Part Four: Face Your Fears (Second Reprise)

October 4, 2020

Nathaniel's palms are slick with sweat long before Rebecca even arrives at the abandoned lot. He sent her a cryptic text about an hour ago, asking her to meet him here for a celebration. When she pushed him to elaborate, he insisted it was a surprise. He's usually not one for surprises, neither on the giving or receiving end. However, Rebecca decidedly is – the more grandiose, the better – and he's banking on that fact, praying that his big reveal goes according to plan.

There's not much he can do about how dingy and uninviting the property looks in its stripped-down, vacated state. While the lot is open-air, it allows for the privacy he wants for the conversation since it's been closed down for over a month. He springs for pricey champagne and two plastic flutes in an attempt to class up the occasion. Maybe it's presumptuous to assume they'll be toasting when all is said and done, but things between he and Rebecca have been so wildly wonderful as of late that he remains optimistic. Since his mother was discharged from the hospital, the two have been in a honeymoon phase. All the little things that usually annoy him about her – her constant humming under her breath, her propensity to be late for absolutely everything, her jabs at his eating habits – seem to dissipate into vapor when he remembers how she held his hand in the hospital waiting room and wiped his tears in the middle of the night.

The only problem with their little bubble is that it's only exacerbated his reliance on her friendship. They're inseparable, even more so than before, which, if you ask AJ, no one thought was humanly possible. Every spare moment he has, he spends with her. Calling her, texting her, laughing with her, teasing her, touching her.

Loving her.

The realization that he loves her came on suddenly – alarmingly so – and the intensity of it was downright terrifying. Who knew all it would take was one debilitating emotional breakdown to trigger this little revelation and shake loose the final brick of his carefully constructed emotional walls.

His love has rendered him powerless to resist her. It's left him reeling, spinning dizzyingly out-of-control. He's given up trying to fight it. He's given up trying not to think about her when he's alone in bed at night. He's given up on pushing her away when they get dangerously close to crossing a line. And he gave up on the apps months ago when he kept canceling dates to spend more time with her. Subconsciously he must have known that no stranger could ever hold a candle to her.

Now he's stuck walking a tightrope. The tiniest shift in balance is going to send them flying over the edge without a harness, and he can't decide if he's ready for that kind of free fall. Showing his whole heart to her would mean either having his love reciprocated or rejection. Or much worse: love, followed by rejection. All the possible outcomes feel equally terrifying. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. How many times can he fall for her, blow up his entire life over her, before he's declared legally insane?

He makes excuses to himself. For every little thing he does for her, his mind does a series of mental gymnastics to justify it. Ultimately, if he can't come up with a legitimate reason for seeing her for a fifth time that week, we're friends is the refrain that allows him to sleep at night.

She appears under the archway where the glistening pink donut used to proudly hang, a vision in a cornflower-hued blouse that makes her eyes come alive in shades of electric greens and blues. She's wearing her hair loose and wild (his favorite) and it's long enough nowadays that it falls far past her collarbone. His stomach grows queasy at the sight of her. What he's about to do could bind them closer together or backfire and tear them apart. There is no in-between.

"So I get an urgent text from one Nathaniel Plimpton the third, requesting my presence at the location formerly known as Sugar Face for a celebration. A surprise, even. And you've interrupted my sacred song-writing day, so it must be important. I have to say, I'm intrigued."

"Thank you for coming," he says a little too formally, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt.

"And look at you!" she raves.

"Huh?"

"Date shirt. Champagne. And not the cheap stuff either. Ooh la la. Must really be a special occasion."

She's right – without consciously planning it, he dressed himself in the same outfit as their date in the Hollywood hills. It throws him a bit off-kilter that she even remembers that little detail about their last romantic encounter. When she turned him down, he assumed, wrongly perhaps, that his date didn't stand out to her or mean as much as it did to him. He certainly remembers every detail with a maddening clarity. They shared champagne then, too. It was the last time they kissed. The last time they . . .

"So spill it, Plimpton, what's this all about? Why did you summon me to my former place of worship?"

