The Standout (2 page)

“You didn’t even know he was married,” Nick answers. His voice is low and gravelly, and he barely flinches as I recount all the details.

“But I should have known.” I tug on his big toe, which is safely ensconced in a hole-free sock. “So yeah, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

“Seriously?” His voice squeaks in question. “That’s all you’ve got?”

I scan my brain over a litany of parking tickets, overdue library books, and botched Secret-Santa gift exchanges. None of it compares to the shemozzle I just described. “I’m afraid so.”

Nick sits up and kisses my cheek. “I can totally live with that.” His smile is big and I feel myself smiling back. “Okay,” he says, “my turn. I was fourteen, at summer camp for the first time. . .”

Happily, I settle in and listen to his tale of lies, deceit, and stolen arts & crafts. Now he knows the worst of me. This intimacy thing isn’t so bad, after all.

“So are you sorry you ordered the trout?”

Nick’s eyes, which had been darting around the candle-lit dining room, restlessly settle on me. “Huh?”

“You barely touched your meal,” I say. “Didn’t you like it? Maybe you should have gone with the steak.”

Nick tugs absently on his dark brown necktie, which happens to match his hair and eyes perfectly. But underneath his normally tan complexion he’s sort of pale. “The trout was fine.” His answer sounds forced. “I just wasn’t that hungry.”

“Then why did we come here tonight? It’s not like it’s a special occasion.”

We’re at one of those low-lit steak houses, where people sip G&Ts while carving into huge hunks of meat. The only thing that makes this place unusual is that on weekends, Nick plays swanky lounge music to complete the posh atmosphere. “Besides,” I continue, “I would think you’d get enough of this place.”

As he reaches to scratch his temple I notice that his hand is shaking. “I have to get up for a minute.” His voice cracks like he’s in puberty.

“Are you okay?”

Nick suddenly becomes serious, solemn almost: the calm before a storm. He blinks, widens his eyes and stares into me. “I’m fine. But forgive me, Rocky, for what I’m about to do.”

“Huh?”

He nods to someone; I turn and there’s a sound guy by the piano. Nick jumps up, strolls over in broad steps, and the sound guy hands Nick a microphone. Then the restaurant lights dim to practically black, except for one light, that’s turned up directly over Nick’s head. “Excuse me, please!” Nick’s voice is still raspy but he’s determined to command the room. “Excuse me! I need everyone’s attention.”

The low murmur of dinner conversations diminishes and heads swivel towards Nick. “Thank you,” he says. “I hope you all don’t mind if I play just one song tonight. I’m not much of a singer, but you see. . ..” He gestures towards me and my jaw drops as a light comes on over my head. “. . .This beautiful woman here is my love, Robin. I like to call her Rocky.” He pauses and looks at me like we’re the only two people in the world. “Rocky, you once told me that you’re a sucker for a guy who can carry a tune, so this one’s for you.”

Then he sits down and tickles the keys with a combination of joy, competence, and frenzy, and all the while his eyes are glued to me. In his lilting voice, he croons the classic Beatles song
In My Life
.

I have heard this song many times but tonight Nick is reinventing it for me; heck, tonight he’s reinventing music in general. When Nick reaches the song’s bridge he has to look down at the keys for a moment, and his dark head is bowed while his fingers both glide and pound out this beautiful, haunting melody that lodges itself in my heart. When he looks up I feel an electric jolt. His cheeks are flushed and his voice cracks on the high note as he declares his undying love. Then Nick abandons the piano, comes straight over, crouches down on one knee and takes out a ring.

My heart’s in my throat.

Time stands still. I want to memorize every single one of his laugh lines, the curve of his mouth, the way his hair slopes over his ears, the strength of his jaw and the warmth of his eyes. “So,” he mumbles, breaking the silence. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” My cheeks are wet and I didn’t even know I’d been crying. Nick slips the ring over my finger, and we stand, wrapping our arms around each other, indulging in the sweetest of kisses. When the room erupts in spontaneous applause, I’m convinced: Cinderella has nothing on me, with her glass slipper and pumpkins at the stroke of midnight.

I found my prince, and even if he’s sweaty from nerves, his body heat could keep me warm until the day I die.

