5. On the Sound System “Apologize” by Timbaland, featuring OneRepublic

CHAPTER 5

ON THE SOUND SYSTEM: “APOLOGIZE” BY TIMBALAND, FEATURING ONEREPUBLIC

Nicolette is holding a glass of pink champagne at an impossibly chic New York City Christmas party. She’s seated on a banquette, smushed together with her best friend, Cici. They were boarding school roommates for six years.

Cici’s parents have rented out this edgy room at the top of a hotel called The Standard, filling it with investment bankers, socialites, and friends of their two grown children. The food is smashing—little bites of roast beef en croute with horseradish. Smoked salmon with creme fraiche. Tiny meatballs served on toothpicks. Cheeses. Strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.

The only thing Nicolette doesn’t like is the mulled wine, but possibly that’s not the venue’s fault. Maybe putting spices into wine is just a bad idea on principle. At the first opportunity, she abandoned her glass on a grand piano and took a glass of bubbly off a passing tray.

Now she’s trying to follow the deeply involved conversation two prep-school friends are having about the plot of Lost . She loves these friends but can’t follow the conversation. She’s just come off another grueling exam season and hasn’t watched TV in months.

She’s just tired, period. When Cici asked her to come to New York right before Christmas, she said yes as a means of getting out of her stepmother’s stupid caroling party. She didn’t realize she was saying yes to three days of shopping and dining out and partying like a Mean Girls character.

Tomorrow, at least, she can fly home and spend the rest of Christmas break reading and skiing. Her stepmother Veronica is sending the twins off on a New Year’s cruise with their father, which will get them out of Nicolette’s hair.

It’s pretty much perfect, except for one problem. She texted Damien twice today, hoping to set up a ride home from the Burlington airport. But the texts won’t go through.

At first, she’d chalked it up to bad connectivity in Vermont. Cell phones just don’t work there as well as they do in the rest of the world. It’s one of the things she loves about the place.

But her third attempt didn’t work, either. She’s running out of time, and she really wants to see his face. She looks forward to it every time she goes home. That rugged smile. Those flannel shirts rolled up onto forearms that flex when he lifts her bags.

And those soft brown eyes. That’s what she misses most of all. And the way he listens with his whole body when she speaks.

He’s the best thing about Christmas. So where is he?

Nicolette slides off the banquette and heads for a quieter corner in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room has sweeping views of lower Manhattan and New Jersey. Since it’s nighttime, there are glittering city lights in every direction, split by the dark slash of the river.

It’s intensely beautiful, and she wishes Damien could see it. She wonders if he’s ever been to New York.

After pulling her phone out of her clutch bag, she texts him again. Message not delivered is the response a few seconds later.

It’s so confusing. Every time Damien drops her off, he says, “Call me anytime.” He wouldn’t have changed his number, right? What taxi service does that?

Unless he lost his phone recently, and is in the process of getting a new one…

“You’re looking smashing this evening, Nicolette. Want a brownie?”

She looks up to find Cam, Cici’s older brother, standing before her, and it’s startling. Cam has always startled her. He’s blond and beautiful, just like his sister, with Hollywood features and carefully tousled hair.

Tonight, he’s wearing a deep-blue shirt that makes him look a little dangerous. “Are they ordinary brownies?” she asks. “Or are you up to your old tricks?”

He laughs. “They’re honestly just brownies. Although I might have snuck the platter out of the kitchen uninvited.” He extends a tray which contains a couple dozen bite-sized brownies. “Help me hide the evidence?”

Her smile is automatic, because it’s Cam. “Thank you.” She takes one and pops it into her mouth, causing Cam to grin, displaying perfect teeth to go with his perfect face.

Nicolette spent all of middle and high school praying that Cam would notice her. If he’d ever crossed the dining hall at Andover to offer her a brownie, she would have died of happiness.

Now she’s just a little weary. And also distracted by the Damien issue.

“Listen, a few of us are going out to 1 Oak after this,” Cam says. “Want to come?”

