War and Love

by Winter Renshaw

  Growing up Nick lived next door and the two of us were inseparable from the day he first moved into the neighborhood and I found him by the creek trying to catch bullfrogs—which I promptly forced him to set free. By the end of the day, we both realized our bedroom windows aligned perfectly on the second floors of our houses, and by the end of the week, he gave me a walkie-talkie and told me I was his best friend.

  When we were ten, he gave me a friendship necklace—like the kind girls usually give to other girls. He gave me the half that said “best” and wore the “friend” half but always tucked under his shirt so no one would give him any shit—not that anyone would.

  Everyone loved Nick.

  It wasn’t until the summer after seventh grade that Nick hit a growth spurt and everything changed. His voice got deeper. His legs got longer. Even his features became more chiseled and defined. It was like he aged several years over the course of a couple of months, and I found myself looking at him in ways I never had before. And when I closed my eyes at night, I found myself thinking about what it’d be like if he kissed me.

  Almost overnight, I’d gone from running next door with a messy pony tail to see if he wanted to ride bikes … to slicking on an extra coat of Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers and running a brush through my hair any time I knew I was going to see him.

  Suddenly I couldn’t look at him without blushing.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one who noticed Nick’s head-turning transformation.

  Nick’s door swings open with a quick creak and I don’t have time to realize what’s happening before he sweeps me into his arms and swings me around the front porch of his rented bungalow.

  “Melly!” He buries his face into my shoulder, squeezing me so hard I can’t breathe, nearly suffocating the swarm of butterflies in my middle.

  I breathe in that perpetual Nick scent, the one that always feels like home. Like the faintest hint of bar smoke and cheap fabric softener and Irish Spring soap. Growing up in Brentwood, the son of a successful screenwriter and composer, Nick could’ve had it all—materially and professionally. His parents had connections up the wazoo.

  But all he ever wanted was to be a regular guy who got by on merit and I adored that about him.

  “Look at you,” he says when he puts me down. His hands are threaded in mine as his deep blue gaze scan me from head to toe. “I haven’t seen you in months.”

  Three months, two weeks, and five days—but who’s counting?

  The last time we hung out was on my birthday, and there were so many people at the bar, I barely had a chance to say more than two sentences to him all night. We’d made plans to get together the following weekend, but his band booked a gig in Vegas and I was leaving to film a Lifetime movie in Vancouver the day before he was coming back.

  Life’s been consistent that way, always pulling us in separate directions at the most inconvenient of times.

  “You find the place all right?” he asks as he leads me inside. The scent of Windex and clean laundry fills my lungs and a folded blanket rests over the back of a leather chair in the living room.

  I chuckle at the thought of Nick tidying up before I got here. He was always a slob growing up. Case in point? One year I tripped over a pair of his Chucks as I entered his bedroom and almost knocked my front teeth out on a messy stack of vinyl records. His empty guitar case caught my fall, but the next day he bought a shoe organizer.

  “I did,” I say, glancing around his new digs. Last time I saw him, he was living in some apartment with four roommates in Toluca Lake. The time before that he was shacking up with a fuck buddy-slash-Instagram model named Kadence St. Kilda, but that was short lived because the girl ultimately wanted exclusivity and that’s something Nick’s never been able to offer anyone—that I know of. “When did you move here?”

  “Last month,” he says. “I’m subletting from my drummer’s cousin.”

  The sound of pots and pans clinking in the kitchen tells me we’re not alone, but I’m not surprised. Nick has always had roommates. He’s painfully extroverted. Guy can’t stand to be alone for more than five minutes but not in the clingy, obnoxious sort of way. More in the charismatic, life of the party, always down for a good time sort of way.

  I follow Nick to the living room and he points to the middle cushion of a cognac leather sofa before slicking his palms together and pacing the small space.

  “Nick.” I laugh. “You’re acting like a crazy person right now … you know that, right?”