I suppose this sort of thing happens every day. People fall in love and decide to get married and it’s ordinary, expected even. So maybe it’s also ordinary and expected to believe that I am the only person who’s ever felt this way, to want to grab every stranger I pass on the street and dictate a list of Nick’s attributes. Said list would always end with, “and can you believe it? He’s in love with
me
.” But reciting the outward manifestations of Nick’s goodness still wouldn’t capture the contents of his heart, and this is how I know I am unique. I am the only person who has ever fallen in love with and gotten engaged to Nick Davies. Simply put, I’m the luckiest woman in the world.

Somebody was filming Nick’s proposal and it went viral, even making the local news. Nick’s song was brilliant and sweet and adorable and everything he does is newsworthy, but he insists that we got coverage because of my stint on the survival reality-TV show,
The Holdout
. I have my doubts because I’m less than yesterday’s news; I’m last week’s news, now used to line someone’s bunny rabbit cage.

“People have totally forgotten about me,” I tell Nick.

But he always says the same thing back: “That’s just what you want to believe.”

And I have to concede, that at least here in Des Moines, some people still pay attention to me. Nick believes that’s why there were photos in
The Register
, and why the footage was played on a local TV station. So for the last week, people at the grocery, the gas station, and the deli stand have been congratulating me. But today I haven’t been out much and there’s not a lot of traffic in my studio/store either. That suits me because I’m in a reclusive mood, happy to do some beading on the
Downton Abbey
-style cocktail dress I’m working on.

Eventually I get bored and take a break by checking my email. There is a message from an unknown source:
[email protected]
. The subject line says, “You need to read this.”

I click it open.

“Robin,

I’m giving you options. You never gave me any options before you stole everything I had, so consider yourself lucky!

You can. . .

Dump Nick. You’re not good enough for him and you know I am right.

Leave the country and never come back. (You can’t tell anyone where you’re going!)

Be honest about who you are. Let the world see you are a worthless whore and then you won’t have to dump Nick because he will dump you.

Do one of these things and I will give you back all your accounts and delete the pictures and videos. If you simply ignore this email then I will be forced to make the choice for you and I guarantee you won’t like it.

Stunned, I stare at the words, and after a while they blur together, forming into dark clumps of pixels that have no real meaning. I take a deep breath, hit “reply” and type out my response:

I’m going to the police the second you try anything. Don’t screw with me. You won’t like it.

I hit send before I can think too long about the wisdom behind it. It doesn’t matter, because a second later I get a response:
Mailer-Daemon@Bricker_Robin.com

This message was created automatically by mail delivery software. A message you sent has not yet been delivered to one or more of its recipients. . .

I press delete and then it’s just my inbox that’s displayed on my computer screen, with Fashion Queen 82’s message at the top. I Google “Fashion Queen 82” but find nothing.

Looking off, out the window, I see that it’s begun to rain. Gray clouds hang low and heavy in the sky and I feel like there’s one directly over my head. That email could be from anyone. It could be some random person who has seen me on TV, someone who knows about Nick’s proposal, someone who knows how to send email from an anonymous address, and who has now arbitrarily decided that she hates me.

Or it could be from Clara.

The rain never lets up, and it’s one of those afternoons when I’m wet and shivering just from darting from my car to the front door. I unlock it and enter, and a chill rolls through me right as there’s a loud clap of thunder and a flash of lightning.

“Hello?” Only the emptiness of the house answers back. That’s okay. I’m dreaming of a hot shower followed by some mac & cheese and bad television. Then my cell phone rings.

I’m still dripping in the entryway as I answer. “Hey, Saul” I say, recognizing Nick’s father from my caller ID. “How are you?”

“Irritated,” he replies. “I don’t know why stores don’t value their coupons. I was going to buy steak today but they lied about the price and there’s no way I’m paying twelve bucks for a piece of meat.”

Nick’s dad likes to gripe about things, but really, don’t we all? I know that Saul tests the limits of Nick’s patience, but personally I prefer a crusty temperament to an overly cheerful one. “So were you able to find anything to eat?” I ask.

“Tuna,” he grumbles. “I suppose I’ll have tuna again.”