Nicolette’s smile brightens again, because it’s Cam after all. But now she has a problem. She’s not very interested in clubbing and probably can’t fake it. She’ll fall asleep in a corner somewhere and demonstrate once and for all that she’s not a fun person. “That sounds wild. But Cici and I were going to head back to your parents’ place. It’s our last chance to hang out together before I go back to Vermont.”

Cam doesn’t look offended, because why would he? He’s hot and rich, and the monied twenty-something women of New York fall at his feet.

He does, however, look thoughtful. He tilts his perfect face before he speaks again. “You realize, Nicky, that you don’t really have to go back to Vermont, right? You could just stay uptown with us for another week. I know you aren’t a fan of your father’s new wife.”

For a moment, Nicolette is too stunned to speak. This observation is far more startling than the offer of a brownie or the invitation to tag along to a club. Until tonight, he’d never shown any sign of paying attention to anything she’d ever said .

“Thank you. But I have to go home,” she says. “Because if I don’t…”

On second thought, she doesn’t actually want to verbalize the rest.

“If you don’t?” he prompts.

“Then she wins. Then Veronica pushes me out of my own house.” And that isn’t even the worst of it. If she doesn’t go home, she’s also ceding her father—what little part of himself he bothers to share with her—entirely to his new wife and stepkids.

Cam nods, his expression grave. “Yeah, okay. Can’t let the bitch win. I approve.”

Again, Nicolette’s smile is automatic. But it’s a little thin.

“Maybe another time?” Cam adds, and then his perfect eyebrows do a flirty thing that she’s seen him do before—just never aimed at her. “A bunch of us were thinking of going to St. Barts for spring break.”

“That does sound fun,” she says, although spring break feels a million years off.

“If you come, I’ll make sure that it is,” he says. “Want another brownie?”

Stunned again, Nicolette shakes her head. He gives her another flirty smile and then finally moves on to talk to another girl in an even shorter dress. The whole interaction had lasted maybe three minutes. Five, tops.

Still, it’s odd. She shakes herself. And then she pulls out her phone again to check the screen, which is still dark.

“What did my brother want?” Cici asks, sneaking up on her.

Nicolette looks up, startled. “They’re going to some club. He invited us, but I told him we were going to chill together instead.”

Cici’s gaze travels over to her brother and then back again. “ Interesting .”

“Which part?”

“All of it? For starters, Cam remembered we exist. And then you actually turned him down?” She lets out a throaty laugh.

Nicolette feels a flush climbing her cheeks. “It’s been years since I mooned after Cam,” she says, because denying that she ever has wouldn’t be very credible .

“I know, and thank God. But he probably took one look at you decked out in that dress—” Cici waves a hand at the Marc Jacobs minidress on Nicolette. “And he said to himself, ‘Wait, isn’t that Cici’s friend? She used to be invisible, but now she’s got long legs and tits! I’d better hit that.’”

Nicolette gives a sniff. “He’s just making the rounds. And there’s no way I’m going clubbing. My feet are already killing me.”

Cici shakes out her golden curls. “You don’t have to convince me. Just prepare yourself to fend him off again next time. The fact that you actually turned him down means he’ll be back. Cam can’t stand to hear ‘no.’”

Nicolette just shrugs, because she has trouble believing that Cam is capable of insecurities. And also because she’s busy pulling out her phone again for another glance at the screen.

“Hold on,” Cici says, her voice rising with delight. “Nicolette Chelsea Overland, why do you keep checking your phone? Are you waiting to hear from a guy ? Do you have a boyfriend, and you forgot to tell me?”

“God no. I wish.”

“Then why do you keep staring at that screen? I’ve seen you do that all night.”

“Sorry.” Again, a denial would probably not be very credible. “I’ve just been trying to reach the driver in Vermont. The one who always picks me up from the airport.”

“Ohhh,” she says with a sigh. “The dreamy one? Damien? You told me all about him. Last summer when we drank all that schnapps on the boat.”

Nicolette shudders. Because boats and schnapps don’t mix, and that night hadn’t ended well. But it had been a rainy weekend in the Hamptons, and they were bored. Secondly—and far worse—she’s embarrassed to have brought up Damien like that.

“I’d never call anyone dreamy . What a stupid thing to say.”

