Chapter 16
Nick's at a loss.
He is starting to realize, with an ever-growing sense of discomfort, that his so-called friends are absolute pricks.
Maybe he’s always known—actually, no, he definitely always knew (and wasn’t he one of them? Is??? Whatever).But now, for some reason, it’s grating on his nerves more than usual.
He groans when he wakes up to loud, insistent knocking at his door at six in the morning.
Six-fucking-AM.
Shut thefuck up, this is Nick Nelson here.
Boy who needs his fucking beauty sleep and to still be dreaming of Charlie.
His body is sore from practice, his brain is still a mess of Charlie, rugby, and existential dread, and all he wants is sleep.
But apparently, that’s too much to ask for because the minute he cracks the door open, Harry fucking Greene barges in like he owns the place.
Fucking prick.
Save him now.
No, honestly. Save him.
"Jesus Christ, Harry. What the fuck?" Nick rasps, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "It’s six in the morning."
Harry shrugs, entirely unaffected. "So?" He drops down onto Nick’s desk chair, already making himself comfortable, like he hasn’t just committed a crime against human decency.
Well hello to you too. Asshole. Asswhipe. Fucktwad.
Jesus Christ, Nick is cranky today.
"I just heard that the game Friday is gonna have the opposing team’s cheerleaders there! The guys wanna know if you’re calling dibs on the cheer captain again."
Again.
Nick’s stomach twists unpleasantly.
Again, as in he’s done it before. As in this is a normal thing—picking and choosing who he wants to hook up with like it’s some kind of fucking sport.
He hates that he used to be that guy.
He hates that he played into it, that he didn’t even think about how fucking gross it was.
And now, standing here, barely awake, he can’t stop thinking about how much he despises that version of himself.
"You woke me up," Nick says, pinching the bridge of his nose, already feeling a headache creeping in, "just to figure out who I’m going to hook up with?"
Harry scoffs like Nick is the unreasonable one here. "Yeah, clearly. So? Is she up for grabs?"
Nick hates the way he says it. Like she’s not a person, just some thing to be "claimed" for the night, like a fucking prize.
It makes him want to punch a hole in the wall.
Fucking hell. I hate this.
Am I this?
Is this who he is? Who he's always been?
No, no.
Hopefully not.
Right?
"Harry," Nick sighs, trying to keep his cool, "that sounds so fucking foul when you say it."
Harry just shrugs, unbothered, standing up and fucking digging through Nick’s drawer. "Oh, come on," he says, as if Nick is the one being ridiculous. "Two months ago, you were all over the idea of calling dibs—"
Nick watches in absolute disbelief as Harry pulls out a box of condoms and waves them in the air like he’s struck gold.
"—I’m taking these, by the way."
Nick snaps.
Sorry man. I need those.
Why?
For Char.... Nope, never mind.
He lunges forward and grabs Harry’s wrist before he can pocket them. "Dude, fucking get out, man."
Harry yanks his hand back with an exaggerated eye roll. "Jesus, chill out. You’ve gotten so fucking soft, Nick." He scoffs, pacing toward the door like he’s offended. "Didn’t party after the last game, and now you don’t want anything to do with the cheer team… Wait, don’t tell me—" He stops and grins, like he’s just uncovered some big fucking secret. "Shit! Are you and that blond chick—you know, the birthday girl—a thing? Is her pussy that fucking good?"
And that’s it.
Nick sees red.
He shoves Harry hard, knocking him back a step. "No," Nick snaps, voice dangerously low, "and no, and don’t ever say shit like that about my friend. Jesus, Harry. Get the fuck out, you fucking idiot."
Harry stares at him for a second, clearly thrown off, before scoffing again and raising his hands in mock surrender. "Fucking hell, Nick. You’re so sensitive lately," he mutters, walking toward the door. "Maybe you are shagging her. Whatever, man."
Nick slams the door behind him so hard the walls shake.
He stands there, breathing heavily, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
His entire body is tense, his mind racing with so much anger he can barely think straight.