  His ocean gaze lands on mine and he stops pacing for a moment. “I’m just so fucking nervous.”

  “You don’t have to be nervous around me. Ever.”

  “This is different.” He stops pacing for second. “This is something I’ve never told you before.”

  Oh, god.

  My heart flutters and some long-buried hope makes its way out in the form of a smile on my face, but I bite it away.

  I’d never admit this out loud, but last night a very real part of me believed this entire thing centered around Nick wanting to tell me he has feelings for me, that he wants to date me.

  The idea is absurd, I know.

  Things like this don’t happen out of nowhere.

  I’m not naïve and I’m not an idiot. I know the odds of my best friend going months without seeing me and suddenly professing his love for me are slim to none, but I’ve tried to come up with alternate theories and none of them made sense because Nick’s never been nervous around me for any reason.

  Ever.

  What else could possibly make him nervous around me other than a heartfelt confession?

  Crossing my legs and sitting up straight, I say, “Come on. Spit it out. I don’t have all day.”

  He cups his hands over his nose and mouth, releasing a hard breath, and when he lets them fall, I find the dopiest grin on his face.

  His eyes water like a teenage girl with a backstage pass to a Harry Styles concert.

  Nick tries to speak but he can’t.

  Oh, my god.

  He’s doing it.

  He’s actually telling me he likes me …

  “Melrose,” he says, pulling in a hard breath before dropping to his knees in front of me. He takes my hands in his and I swear my vision fades out for a second. “You know when we were kids and we used to tell each other everything?”

  “Yeah …”

  “There was something I never told you,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “I guess … I guess I was afraid to say it out loud. I was afraid this thing I wanted so bad, this thing I wanted more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life, wasn’t going to come true. And I thought that by admitting it, I was only going to jinx myself. So I kept it to myself, but I can’t anymore. It’s too big. It’s eating away at me and it has been for years. But it’s time. I have to tell you.”

  He’s rambling.

  Nick never rambles.

  His trembling hands squeeze mine and then he rises, taking the spot on the couch beside me. Cupping my face in his hands, he offers a tepid smile that’s soon eaten away by his own anxiety. “This is insane, Melrose. I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this.”

  My mouth parts and I’m milliseconds from blurting out something along the lines of “I’ve liked you since we were kids, too …” but I bite my tongue and let him go first.

  “You know how I have my band, right?” he asks, referring to Melrose Nights, the band he founded in high school and named after me.

  I nod, heart sinking. No … plummeting.

  “What about it?” I ask, blinking away the embarrassed burn in my eyes.

  “My dream, Mel, was always to hit it big,” he said. “Like, commercially big.”

  My brows lift. This is news to me. He was always about the indie scene, always so against the big music corporations that controlled every song the American people were played on the radio.

  “Really?” I tuck my chin against my chest. “Because you always said—”

  “I know what
I always said,” he cuts me off. “But the more I got to thinking about it, the more I thought … I just want my songs to be in the ears of as many people as possible. And it’s not even about becoming famous or having money, you know I’m not about any of that. I just want people to know my songs. That’s all.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and glance toward a wood burning fireplace in the corner where a crushed, empty can of Old Milwaukee—Nick’s signature beverage of choice—rests on the mantle next to what appears to be a crumpled lace bra.

  Guess he forgot a few things when he was straightening up …

  “Okay, so what are you trying to tell me?” I ask, squinting.

  “We got signed …” his mouth pulled so wide, he looks like a bona fide crazy person right now, “… and not only that, but we’re going on tour with Maroon 5.”

  I try not to let my rampant disbelief show on my face, but something tells me I’m failing miserably. He reads my expression, searching my eyes, and his silly grin fades.

  “You hate Maroon 5,” I say.

  “I used to hate Maroon 5,” he corrects me. “Anyway, the act they had fell through last minute, so they got us. We leave next week.”

  “Next week? For how long?”

  “Six months.” His calloused hands smack together. “Six months on the road with one of the biggest music acts in North America.”