“You absolutely did. And then when I suggested you have a summer fling with him, you got all sniffy. You said he wasn’t fling material.”

“He isn’t,” Nicolette says quickly. “We’re just friends.”

“Friends who also want to bone.” She shrugs. “I know you don’t really do casual. But Christmas vacation is, what? Three weeks? A fling is all you have time for.”

It’s true that Nic has never managed to figure out casual sex. Either a guy isn’t interesting enough to bother, or she likes him too much to be casual about it. The only time she had a one-night stand, it left her feeling cheap and lonelier than ever.

And then there’s the problem that she’s a chicken. Propositioning Damien—handsome, strong, self-possessed Damien—sounds utterly impossible.

“I just…can’t,” she admits. “Besides—if I scared him off, I don’t know who would drive me home from the airport. There aren’t a lot of taxi services in central Vermont.”

Instead of agreeing with her, Cici makes a sad face. “When’s the last time you really had it bad for a guy, though? Someone you couldn’t stop thinking about?”

“I don’t know,” she lies, because it’s easier than admitting that Cici’s brother is the only other guy who ever drew her interest for more than a minute. And the two men are so different. It’s hard to imagine that Cam and Damien are even the same species.

“Oh honey, I get it. You’re always so afraid to get attached. You can blame your parents for your attachment issues. But what if it doesn’t have to be such a big deal? When you see Damien again, just tell him, ‘Hey, when you have a night off, I’d love to go out for pizza again. We had fun that time.’ And see what he says?”

“It sounds so easy when you put it like that.”

“Because it is?” Cici shrugs. “Just try it. You never really go after the things you really want.”

That’s depressingly accurate. Then again, when Nicolette tries to picture herself asking Damien out on a date, she feels herself blushing all over.

On the other hand, she literally owns a coffee mug that reads: Do one thing every day that scares you . And does she follow this advice? Nope. Never.

“Fine. If I agree to do it, can we go home now?” Nicolette asks. “I need to be well-rested to humiliate myself.”

Cici lets out a whoop. “I’ll find our coats.”

Nicolette wakes up in a graciously appointed spare bedroom in the Wentworth family mansion the next morning. The first thing she does is reach for her phone to look for a text from Damien.

There’s nothing, which is awfully weird and not exactly confidence-boosting. Is he really blowing her off? Is he too busy for the airport pickup and doesn’t care enough to say so?

That doesn’t sound like him, though. He’s always happy to see her. This past May, when he’d picked her up in Burlington, they’d hit a coffee-shop drive-through and then sat in the parking lot catching up before he drove her home. She’d demanded his sketchbook again, and he’d gamely pulled it out from under the seat to show her.

He doesn’t drink coffee with her out of pity, right? That’s not how taxis work.

So where is he?

She picks up her phone and hits the Call button. Texts are their usual MO, but her flight lands at two, and it’s nine a.m. already. She’s got to get a hold of him.

Damien’s voicemail picks up right away, and she holds her breath so she can hear the low scrape of his voice better.

“You have reached Damien’s Taxi Service,” his message says. “Unfortunately, I’ve stepped away from the business for a while, and I’m out of town. So please dial Rose’s Taxi at 802-238-4135. She’ll get you where you need to go.”

When the message ends, Nicolette has to call back, because she was too surprised to write down the number for Rose’s Taxi. And what does stepped away mean, exactly? That he got a better job?

She can’t help it. She feels stung. Not because Damien isn’t driving anymore. That’s probably a good thing. But he could have said something.

“Nicolette?” comes Cici’s voice from the corridor. “I got the good bagels, with smoked salmon!”

She looks up from her phone and takes in the beautiful room, with the silk curtains and the thick carpets. “I’ll be right there,” she says sheepishly. “Thank you.”

Dropping her phone onto the bed, she lets out a quiet groan. Every day—all day—she lives her life surrounded by outrageous privilege. She thinks of herself as a person who takes nothing for granted, but that’s a lie, right? It’s absurd to think that Damien should phone his clients to inform them of his career decisions.

You are ridiculous , she chides herself. Stop it .