How the fuck did he ever tolerate this?
How did he let himself be one of them?
And more than that—how did he not see it before?
He's wrong. Bad. Bad. Wrong.
Fucking hell, he needs a drink.
He needs out.
He needs to be better.
Nick is in a foul mood for the rest of the day.
He carries it with him like an old injury, something buried deep in his bones that aches with every step, every interaction, every reminder of the way his so-called friends have shaped him into someone he doesn’t recognize anymore.
By the time his gym shift rolls around, he’s debating whether or not he should just load up the squat rack with enough weight to snap his spine and put himself out of his misery.
Please do.
I'll get on my knees.
I'll beg.
Just get me out of this hell.
But then he sees Tara.
She’s on the treadmill, her long braids swaying behind her, a look of fierce determination on her face as she runs. And Nick—fuck it—he’s doing this.
He’s apologizing. He’s trying.
Because if there’s anyone who might understand, or at the very least hear him out, it’s her.
So he walks up to her, his heart pounding, already anticipating the way she’s going to react.
Because he deserves it.
He knows he does.
Tara catches sight of him in the mirror, rolls her eyes, and glares. When he gets close enough, she yanks out an AirPod and snaps, "Nick, I swear to—"
"I’m just here to apologize," Nick cuts in, raising his hands in surrender. His voice is rough, low, like he’s fighting every instinct to just shut up and leave things as they are. "I just—fuck, I’ve been a real dick. To you. To Imogen. To Charlie. To—everyone. And I’m sorry."
Tara scoffs. It’s sharp and unimpressed, and Nick can already tell this isn’t going to be easy.
Alright, that's great.
Totally fine.
Totally cool.
It's not like he doesn't say sorry often or anything.
It's fine. He's fine.
"You’re sorry?" she says, crossing her arms. "Nick, Imogen is still so upset. And—look, I know apologizing is probably a big deal for you, but actions speak louder than words."
Yeah.
You're right about that.
Sorry isn't in my vocabulary. Not till recently.
Fuck. He's really that bad.
What a dick he is.
Nick winces, fingers already grabbing at his hair, pulling at the strands like it’ll somehow ground him, keep the panic from crawling up his throat.
He needs to stop that.
Fucking idiot.
"I know," he mutters. "I know. I just—I understand. You were right. About me. About my friends. About everything."
Tara exhales through her nose, giving him a wary look. "Nick, what kind of joke are you playing at?"
"There’s no joke," he says quickly. "I mean it."
She studies him, brows furrowed, like she’s waiting for the punchline to drop. When it doesn’t come, when Nick just stands there looking like shit, rubbing at the back of his neck and shifting on his feet like a fucking idiot, she says, "I don’t think I can believe you, Nick."
Nick swallows, hard.
His mind races—thinking about Charlie, about everything he’s learned over the past few weeks, about the things he still doesn’t know, about the things he doesn’t want to admit yet.
Fair. I've been a dick.
He's a dick?
Still?
Probably. Whatever.
He's working on it.
Right?
Right.
He thinks about Charlie's smirk, the glitter under his eyes, the crop tops, the way he kissed back like he was made for it.
And fuck—he can’t stop thinking about him.
"I…" He hesitates, voice barely above a breath. "I need friends who—fuck, this is going to sound arrogant, or ignorant, or just—wrong. But I…" He grips at his hair again, pulling at it so hard it stings. "I want friends who aren’t assholes. You know? People who—who are…"
Like me.
He stops himself before the words escape.
Apart of a community?
Apart of their community?
Bisexual??
No.
Straight. He's straight. He's straight. He's straight.
Straight?
Yes.
No?
He doesn't know.
Fuck!
Tara raises a brow. "Similar to you?" she echoes. "Nick, I’m not a fucking homophobe, or an asshole, if that’s what you’re implying."
"No! No!" Nick blurts out, panicking. "That’s not what I meant. I—I just—" He lowers his voice again, staring at the ground.
Say it.
Do it.
