Nick's POV
"Nick, what are you doing?!"
I open my eyes, startled, to see Nigel at my bedroom door.
"What are you doing?!" I cry. "It's, like... just after midnight!"
"No, it's not." My younger brother is still standing idly in the doorway. "It's just after noon, Nick. Why are you still in bed?!"
"It's WHAT?!"
He backs up. "I'm sorry! I don't mean it!"
No longer tired, I look frantically from my clock—12:09—to the light grey sky outside my window. "What do you mean? Is this a prank?!"
"No—I mean, I mean it, but—" Nigel stands back awkwardly.
I stand up and approach him, distressed. "Shit! I work today!"
"You work every day," he mutters, turning back to the kitchen.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU WAKE ME UP?!"
"I—I don't know! I thought you were already gone when I got up!"
I've followed him out of my room in anger, and we're now standing in front of the kitchen counter. "You didn't think to check?!"
My brother keeps a solemn expression. "I would never look inside your room without your consent."
I lean against the counter with my head down, giving up. "Ugh. I'll just call in sick today. I don't feel like going."
"Hey, Nick..." he says from behind me, "I'm thinking maybe you should get a different job."
I turn around slowly. "What?"
"Well, you never seem to want to go to work, and it's taking up so much of your time—and you're clearly stressed out! We all are!"
"I can't afford to do that, Nigel," I breathe, trying to sound calm.
"Yeah, but maybe you will! Like when I start working at my job! Or if I move out—things are going pretty well with Portia—"
"Just... let me be in control of my own life, okay? Don't you have an interview to attend?"
"Nope!" he replies. "That was on Sunday."
I groan, making my way back to my bedroom.
"Hey, Nick, come on!" I hear from behind me. I stop reluctantly. "This is what I mean! We're literally brothers! We can't just have us fighting all the time!"
"We're not fighting right now," I reason.
"Then what do you call this?" he asks stubbornly. "Playing?"
"Whatever, okay, Nigel?! You don't even have a job! You think I can just calm down at will?!"
"Well... no, but maybe this day off will be good for you. Go, call your work!"
"I already would have, if you hadn't kept me," I mutter. And in spite of myself, I turn back to face him. "Might request bereavement leave instead."
He gets the hint and stops protesting.
-
Maybe an hour or so later, I come out to see Nigel sitting on the living room couch. He doesn't notice me.
I just stand there for a while, regretting always getting so worked up at him—because he's right. If it weren't for my job, I wouldn't be like this all the time.
But really, that all circles back to him. Because we've spent the last decade or so trying to support him as he navigates this dead-end writing career. And to be honest, it kind of hurt to see the hope leave his eyes. He reminded me of myself. Of course, that doesn't change anything.
Ah, fuck it. "Nigel?"
He turns around like lightning, exclaiming, "Don't kill me!"
I sigh, coming around the couch so he doesn't have to strain to face me. "I'm not going to kill you, Nigel, that bereavement thing was a tasteless joke."
"I know." He nods.
"Look, you're right about me. It's really not fair the way I treat you."
"Nick," he begins. "It's not fair what I do to you. You and Bea would be getting by just fine—with money to spare—if I didn't live here. I know what I'm doing, and I'm sorry."
"Yeah, but I'm sorry! I don't wanna screw up our relationship by always being the one to... y'know..."
"Scream at me?"
I sit on the couch beside him. "Basically. Yes. And I think we've both got some work to do. But I want to just say this one thing, okay?"
"Sure!"
"Thank you so much for finally getting a real job."
Nigel laughs. "Of course!"
"But also—don't put your dreams aside forever. Because then you'll end up in a job you don't want, with no escape card."
"I'll end up like you."
It startles me for a second that he knows how much I despise my career. But it's not like it isn't true, is it?
So I nod. "Like me."
Nigel's POV
I'm at Portia's later in the day, but this time it's not career stuff. Well, it kind of is, but also not really.
I'll get to the point—I'm there to discuss the time I met Shakespeare in the park.
"Did he, like, talk to you?!" she exclaims. "Directly?"
"He did! And then I opened my goddamn mouth and said I was a writer, as well, and then he asked to see my work!"
"Like a teacher?"
"Like someone who wanted to know what kind of material they were up against!" I explain to her, beginning to talk more and more with my hands. "And what was I supposed to do?! I know I'm an awful writer! But I didn't want him knowing that! So I said no and ran away." I put my face on her desk.
"It's okay, sweetie!" says Portia. "And I'm sure you're not an awful writer, anyway. I've never met someone so passionate about their work!"
"You'd only be passionate about my work because it's your boyfriend's."
"Well, can I check it out? I'm not really a strict writer myself, so of course I wouldn't judge you!"
I don't know. It seems I'd be more concerned about my girlfriend reading something I've written than some barely-even-famous writer who I'm only hoping to work with so I can see how he does it so flawlessly.
But then again, I do trust her. So why not?
"Uh... okay," I say, hesitantly removing my notebook from my bag. "Pick a page. No—don't pick a page! I want some control here." I laugh nervously.
"Nigel, you don't have to—"
I practically thrust it at her, a decent example bookmarked. "Here. Read."
"Okay..."
The room is excruciatingly quiet as she skims over my terrible excuse for a lifetime career. I'm so glad Nick got me to finally be sensible.
"Wow," my girlfriend breathes, closing the book, "this definitely does not deserve the ratings you've received."
I avoid the question of when she saw the ratings of my public work, and instead point out, "Well, I never published this. It's something I did fairly recently, actually."
"You should publish it! It literally, almost, moved me to tears. You've got a gift."
Portia's a pretty emotional person, so I figure she'd receive anything I wrote this way. But that doesn't mean I don't believe her.
"It's just a poem," I reply shyly, after a second.
"I live for poems. It's beautiful."
"It's not even about anything!"
"It's always about something."
That's true. But I think it's better disguised as a mystery.
Most things are.