This is my cue. “Why don’t you come here for dinner tonight? We’d love to see you.”

He mutters his assent and promises to be over soon. I text Nick:
Saul is eating dinner with us. You have to pick up steak.

Later, Nick and I are in the kitchen while Saul watches television in our living room, several feet away.

“I’m really not in the mood for my dad tonight.” Nick speaks low, grimacing while he seasons the steaks. Nick pretty much represses all of his Oedipal anger and resentment in the name of sonly duty, but he wants freedom from his Dad’s harsh criticisms and neediness.

I take a paper towel and wipe the counter. “Sorry, but what was I supposed to do? I kind of had to invite him.”

“No you didn’t. But he knows you’re a soft touch, which is why he called you instead of me.”

I throw the paper towel away, and find a corkscrew so we can break out our most expensive bottle of wine, the one that cost twelve bucks on sale. “Don’t you think it’s important to have him over, Nick? We need to keep our family close. . .”

“. . .and our enemies closer?” Nick retorts. “With my dad it’s the same thing.” Impatient, Nick grabs both the bottle and the corkscrew from me.

“I was going to open that,” I protest.

“You were messing it up. It was going in crooked.”

“No it wasn’t.”

Nick sets his jaw as he opens the wine and he looks so miserable that I can’t even be annoyed. “Hey. . .” I step close and brush my lips against his. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he concedes, but he doesn’t let go of his tension. Instead, he sets the uncorked bottle down and looks at his watch. “When is Andrea getting back?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you call her?”

“I did already and she didn’t pick up.” When he exhales I can feel the pressure lingering in the air. “She’d better be home for dinner. I need her for reinforcements.”

“Why? We’ll be fine.”

“He’s just on better behavior when she’s around.” Nick sighs again, softer this time. “I swear, something’s up with her. She used to be so responsible, now half the time I can’t even reach her.”

Years ago, after Nick’s mother died of breast cancer, Nick became Andrea’s guardian and he’s basically raised her on his own. Saul sort of suffered a breakdown, so now he spends most of his time online, reading about conspiracies and running his own blog,
Conspiracy News Today
. Nick also has an older sister, but she was a groupie until she got married and became busy with her own family. Now Andrea’s a senior in high school and Nick is her hero. He adores her as much as she adores him, so that’s a lot of adoration to compete with.

Did I say compete? No, no. . . It’s not a competition. Actually, Andrea and I get along great, in that we don’t fight and she lets me be nice to her. There are absolutely no problems there.

Andrea doesn’t pick up when Nick calls her again, so he cooks those steaks and I make a salad and pour the wine, and soon we’re sitting in our dining room, just an ordinary dysfunctional family enjoying dinner on a rainy weeknight.

“Is there going to be more food?” Saul grunts, pushing the chopped zucchini around on his plate. “Not that this isn’t delicious, but a few vegetables and one small piece of meat aren’t enough.”

“The steak’s big, Dad.” Nick taps his fork against his plate. “And with the walnuts and the feta in the salad, you’ll be plenty full. Just give it a chance.”

“I’m not criticizing,” Saul answers. “I was just asking.”

“I could make you some toast,” I say. “Would you like some toast?”

Saul twists his mouth at the idea. “I’m not trying to be a bother, but usually with steak you serve potatoes.”

He says this looking only at me, his voice measured and overly patient.

“Sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t think about potatoes.”

“Actually, I was in charge of dinner,” Nick interjects. “Robin volunteered to make a salad and I handled the main course.”

“You two need to work on your system.” Saul scratches his neck, his skin flaking off and sprinkling our dark blue tablecloth with tiny white specs.

Nick clears his throat. “Robin and I have news, Dad. We’re getting married.”

Saul’s craggy face doesn’t even flinch. Maybe he already saw the proposal on TV? He blinks a couple of times, as if he’s thinking slightly harder than usual, and says, “Congratulations. That’s great. What are you going to do about money?” He directs his words only at Nick. “I have no idea how you managed to snag someone so pretty, but Son, be realistic. Robin could be a trophy wife if she wanted to, spending her days spending some rich guy’s money. You’d better have a plan.”