Admit it.
It happened. He wants it to happen again. And again. And again.
Fuck.
He wants Charlie. To kiss him. To hold him.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
JUST SAY IT.
Say it.
"I mean, Charlie and I kissed. And now he’s in my head and I—I think I might not be…"
He can’t say it.
He physically can’t.
The word is right there, burning on the tip of his tongue, taunting him, but he just—can’t.
Can't?
Won't.
He won't.
So instead, he stops, swallows, and forces himself to say, "I think I might like him."
It sounds wrong coming out of his mouth.
Like it doesn’t belong to him. Like it’s someone else’s words, someone else’s truth. But it’s not. It’s his. And it’s real. And it terrifies him.
Tara is silent for a beat, just staring at him.
Nick can feel his heart hammering, his body bracing for a laugh, or an insult, or something that’ll make him regret saying anything at all.
But instead—Tara just sighs.
And then she says, "Oh."
Oh?
Oh!
Oh....
Nick feels sick.
He feels like he’s jumped off a cliff, like he’s weightless and free-falling into something he doesn’t understand, something that scares the absolute shit out of him.
His throat is dry, his heart is hammering, and Tara is looking at him like she’s trying to decide if she wants to slap him or hug him.
Maybe both.
He wouldn’t blame her.
He exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face, trying to keep his voice low even as his panic starts to spike. “Please don’t tell anyone,” he says, pleads, voice almost desperate. “I just—fuck. Harry and Derek and Sebastian and my entire fucking team—they wouldn’t, they don’t—they don’t understand. And I—” He pauses, the words caught in his throat, raw and vulnerable.
He wants to say it. He wants to be brave enough to say it.
But he isn’t.
He isn't brave.
He's never been brave.
Fucking own up to it.
But he won't. Nope. Nope. No.
So instead, he settles. He looks at Tara with wide, conflicted eyes and says, “I think I’d like it if Charlie and I went out.”
It’s not a confession. Not really.
But it’s the closest he can get.
And it feels like ripping his own skin off.
Fucking hell. Idiot. Wrong. Bad.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Tara’s face softens, just a fraction, before she presses her lips together and sighs. "Nick..."
“I know that doesn’t fix what I’ve done,” he rushes out, tripping over his words, because fuck, he’s terrified. “I know it doesn’t, and I know that I’ve been—God, I’ve been a massive asshole, and I’ve hurt people and I don’t even know if I deserve to be better but I—”
Tara cuts him off. "Nick, are you having a sexuality crisis or something?"
"Shh—fuck, shh, shhshhshh—" Nick flails, his voice jumping an octave, his head whipping around to make sure no one’s close enough to overhear.
Tara rolls her eyes. "Relax, no one’s listening."
Nick glares. "You don’t know that."
Tara arches a brow. "So...?"
Nick pinches the bridge of his nose, his other hand grabbing at his hair, pulling at the strands. It stings, but he needs it. He needs to focus on that instead of the way his heart is fucking racing.
Finally, after a long, deeply painful pause, he mutters, "Yes. Maybe. Fuck, I don’t know anymore."
Tara tilts her head, like she’s analyzing him.
Nick hates it.
Hates himself.
Hates his friends.
Hates this.
"I just—Charlie is in my fucking mind, and I don’t want to hang out with assholes who would call me slurs, and I don’t want to be this person anymore, and—"
Tara interrupts again. "Nick, you’ve said the same slurs."
Nick flinches. He doesn’t deny it.
Because it’s true.
His stomach churns, guilt coiling tight in his chest. “I know that,” he says, voice rough.
Tara crosses her arms. "You've also shoved people who wear pronoun pins. People like my partner."
“I know that," Nick says again, voice tighter this time, "I fucking know that, okay? And I’m sorry. I—I know I can’t just say sorry and erase it, I know I can’t just flip a switch and pretend I wasn’t a piece of shit, but I—I’m trying, Tara. I swear to God, I’m fucking trying."
Tara watches him carefully.
