Gorgeous Misery (Creeping Beautiful)

He closes the door and I listen for his creaky footsteps as he makes his way into the kitchen. Probably to mix me up a powdered electrolyte drink. And I spend the next thirty seconds or so clinging to the edge of the sink, staring into the drain, as I wait for my head to stop spinning from the walk.

When my brain is mostly settled, I pee, then stand back up and try not to look at myself as I wash my hands.

My mouth feels like cotton. But I’m at Nick Tate’s house. And this is never a bad thing when you’re teetering on the edge of insanity and need something real and normal to pull you back.

When I swing open the mirror vanity and find a little plastic box with a piece of black electrical tape across the front with the name ‘Wendy’ written on it in silver Sharpie, I say a prayer of thanks for my Nick.

Here’s something else no one knows about Nick except me. He has beautiful handwriting. Once, when I was like eleven, we were in the bookstore, and you know those bargain shelves? They have all kinds of pretty colorful coffee table books in that section. And kits of things. Like… learn origami kits. Or bullet journal kits. Shit like that. On that day I wanted a calligraphy kit. Lauren was only like two and a half when this happened, so she didn’t care one way or the other. But Nick bought that kit for me and we spent an entire week at Hilton Head resort, sitting at the beach or the outdoor restaurants, and he learned calligraphy with me.

So my silver Sharpie name written on that random piece of black electrical tape is an example of some of the most beautiful letters ever imagined. And I wasn’t the one who wrote it. I wasn’t the one who put a new-in-the-package toothbrush in the little plastic container, either.

That was Nick.

Because I’m telling you, he might kill little blonde girls for a living, but he’s a really nice guy.

When I come out of the bathroom Nick is sitting in one of two chairs at his crappy kitchen table. There are two electrolyte drinks, one in front of him and one in front of my chair.

Told ya he was making me a drink.

He’s grinning too. “Sit. Drink. Tell me everything.”

Not everything, because we still don’t know if it’s safe to talk. But that’s not what Nick means. When he says ‘tell me everything’ he means I should catch him up on what’s been happening in my life since we saw each other last. Nothing serious. Stupid things.

So I take a seat, drink, and then I start talking.

I tell him random things about the last eight months. I keep a journal so I don’t forget these things, but the journal is kept hidden in the backseat armrest of my truck and I don’t have any idea where my truck is right now, so I just wing it.

There is a short story about a donut shop in Peoria, Illinois, a hotel I stayed at in Mississippi, and a roadside stand in Ohio where I bought some deer jerky that was to die for.

Nick smiles through all of it. “Welp. I’ll put it all on the list for the honeymoon.”

That’s right. Our honeymoon is a road trip. We’re gonna road-trip the fuck out of this planet. Like, I’m talking six continents of road trips. We’re gonna ride bikes, and drive cars, and ride wild horses in Mongolia for our road trip. The Arctic comes with dog sleds. I’m really fucking excited about the dog sleds. We’d do Antarctica too, but the Company running shit down there is a whole other story and they shoot you if you get too close. Not even Adam could road-trip across Antarctica. So whatever.

“Now it’s your turn,” I say.

He leans back in his chair, making it squeak. Nick Tate is a very handsome man. I get it. He’s a lot older than me, but he only got better with age. And even though he’s way up in his thirties now, I still see him as that frantic twenty-two-year-old with the new baby at the airstrip.

His hair was very blond back then but it’s gotten darker over the years. His eyes are still the same, that warm brown color that glows amber in the sunlight. He’s always had an athletic body—lean, but muscular. That’s just his genetics. And he’s always tan, because even though he owns this giant farm in Nebraska, he’s almost always near a beach. I have a feeling that he’d rather live on the ocean than land. And if it weren’t for me, and his desire to remain close to Sasha and Lauren, he’d just buy a yacht and sail off, never to be seen again.