  He says that last part out loud, like he’s still in disbelief over this entire thing.

  Which makes two of us.

  “Wow, Nick … that’s … this is huge. You were right. This is some big news,” I say. Everything is sinking. My voice. My heart. My hope. “I’m so happy for you.”

  I throw my arms around him, inhale his musky scent, and squeeze him tight. There’s a pang in my chest, a tightness in my middle, like that indescribable sensation that washes over you when you know something’s about to change and things will never be the same again.

  But I meant what I said. I am happy for him. I had no idea this is what he wanted, but now that he’s shared this with me, I thrilled for him. He’s my best friend, my oldest friend, and all I want is for him to be happy.

  Plus, he deserves this.

  Nick is insanely talented. Music. Lyrics. Singing. Playing. Producing. Mixing. It all comes natural to him. Keeping it under wraps on some lowdown indie scene would be doing a disservice to the rest of the world.

  “I get that this is huge, Nick, but I’m curious … why couldn’t you tell me this over the phone?” I ask. “Why’d you make me drive all the way out here just so you could tell me in person?”

  Nick leans back, studying my face as he rakes his palm along his five o’clock shadow. “Because I have a favor to ask you …”

  Lifting one brow, I study him right back. He’s never asked me a single favor as long as I’ve known him (excluding those times he wanted me to talk to girls for him in middle school or steal him an extra Italian Ice at lunch).

  “See, I’m taking over this guy’s lease,” he says. “I pay fifteen hundred a month for my half of the rent. Plus utilities. You know what a cheap bastard I am, right? I just don’t want to throw that money away over the next several months and I don’t want to stick Sutter with my half of the rent and everything because that’s just shitty.”

  “Sutter?” I ask.

  “Sutter Alcott. My roommate,” he says. “Cool guy. Electrician. Owns his own company. You’ll like him. Anyway, I know you’re living in your Gram’s guesthouse, but you’re the only person I know who’s not locked under a lease right now, so I thought mayyyyybe you might want to help me out for a few months? As a favor? And in return, I’ll … I don’t know. I’ll do something for you. What do you want? You want a backstage pass to a Maroon 5 concert? You want to meet Adam?”

  “You’re already on a first name basis with Adam Levine?” I ask, head cocked.

  Nick smirks. “Not yet. But I will be.”

  “I don’t know …” I pull in a long, slow breath. “What about Murphy?”

  “We’ve got a fenced in yard,” he says, pointing toward the back of the house. “He’ll love it here.”

  “What about your roommate? Would he be cool living with a stranger?” I ask.

  “Totally.”

  “And you’re sure he’s not a serial killer?” I keep my voice low, leaning in.

  Nick chokes on his spit. “Uh, yeah, no. He’s not a serial killer. Lady killer? Sure. Serial killer. No way.”

  Our eyes hold and I silently straddle the line between staying put and saying yes to this little favor.

  My cousin-slash-roommate, Maritza, recently moved out and got a place with her boyfriend, Isaiah, so it’s just Murphy and I in the guesthouse now. It gets quiet sometimes. Lonely too. And Gram’s on this travel-the-world kick lately. One week she’s home, the next week she’s in Bali for twelve days with her best friend, Constance or one of the Kennedys.

  A change of scenery might be nice …

  “I’ll do anything, Mel. Anything.” He clasps his hands together and sticks out his bottom lip, brows raised.

  Dork.

  “Begging’s not a good look for you. FYI,” I say.

  “Okay, then what’s it going to take for you to say yes?” His hands drop to his lap.

  I try to speak, but I don’t know what to say.

  “See,” Nick says. “You don’t even have a good reason to turn me down.”

  He’s right.

  I can’t blame it on the location because it isn’t out of the way. I can’t blame it on my dog. I can’t blame it on a lease. I can’t blame it on money because fifteen hundred a month is exactly what Gram charges me for rent because free rides aren’t a thing in the Claiborne family.

