Chapter 67

“Well, I think I’m gonna go change my clothes,” Claire announced when they had finished their ice cream. “Be right back.” She headed off to her bedroom, and Nick remained on the couch, watching “ET”. When Claire reappeared a few minutes later, she had traded her dental hygienist’s scrubs for a pair of thin, cotton pajama pants and a ratty-looking t-shirt. Flopping down onto the couch beside Nick, she pulled her bare feet up with her, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Oh no!” she cried as her attention moved to the TV, “this is when they come to get ET!”

“I know,” Nick said.

“I always cry at this movie, when ET dies…”

Nick chuckled lightly, refusing to admit that he, too, had cried at the end of “ET” before. Of course, that wasn’t quite as bad as Howie crying at Titanic – Nick would never let him live that one down. A loveable alien was one thing, but Leonardo DiCaprio? Ugh.

After that, their conversation died down, and they watched the rest of the movie in silence, Nick stiffening awkwardly when he heard tiny sniffles coming from Claire’s side of the couch. Crying girls always freaked him out.

By the time the movie ended, it was ten p.m., and pathetic as it sounded, Nick was already getting sleepy. Normally he was more of a night owl, but the chemo had taken its toll, leaving him feeling tired almost all the time and ready to go to bed at early hours. Still, he didn’t feel like going home just yet, and Claire didn’t seem too anxious for him to leave yet either, so he decided to stay awhile longer. Flipping through the channels, Claire found back to back episodes of “The Man Show” on Comedy Central, and they settled back to watch.

I’ll go home when this is over, Nick told himself.

But eleven o’clock found both him and Claire sound asleep on the couch, his head leaning back against the sofa, mouth hanging open, snoring slightly, while Claire’s head had fallen onto his shoulder. And by the time Nick awoke and realized this, the sky was already beginning to lighten. Squinting groggily around the room in search of a clock, Nick saw that it was just past five in the morning. He had slept for six hours straight, sitting up, on a couch. How he had managed to do that was beyond him, but after so many years of touring and spending every night sleeping either on a bus or in one unfamiliar hotel bed after another, he supposed he had grown accustomed to being able to sleep anywhere.

Claire was still slumped against him in sleep, and he didn’t want to move and wake her, but he was dying to get up and stretch. Carefully scooting out from under her, easing her head down to the couch, he stood up, his muscles screaming in protest. He shook out his shoulders and rotated his neck, trying to get the crick out.

“Are you still here?” he heard a muffled voice say and turned to find Claire blinking tiredly up at him from the couch.

“’Morning,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Apparently we fell asleep. I just woke up.”

“What time is it?”

“Like five.”

“Wow…”

He chuckled. “Yeah… well… I guess I should just go then… you probably want to go back to bed.”

“Nah… I’m good for now,” Claire said, pulling herself up into a sitting position. “Besides, I might as well make you breakfast before you leave.”

He blinked. “Breakfast? I thought you didn’t cook.”

“I don’t,” she smiled. “But I can make eggs… or pancakes…”

“You don’t have to. If anything, I should be making breakfast for you. After that backrub last night…”

“Good point,” said Claire. “You cook.” She grinned expectantly at him, and he laughed.

“Well… okay…” Uncertainly, he wandered into the kitchen, where he stood blankly for a moment, wondering what to make and how to go about doing it. I can do this, he thought after a moment; he was not completely clueless in the kitchen. Living alone as a bachelor, he couldn’t afford to be; he had to provide for himself somehow, and he refused to act like some stuffy, snobbish rich person and hire a cook. He was not entirely helpless.

Pancakes sounded good to him, so he started opening cupboards in search of a box of Bisquik. Luckily, the kitchen was so small that there wasn’t much storage place, so he was able to find what he needed easily. Carefully following the pancake recipe on the side of the Bisquik box, he had a batch whipped up in no time and was flipping browning pancakes on the griddle (and feeling very domestic, mind you).

“Mmm,” Claire inhaled, coming into the kitchen just as Nick started piling the hot pancakes onto two plates. “Dang, Nick, those look good! I didn’t think you’d have a clue how to do that!”

“I used Bisquik,” he admitted, handing her a plate stacked with pancakes.

