Page 32 of A Storybook Wedding

I nod. “I would really like that.”

We continue to chat, and once our beverages are empty, Nate shares an Uber with me to Penn Station and then continues on to his apartment, which, he tells me, is on the Upper West Side. When we say goodbye, he thanks me for a lovely evening and reaches out to give me a hug. It’s a tight squeeze in the back seat of the Corolla we’re in, but for about ten seconds, our arms are wrapped around each other, and I swear I can hear him inhale my hair.

Not that I notice or anything.

CHAPTER 6

Nate

I’m not really sure what happened between me and Cecily last night. I mean, yes, I was there. Obviously. But it’s not every day that I hang out with someone unexpectedly like that and enjoy it so much. I’m Nate Ellis, misanthrope, loner. I keep friends and socializing to a minimum.

So you can imagine my surprise when I wake up the next morning and find sixteen missed texts on my cell phone.

Bro! Why am I watching you on Fallon right now?

Honey, we saw you on the Tonight Show! Daddy has it on DVR!

Nate!!! Who’s the hot chick eye-banging you on national TV?

Yo, Nate, long time no speak! So, first books, now TV? Let’s catch up soon, dude!

And my personal favorite, which makes me want to strangle myself with my phone charger: Hi Nate. I saw you doing karaoke on that late night show. Just wanted to tell you that I miss you, and if things don’t work out with the girl from karaoke, you know where to find me.

And this is just a sample.

I frantically google “The Tonight Show last night” and find Questlove’s Kazoo Karaoke Bomb segment from just hours ago readily available on YouTube. I click on it. It has forty-five thousand views already.

Well.

I suppose objectively, it’s not so bad. CJ’s on fire—she’s really got that whole hot librarian thing down pat—and Questlove looks so damn cool, I’m sure the kazoo will end up trending worldwide. Then there’s me. I’m singing. And—yikes—attempting to dance.

Breathe, Nate.

And yup, there it is. She lays a fat smooch right on my mouth for the whole world to see.

It’s fine. I mean, right? It’s fine. I’m sure it’ll be old news by tomorrow.

In fact, it’s so not a big deal that I don’t even give it a second thought as I shower and get myself dressed for Thanksgiving. I continue to ignore the steady stream of text messages from people I haven’t seen or spoken to in forever as I make my way to the NJ Transit train into New Jersey. I switch the phone from vibrate to silent, just because I can’t with all the buzzing.

It’s only once I’m settled into a seat on the train that I extract the phone from my pocket and see that I’ve got a mildly disconcerting email.

From Dillon Norway.

On Thanksgiving.

Dear Nate, it reads. I would like to schedule a Zoom meeting with you for this coming Monday at noon. The matter is urgent. The link is below. Please confirm your attendance. Best, Dillon Norway.

I write him back, because I can’t not respond.

Happy Thanksgiving, Dillon, I write. Can you please tell me what this is in reference to?

I close my eyes and lean my head back into the seat headrest. The ticket agent comes by and scans the ticket on my phone, and I notice that I’m clutching it so hard my knuckles are turning white.

A few stops later, Dillon responds. It has been brought to my attention that you have been intimately involved with a student in the program. Unfortunately, now is not the time or place for me to discuss this further, so I respectfully request that you hold any rebuttal until Monday at noon. Thank you.

Fuuuck.

My knee-jerk reaction is to call CJ, but I realize I don’t have her phone number. I do have her email address though, thanks to her being in my workshop. So I forward her the email thread, along with a one-liner: Is your phone blowing up today after our impromptu karaoke session last night?

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