the elevator, arms firmly crossed in front of my chest. I don't dare try and take a deep breath, out of fear it will be misinterpreted, and I know I should give Nick more credit, but everyone I've given the benefit of the doubt to has stuck a sharp knife on my back. There's little room for any more and I'm leaving a trail of blood behind me everywhere I go, a treat for the sharks.

          He's been in my apartment before, sometimes after the sun has set, sometimes during the day, so watching him go straight to the couch shouldn't be as unsettling, but it is. I left one of the windows open before I left, so the chill breeze has lowered the temperature inside by several degrees, sending chills across my nerves. I also attribute all my heightened emotions to my sensitivity to the cold weather, even after all these years living in New York, and I mentally curse myself for even considering ruining this friendship.

          It's strange, I think, how I cower away from anyone who attempts to touch me, yet all my cells are desperate for contact. I'm not begging him for anything, and he's not even looking my way, but his mere presence is intoxicating, like every atom in my body has been tuned to find his. It's pathetic and dangerous to even feel that way about someone else, and I can't allow myself to ever give in to those urges and desires. If it goes wrong, I'll be the only one to blame, and I can't bear to face another betrayal. I can't even handle imagining the look of disappointment in Sadie's face.

          "Are you okay?" Nick asks, with an arm swung over the couch. He's wearing a t-shirt, in spite of the weather, and his muscles flex when he moves. That, along with the harsh shadows and stark lights cast on his face by the dim lighting in my living room, would be a green light to move forward if neither of us cared, but I do—I care far too much, and everything in my brain is screaming danger. The green light fades and turns blood red.

          I wonder what it would be like, to just let go and let myself have what I want. Women like me don't get to do that; we don't get to hold on to pipe dreams and expect them to turn real. The dream died a long time ago.

          "I'm going back to California tomorrow morning," I tell him, pouring myself a glass of Diet Coke. The drink is so gelid it stuns me. "I won't be gone for long. You probably won't even notice I'm not here."

          "Is this your way of getting me to admit I'll miss you?"

          I scoff. "You have other friends."

          "A.J. is in London. There's not much for me to do here without her." I nod. A.J. Fleetwood, bless her soul, has starred opposite him in two different Broadway productions, both revivals—Spring Awakening and, most recently, Wicked—and they've been through their fair share of drama. From PR relationships to show choir competitions—losing the last championship to your best friend, like what happened to Nick, stings particularly hard—and being forcibly outed to the world, they have a bond I'll never be able to compete with. "My friends are all around the place. It doesn't mean I won't miss you in particular."

          I wrinkle my nose. "Don't do that to yourself."

          Across the room from me, his lips curve into a wide smirk. "You really ought to stop selling yourself short, Harley."

          The name rolls out of his tongue as easily as a breath, and it's what strikes me through the chest harder than everything else. I have to turn my back on him once more so he won't witness the tears welling up in my eyes, even after I rush to wipe them away with the heel of my free hand, and my own breaths come out so shaky and weak I'm beginning to wonder how silly little me is expected to face my past. I can't even talk about it with the people I trust, like I'm the only one in here who understands, and no one knows how isolating that is.

          I could turn back around and tell Nick all about it, destroying our relationship by trauma dumping on him like I didn't spend years of my life in therapy over this, but I don't. I value him too much—a nasty, nasty voice in the back of my head insists I only like what he can give me, not him as a person, and I don't want to believe I'm that disgusting of a human being—to get him more involved than he already is.

          "You can sleep on the couch, if you'd like," I say. My voice comes out small, like I'd shatter every piece of glass in the apartment if I were to raise my tone even the slightest bit, and the shadows start to close in on me. "I'll be gone by the time you wake up, but . . ."

          "Are you sure? I don't want to intrude."

          I nod, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. Something in the look he throws my way—concern, I'm guessing—almost brings me to tears, but I force myself to blink them away before they blur my vision and my judgment. "Yeah."

          He stays.

          I spend close to two hours sitting on the other side of my closed bedroom door, heart pounding so hard against my sternum I can hear it reverberating off the walls, so fast they warp. I don't want to lock my door because of Nick, and I close my hands into fists so tight my nails draw blood when they dig into the flesh of my palms so I won't get up and do it, but my brain pleads me to do it. It's wailing I'm not safe, insisting something catastrophic will happen if I keep the door unlocked.

          I almost don't do it. I almost don't.

          It breaks me into a million little pieces to get up, holding back a sob, but can't not do it. Once the lock clicks with my key in it and my bedroom stops spinning around me, that's when I can finally breathe.

⊹˚. ♡

we'll be in sweet california next chapter can you believe it