“So? I still didn’t think you’d be able to do it,” she laughed. “So Mr. Backstreet Boy does know his way around a kitchen… interesting.”

“Hey, I cook for myself at home,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Do you really? You don’t have someone to do that for you?”

“Nope.”

“Do you have a cleaning lady?”

“… Well, yeah…”

“Ha, gotcha on that one,” she said smugly. “Of course you’d have a maid.”

“Well, she’s not like a maid maid like you’d think… I mean, she doesn’t live with me and walk around in a skimpy black dress with a white apron and a feather duster all the time. She just comes once a week, ya know,” he explained.

“I see.” Claire smiled, glanced down at her plate, and then said, “Well, come on, let’s eat before these get cold.” She rummaged through the refrigerator and retrieved a tub of margarine and a bottle of maple syrup, which she placed on the kitchen table between them as they both sat down. His appetite aroused by the aroma of warm pancakes, Nick eagerly smeared butter across his stack and then proceeded to drench it in syrup, the thick, brown liquid flowing down the sides of the mountain of pancakes like hot lava on a volcano.

“So,” Nick said between bites, “what are you up to today?”

“Working,” replied Claire through a mouthful of pancake. Swallowing, she added, “I’m on at eight.”

“Oh, fun.”

“Uh, yeah. So, how about you? Doing anything interesting?”

“Probably heading to Michaels to pick up a picture frame for this painting I have, if that counts as interesting,” laughed Nick.

“Oh, I love Michaels!” exclaimed Claire. “I spend way too much money there on scrapbooking stuff.”

“Scrapbooking?”

“Yeah, I’m addicted to scrapbooking; it’s awesome! I should get you into it…”

“Ha, yeah right,” Nick chuckled. “Sorry, but I don’t think scrapbooking is really a ‘manly’ hobby, you know?”

“Oh, psh,” Claire replied with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t know why it’s considered girly to organize your pictures and memory stuff in a book.”

Nick just shrugged; he could actually almost picture Kevin doing something like that… the guy was forever taking pictures and filming them with his camcorder, and he was just anal enough to want every photograph he owned categorized and organized neatly in a memory album.

When they were done eating, Nick asked, “You want me to help you with dishes or anything? I kinda made a mess…” He eyed the bowl he had used to mix the pancakes; it was now encrusted with dried batter.

“Nah, that’s okay. You cooked; I’ll clean,” she replied reasonably. “I’ll have just enough time to straighten up before I have to go get ready for work.”

“Well, okay… if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” she replied. “So, you gonna take off now?”

“Yeah,” Nick replied. “Hey, thanks for inviting me over last night. It was fun.”

She smiled. “Yeah. We should hang out more… but at your place next time. You know I wanna see how the other half lives.” She winked, and he just rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, whatever.” He grabbed his flip-flops and as he slid them on, asked, “Hey, do you want my phone number? I mean, it’s unlisted, obviously, so you can’t just look it up like I can yours… just in case you wanna hang out or something.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” she replied. “Let me grab you something to write it down on cause if you just tell it to me, you know I’ll forget it in like two seconds.” She rummaged through one of her drawers and came up with a small tablet of paper and a pen, which he used to jot down his number.

“There ya go,” he said. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, see you… on the nineteenth, if not before, right?”

“The nineteenth?” Nick repeated blankly.

“Doctor’s appointment? Or don’t tell me they messed up the scheduling this time around?”

“Oh!” Nick laughed. “No, I think it is on the nineteenth… so yeah, I guess I’ll see you then.”

“It’s a date,” smirked Claire with a roll of her eyes.

“Oh yeah… oncology clinic waiting room… great date,” Nick nodded sarcastically.

Claire giggled. “Well, you’d better scram now cause I gotta start getting cleaned up, or I’m gonna be late.”

“Yeah,” said Nick. “See ya later.”

“See ya.”

They exchanged smiles, and he left the apartment, trudging through the dreary hallway and down the narrow stairwell until he reached the small parking lot, where his SUV was parked. Yawning, he climbed inside and started his engine, hoping he wouldn’t fall asleep on the drive home. It was way too early to be up.

***

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