At 5:48 Melon Nick still lay in a haphazard heap on the wooden floor, unmoved and possibly unseen by anyone but Jess. As she crept from her room on a dangerous and potentially awkward trip to the bathroom, it's mere presence bothered her. The ridiculous Sharpie beard was split right down the middle and the contents of the melon were spilled all over Nick's burgundy hobo sweater. Recalling last nights kiss, she shuddered and moved past the scene of the crime with clumsy determination.
Fortunately it was a mess that Schmidt would end up cleaning, if she avoided it long enough. And avoid it she would.
The loft was absolutely still, which was unsettling for Jess, who tiptoed through the hallway towards the bathroom like a covert assassin with terrible bed head. Her mission, which the build up of beer had forced her to accept, was to get to that toilet cubicle undetected.
Terrible luck and bad juju would probably ensure that she ran into Nick the very moment she began avoiding him. And avoid him she would.
She looked like a frightened rabbit as she attempted to tiptoe across the loft floor, eventually making her way to the bathroom. Nick watched from the relative safety of his bedroom, and shook his head at the enormous effort Jess was making to prevent waking him.
In reality she didn't have to try so hard, as he'd no intentions of initiating 'the talk' so early in the morning, if at all. Nick would be steering clear until he figured out a plan of attack.
With his confidence boosting trench-coat gone, Nick could only hope to find inspiration and guidance in one place - the mind of Julius Pepperwood.
In theory, Nick knew he should be an incredible writer. He had access to hard spirits, a dash of chest hair, disdain for personal hygiene, and emotional issues that no sane person would ever want to get involved with. The series of unfortunate events that was his existence should have shaped him into a literary superstar, a Casanova of words, a Hemingway for the Kylie generation.
But being a theoretical wordsmith is one thing - writing your sophomore novel is literally a whole other story.
The adventures of Julius Pepperwood, zombie crime investigator, were not coming along the he had hoped. While Jessica spent an hour painstakingly edging to and from the bathroom 'undetected', Nick attempted to knock out another masterpiece. 'Z is for Zombie' was a work of pure unadulterated genius, one that had simply flown straight from his soul and onto the word document. Pepperwood, however, was refusing to inspire. He had only managed to type but a few short sentences.
Pepperwood squinted at another mucked up zombie corpse on the ground. Even though zombies are already dead, a dead zombie is double dead, and Pepperwood was an expert on the dead undead. In Chicago, 100 years after the zombie apocalypse, the undead had become a part of society and had rights like any man. And it was Pepperwood's job to avenge those rights because rights are important.
It was a classic in the making, but it was refusing to be made at this particular time, which frustrated Nick's literary sensibilities and damaged his pride.
Writing was supposed to be a form of catharsis, a release from the pressures and anxieties of everyday life. But what can a man do when his one talent evades him at a time such as this, when he had potentially ruined one of his few marginally healthy relationships?
For the first time in his life, Nick's problems were not caused by his paralyzing fear of making a move. They were caused by his untimely and uncharacteristic decision to act without inhibition. It wasn't exactly positive self improvement, but it was definitely a side of himself he hadn't seen before.
The phantom spirit of trench coat Nick must have been to blame for the kiss! No other explanation seemed plausible. Why on earth would he ever have the courage, or raw stupidity, to grab a woman like that and kiss her? Let alone a woman with a frustratingly dreamy, if not slightly dull, boyfriend.
Nick had hurtled across a line that neither he nor Jess had ever officially acknowledged, but both knew was there. Their shared propensity for romantic screw ups ensured that they never discussed their potential for more, as it would surely end in chaos. He would surely fuck it up, there was no doubt about it, and Jess deserved better. But he had not given her 'better' - he had simply served up some sexually charged complications.
A pool of despair settled in his gut as he imagined what might become of his relationship with Jess - the one woman who saw his flaws and decided to care for him anyway. The only woman to have ever created a melon man in his image, and the only woman to have ever smashed his likeness on the loft floor for all to see.
At least Schmidt would clean it up later, so Nick could successfully ignore its existence and deny the way it made him feel. It was a symbolic slap in the face, and a total waste of a perfectly good melon.
Jess returned to her room a great while later, with a heavy heart and significantly lighter bladder.
Not even her attempt at Mission Impossible style role play while on her way through the loft could brighten her spirits.
She needed a plan, a way to un-complicate things.
Jess knew she needed to talk to Nick. Knew that communication was the best solution. But she had no idea how to put her feelings into words, or even song. She didn't understand her own feelings to begin with, so how was she supposed to voice them without making things more confusing? She was stuck between a rock-melon and a hard place.
Perhaps making a diorama would help? Oh, just think of the cute Nick and Jess puppets she could create, all dressed up in teeny tiny outfits, little grumpy faces drawn on. Maybe acting out the scene would be good practice, preparation for the real deal. She always stressed the importance of role play to her students, as it allows you to feel all those big scary feelings in a safe (incredibly cute) space.
But the presence of a potentially incriminating (albeit adorable) diorama might be hard to explain to Sam...
Sam
The man who was now sprawled out on her floral bedspread, looking ridiculously hunky despite the patch of drool gathering on pillow. Sam, who she had fought hard for, lost, and then won over again. He was absolutely wonderful in every sense of the word that should matter. He had a steady job, low cholesterol, an agreeable face, and hands that knew just where to touch her.
Not to mention hair that far surpassed Spencer's in both style and texture.
Sam was a catch, in every way imaginable. But Jess was not a confident fisherman.
"What if you don't even like fish Jessica? What if you're more of a steak kind of girl - a true American!" She whispered, her voice causing Sam grumble in his sleep turning his face towards the noise.
She had spent months chasing Sam, and they had finally come together at last.
Finally, after everything, there were no games, no nasty surprises and no drama. But also... No fiery, unexpected kisses in the middle of the night.
Sam 'had' her. He could kiss her whenever he wanted. Which is maybe why he kissed her with less frequency and verve. The sex was still pleasurable and she almost always... reached completion. He knew what he was doing, she had no complaints in that area. His magic wand could cast a perfectly decent spell. However, she no longer found herself yammering to Cece about their latest sexcapades - not since they'd settled into an official relationship.
Part of her knew this was what you had to expect and accept in a serious monogamous relationship. Eventually things would slow down and become slightly predictable. Any relationship would go from racy to reliable after a few months of sexual exploration. By no means was this anything to weep over, it was a satisfying relationship that many women would envy. This is what she told herself with increasing regularity. She was lucky to be with Sam.
However, as she sat up in bed with the sun peeking through her curtains, its delicious warmth caressing her cheeks, all she wanted was for Nicks lips to glide across hers again, tease her mouth open, work her until she was breathless and unable to form a simple thought. Mm.
Maybe that diorama wasn't such a bad idea after all.