It’s just that Cici was right. Nicolette never lets herself get very attached to anyone, because they always disappear. Like her mother—gone from a brain tumor when she was ten. And her father, who can’t be bothered to pick her up from an airport himself.

Damien picked her up because it was his job, but it always felt like more than that. She imagined they had a real connection. That he was as interested in her as he was in the sixty-dollar fare.

Maybe he found a way to go to art school, though. She should be happy that he’s chasing his dreams.

She picks up her phone one more time and calls Rose’s Taxi.

Seven hours later, she gets off a plane in the Burlington Airport—the first place Damien ever dropped her off. It’s Christmas Eve, so there’s a Christmas tree in the corner on the rugged carpeting. It’s the kind with industrial tinsel and presents that are probably just wrapped empty boxes.

Nicolette feels a little hollow inside—like one of those fake gifts. And even though she knows he’s not coming, she glances around for Damien at the baggage claim.

There’s no sign of him, and she feels a fresh wave of disappointment.

Her bag trundles toward her on the carousel, and she yanks it off the conveyor belt and extends the handle. If he were here, he’d tease her about how much the bag weighs. How many bricks did you bring home this time?

She drags the bag out to the curb and eyes each car until she spots one that has OVERLAND scribbled on a cardboard sign in the window.

As she approaches the car, a middle-aged Black woman with short salt-and-pepper hair climbs out to meet her. “So you’re Nicolette,” she says with an appraising frown .

“Um, yes?” That strikes her as an odd introduction. “Are you Rose? Thanks for picking me up on short notice.”

The woman looks her up and down, nods, and then heaves her bag into the car’s trunk in one fluid motion. “Got bricks in there?”

Nicolette sighs. Then she climbs into the backseat, the way most people ride in a taxi. But it feels all wrong now.

Luckily, Rose doesn’t try to make conversation. Instead, she turns up the radio, which is set to a news channel. It doesn’t help Nicolette’s mood to hear about the recent North Korean nuclear tests. Or fighting in Afghanistan. Intense clashes between NATO forces and Taliban insurgents have resulted in the heaviest casualties seen this year …

If Damien were here, they’d be singing along to Christmas tunes by George Michael and Whitney Houston. She’d be nagging him to see his latest vampire drawings.

And maybe—just maybe—she’d have been brave enough to ask him out for a drink after Christmas.

“Got something for you,” says Rose from the front seat.

“Sorry?”

“Here.” Without taking her eyes off the road, Rose lifts a white envelope and offers it over her shoulder. “He left this for you.”

“Damien?” Nicolette asks stupidly.

“Of course, Damien,” Rose says gruffly. “It’s not from Santa Claus, is it? He gave me this letter and said to give it to you when you called.”

Nicolette takes the envelope and smooths it across her lap. NICOLETTE it reads in dark black ink. There’s a little drawing of Selene Nightshade—the vampire inspired by her—grinning beside the letters.

Her eyes begin to sting. Because he didn’t forget about her after all.

She carefully slides her thumb under the flap, taking care not to rip the envelope. She pulls out two sheets of paper and begins to read.

Nicolette —

Happy Holiday vacation! I hope you manage to avoid your stepmonster’s caroling party on your own this year, because I can’t be there to help. I’m not sure where I’ll be when you get this letter. Maybe Texas. Or maybe Afghanistan or Iraq. I’ve enlisted in the army, because I can earn a good living and then go to school on the G.I. bill. It’s the best way I could figure out how to move my life forward.

Maybe you’re reading this and wondering why your taxi driver felt like he had to explain his disappearance. And you’d have a point. Except you’re the one who pushed me to try for school, and nobody else in my life has done that. Literally nobody. I just thought you’d be interested to hear that it made a difference to me. I realized that I don’t always want to be a taxi driver who draws on the side. I’d like to be an artist who also drives a taxi.

So thanks for that.

Sincerely,

Damien Rossi

P.S. Part of our training is going to include running up and down hills with a seventy-pound pack. I figure after handling your luggage, I already have an edge on the rest of the guys.

In the back seat, Nicolette lets out a combination laugh and sob.

“Everything okay back there?” the driver asks.

It’s really, really not.