  But aside from all of that, I know Nick would do this for me if I ever needed him to.

  Shrugging, I look him in the eyes and smile. “Fine.”

  A second later, I’m captured in his embrace and he’s squeezing me and bouncing like a hyper child. With one word, I’ve unearthed a side of Nick I never knew existed.

  “I fucking love you, Mel,” he says, hugging me tighter. “I love you so much.”

  I expected to hear those words today … just didn’t think I’d hear them in this context.

  Chapter Two

  Sutter

  “You, uh, need some help with that?” I slam the door to my work truck and approach the blonde chick balancing a couple of tote bags on top of two giant Louis Vuitton suitcases as a little pug on a leash circles her feet.

  I suppose it’s in poor taste to decide you don’t like someone before you even know them, but in the first five seconds of seeing my new roommate, I’ve already confirmed she’s exactly what I expected—which is … she’s everything that’s wrong with L.A. girls these days and exactly the kind of person I don’t want to be shacking up with for the next six months.

  For one, she’s an “aspiring actress” according to Nick. That says it all right there.

  For two, she comes from some famous family and me and the silver spooned types don’t exactly mix.

  And third? Who the fuck wears high heels to move?

  Melrose tries to maneuver up the cracked walkway to my bungalow, stopping every few steps to rebalance everything. Her heels click along the pavement, her tits bouncing with each step, damn near spilling out of that tight white top of hers.

  “Or you could just make two trips, you know,” I say.

  She stops and turns, following my voice, and then she pulls her oversized Chanel sunglasses down her nose as her hooded eyes narrow in my direction.

  First impression? Hot as fuck.

  Second impression? High maintenance as fuck.

  Third impression? This is going to be a piece of cake.

  When my original roommate, Hector, took a job across the country, he sent some guitar playing Casanova named Nick Camden to take his place.

  All right. Fine. Whatever pays the rent.

  But a few months later, Nick’s band got signed to s
ome bigtime record label and he got word they were going to be touring all over the country for the next half year. Nick, being the cheap ass that he is, wasted no time filling his spot with an old friend of his.

  He assured me we’d get along, that she was “cool as fuck” and “laid back,” and he promised me that if it didn’t work out or if she decided to leave, he’d still pay his half of the rent each month.

  One look at this piece of work and I can already tell we’re going to lock horns like crazy. We’ll probably spend the next couple of months going back and forth, bickering over who left the toilet seat up (wasn’t me) or whose turn it is to wash the dishes in the sink (hers, naturally). And after a while, she’ll pack up and go move back into her grandmother’s Brentwood guesthouse and curse the day she met me.

  I see no harm in helping speed the inevitable up a bit …

  I’ve been living with roommates for the better part of the last decade and I’m fresh off the heels of a long overdue breakup with a girl who put the “cling” in “clingy.”

  All I want is some goddamned breathing room and a little time to myself.

  “Is Melrose your real name?” I ask, strutting toward her and grabbing one of her bags as I get a closer look. The scent of expensive perfume fills my lungs and I hope to God she’s not as extra as she looks. “Or is it some stage name you made up to make yourself stand out?”

  Her head tilts. “Sutter Alcott sounds like the name of an old, rich, white guy.”

  Touché.

  I smirk, twirling my keys on my finger before finding the right one and shoving it in the lock on the front door. She stands behind me, waiting, and I’m sure I smell like ass. I’ve been running wires all day on some new build in Encino and it’s been an unseasonably hot March.

  All in a day’s work.

  We head in, and I place her bag to the left of the foyer, but this is where my assistance ends because I’ve got three priorities right now and three priorities only: a hot shower, a cold beer, and a juicy ribeye.

  “You know where you’re going?” I ask.

  “He said it was upstairs. The bedroom on the left.”

  I chuckle. “Nick’s a directionally challenged moron. My room is on the left. His—yours—is on the right.”