For a long, painful moment, she says nothing.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
No. No. It's fine. He's fine.
He's fine.
“If I can talk to someone besides… besides Charlie about what I’m feeling, maybe I’d—I don’t know—maybe I can actually be better.”
His voice breaks a little at the end.
And fuck, he hates that.
Tara sighs. "Being better means actually changing, Nick. Not just saying you want to change."
Nick nods, rapidly, like he's afraid of what she'll say if he doesn't. "I know. I—I don’t want to be this guy anymore, Tara. I swear. I don’t."
Tara holds his gaze.
And after a moment, she nods.
Just once.
Okay.
Okay?
Yes?
No.
But maybe.
Nick feels his lungs finally expand.
Nick knows what Tara is going to ask before she even says it.
"Do you like Charlie? Like, actually like him?"
"Shh, shh, shh, Tara! Quiet!" His voice hisses out in pure, undiluted panic, his hands flying up like he can physically swat the question out of the air.
Tara does not look impressed.
In fact, she looks seconds away from slapping him upside the head.
Which, deserved.
Asshole.
"Well? Do you?"
Nick grits his teeth, his eyes darting around the gym like someone’s going to pop out of a locker and expose him right here, right now.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Why is this so hard?
Fuck my friends.
Fuck being an asshole.
Fuck all of this.
Fucking hell!
“Jesus, Tara.” He rubs the back of his neck, pulling at the collar of his shirt like he suddenly can’t breathe.
Tara raises a brow. “So, do you?”
“Yes, okay?! I—” he clenches his jaw, eyes shut tight, like it physically pains him to say it out loud. “Yes.”
Tara nods, unfazed. “Okay.”
Okay?
What the fuck is okay?
Okay good? Fucking hell, probably not. Asshole. Idiot.
Nick blinks. "Okay?"
Tara shrugs. "If you want to prove you actually want to be better, come to our Pride Club movie night this Saturday."
Nick’s stomach drops.
"What?! No, I can’t—"
Tara does not let him finish. "Relax. Your team hardly knows about our club, and two, it’s at mine and Darcy's house. Look—" she sighs, her expression stern but not unkind. “If you actually give a shit and want to make friends, you have to go to events. It’s not just going to happen. People aren’t just going to forget all the shit you’ve done because you decided to be nice one time.”
Nick pulls at his hair, exhaling hard. “Fuck, Tara. I don’t even know—”
“You don’t need to have a label.” Tara cuts him off smoothly, her voice calm but firm. “Lots of us don’t. Or some people are just allies. It doesn’t matter. If you want me to take you seriously, come to the watch party.”
Doesn't matter? Doesn't matter!
Straight? No? Maybe? No.
Bisexual? Yes? No. Maybe?
Fucking labels don't matter.
“Tara—”
“No one is going to out you, Nick. I promise.” Her voice is softer now, steadier. "We take that shit seriously. But you need to show up. Check your DMs later—I’ll send you the details." She reaches for her AirPods, already dismissing him. "Until then, please leave so I can finish my workout."
Nick sighs, defeated. "Okay. Okay." He hesitates, then asks, "Do you believe me?"
Tara stares at him for a long moment. And then she shakes her head. “I wish I did, Nick.” She exhales sharply, eyes hardening again. “But with you, I just… you’ve got to prove you’re not just manipulating your way into hurting people. You’ve done that too much in the past, and I won’t let you hurt Charlie.”
Nick swallows hard. “I don’t—I don’t want to hurt Charlie.”
“Then show some fucking support to our community.”
Our?
Our.
Home? Community. Can he be apart of that?
Is he apart of that now?
Our. Our. Our.
And with that, she pops her AirPod back in, turns up the treadmill speed, and completely ignores him.
Right? Fucking hell. Well? He did it. No? Yes? Kinda. Fucking hell.
Fuck.
Nick stands there for a moment, feeling like his chest is caving in on itself.
Then he nods to himself, turns on his heel, and walks out of the gym.
Fuck work. He needs a drink.