Nowodazkij - Always Second Best: Broken Dreams: Em & Nick, #2

A Broken Dreams

Novel

By

Elodie Nowodazkij

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ALWAYS SECOND BEST Copyright 2015 by Elodie Nowodazkij

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information, contact or visit: www.elodienowodazkij.com

Book and Cover design by Elodie Nowodazkij

First Edition: October 2015

This book is for my parents, my sisters, nieces, nephew, cousins, aunts and uncles and grandmothers, and grandfather, for my entire family

One says we cannot choose our families, but I would choose you. Always.

And for my husband: we chose each other and Im grateful that we decide to choose each other again and again. I love you.

I SHOULD HAVE STAYED at the School of Performing Arts this weekend. I should have spent more time rehearsing for our big end-of-the-year showcase audition. I should have repeated each movement until I reached perfection

Im never going to be ready.

My throat tightens. I need more hours, more days, more time.

Do you want more lasagna? my grandmotherNonnaasks. Her gray hair is cut short and even though the lines on her face are getting more pronounced, even though shes pale and thinner, even though she gets tired more easily, her smile is still the brightest in all of New York. Or maybe more salad? She mixes the tomato mozzarella salad again. She grows the basil herself, and believes that she could have an entire menu using only recipes with basil, like pesto steaks, or basil sorbet.

A bit more salad, please. I hand her my plate. Nonnas restaurant is usually bright and full of laughter and people and waiters trying not to run into one another, but tonight its only her and me. Nonna opens the restaurant for lunch on Sundays and keeps her evening free.

There you go. She sips her water. Your father was so cute when he was little. That day he brought me a bouquet with roses from our garden, I didnt have the heart to tell him he shouldnt have cut them. Instead, I made sure to put one in his baby book, she says and then inhales deeply as if trying to catch her breath. She smooths the red tablecloth on our small table. She called tonight a grandmother-granddaughter date night, setting up candles and even putting some Italian music on in the background.

Even though I should be rehearsing, I couldnt say no to her. I didnt want to say no. And not because her lasagna is the best in town.

Im talking, Im talking but I know you have to go, she says, standing up, holding on to her chair.

I can stay, I reply.

Youre sweet, but youve started to fidget on your chair, that means youre already running late.

I cringeI hadnt noticed I was doing that. Dinner was really delicious. Thank you. I gather the plates, but she takes them away from me.

Ill take care of that. You go.

And theres so much tenderness in the way she looks at me that I want to bottle up the emotion I feel and keep it for when I have a bad day, or for when I see Nickmy forever crush, my brothers best friend, the guy who broke my heart last summer. I hold her arm and together we walk to the entrance. The restaurant smells of fresh bread mixed with garlic and basil. It smells of my childhood spent in the kitchen with her and Poppa.

When everything was so much easier.

I grab my coat, careful not to knock one of the pictures she has on the walls. Her memory wall, as she calls it. Lots of pictures of Poppa, and my own father, and my entire family, and of Italy. She recently put one up of Mr. Edwards, the man who has been courting her for almost a year now.

Goodbye, Bellisima, she says, kissing my cheeks loudly. Thanks for spending time with your old grandmother. She winks.

Youre not old.

Youre right. Im ancient. She laughs and hugs me again. The perfume Mom gets her every Christmas is another reminder of all the happy times Ive had with her. She coughs and leans against the wall. I know you wanted to stay at school this weekend, so thank you again. And before I can reply, she pushes me out the door. Now, go. You dont want to be late.

Love you, I tell her. I put on my coat and my scarf.

I love you too, Bellisima. She pauses. And say hi to Nicholas for me, she says.

Nicholas. Nick. I force my lips into a smile, I force myself to not think about Nick. I force myself to wave to Nonna. Ill see you next week.

And I glance at her one more time before slowly making my way to the subway. I used to love going back to school on Sundays. I used to wait for Nick at the corner of our street and wed walk together. Wed talk about our weekend. Hed make me laugh and Id try to not stare at his lips while he talked about his parents, our last audition, the video game he managed to get his hands on before its release, because he knew I wanted to play it and he knew some guy who could make it happen.

That was before.

Now, I take the subway from Brooklyn, where my family and I moved after Nicks father fired my dad.

Alone.

Now, I dont spend every possible second with Nick, I dont send him random text messages to make him laugh, I dont smile every time I see him.

Now, I avoid him as much as possible and lie to his face about dating some guy I met at my Nonnas restaurant.

I readjust my bag on my shoulder and look up at the gray sky. New York has had its share of snow and winter and icy sidewalks but it seems were in for another round, even though were already in March. Theres a small coffee shop nestled between bigger buildings one block before the subway. Its crowded and Im tempted to push the door and get in line. Hide in there and forget about real life. Forget about school.

But instead of entering the coffee shop, I march straight ahead. I pass a group of students who are talking about an epic party they went to yesterday, and I barely avoid a couple whose PDA is so over the top I can almost hear my brother telling them to get a room. I settle in an empty seat in the subway.

And my mind wanders to the same game it always plays. If the third person to enter the car is a woman, Im going to talk to Nick. Really talk to him. Ill come clean about not seeing anyone.

The first person who enters the subway is a woman with hair to her shoulders and a big smile that shows a gap in her middle teeth, and shes holding the hand of another woman with dark hair, whos the second person to enter the car. She gives her girlfriend a kiss on the lips, before whispering something into her ear. They both start giggling. The third person to enter the car is a guy. The guys not wearing a coat despite the freezing temperatures. His Hugo Boss shirt is tight around his muscles and his jeans must cost more than an entire semester at the School of Performing Arts. Based on the price of his outfit, hes not jacketless because he cant afford one; its a fashion statement. A fashion statement that could freeze him to death.