He takes a deep breath and tries to remember all the things he practiced in the mirror. He had taken great pains to think of the best way to frame his proposal, but all the words he prepared elude him in the moment when it really counts.

"I decided to make an investment. A big one."

"OK . . ."

"In this property."

"This property? Where we're standing right now?"

"That's right."

She slow-blinks. "You bought Sugar Face," she deadpans.

"Not Sugar Face. I bought this lot. As an investment property. For passive income," he explains.

"You know, sometimes I still forget that you're rich. You're the only person I know who would ever use the phrase passive income unironically. Personally, I'd like my income to be a lot more active, am I right?" she quips.

With a forced laugh, he agrees, "Right."

"Congratulations," she says, mustering enthusiasm. "Really. I'm so happy for you. You're going to get a fortune in rent. This location is perfect. Loads of foot traffic."

There's a twinge of wistfulness in her voice that tells him she hasn't put two and two together.

"So, what are your plans for this place?" she asks.

"Rent it to another local business. Find the next Sugar Face."

"Any takers?"

"A few businesses have reached out to me, yes, but I haven't signed anything yet."

"Why not? What are you waiting for?"

"For, um, for you."

She squints up at him. "Me?"

"I wanted to offer it to you first."

Her eyebrows climb high on her forehead in surprise. Her smile is disbelieving, subtle, like she wants to be happy at the news but is resisting the urge.

"Nathaniel," she exhales, her shoulders slumping, "that is very sweet. But you know I can't afford this place."

"I know," he says, holding out both his hands to stop her protests. "I thought maybe we could work out a deal."

She crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I'm listening."

"Maybe the first year or two, until you get on your feet, I charge you half the market rate."

Rebecca cocks her head to the side, considering this. Then, with an exasperated sigh, she says, "You know how I feel about taking your money. I don't want to be your charity case."

"It's not. It's not a gift or charity," he insists and pauses, a wave of sentimentality taking hold. He voices it aloud before he has time to filter it. "You know, honestly, this is repayment more than anything else."

"Repayment," she repeats softly. "Repayment for what?"

He's so far off-script, he's improvising. He hasn't even finished laying out the deal to her, but this divergence suddenly feels of the utmost importance to convey. As she stares up at him, her eyebrows all adorably squished together in confusion, his chest swells with affection for her and the words come out almost of their own accord.

"Every single thing in my life that brings me joy can one way or another be traced back to you."

Rebecca touches her hand to her chest and her lips part.

"Think about it. My time in Guatemala. My pro bono work. All the things in my life that make me happy wouldn't have happened without you. Whether you intended it to or not, you turned my entire life around. In the best ways."

Adrenaline courses through his body, his heartbeat deafening in his ears.

"I owe you everything," he concludes, "and, Rebecca, you owe me nothing."

Her breathing quickens, her eyes losing focus as she absorbs his words.

"Here's what I'm thinking. I know how important it is to you that you make it on your own. So, in return for the rent, you can give me a percentage of your revenue. You make money, I make money. I can be almost like a silent partner. Which is something you had no problem with before as I recall," he says with a teasing grin.

"That was different," she replies, snapping to attention, "It wasn't my business."

"Right, it was mine," he reminds her.

She bites her lip. "Right. I should probably apologize for that, huh. Sorry."

"It's in the past," he says, dismissing it with a shake of his head.

She sucks in a quick breath. "You're serious about this?"

"Deadly."

This time when she smiles, she lets it fully blossom. She claps her hands over her cheeks and surveys the lot. "This could all be mine," she states, in awe.

"Absolutely. What do you say?" he asks, holding out his hand.

"I say . . . you got a deal, Plimpton," she replies and takes his offered hand. They smile at each other while shaking hands, letting the moment breathe and expand until the urge to kiss her becomes so overwhelming he has to break away.

"Alright then," he says, abruptly dropping her hand to pick up the champagne bottle from the table, "time to celebrate."

As he's twisting off the wire cage around the cork, Rebecca says to herself, "This is happening. This is really happening."

"It is."

Nathaniel stabilizes the bottle against his thigh and pops the cork.

"Oh!" she gasps at the sound.

As he expertly pours the champagne, she holds the bases of the flimsy flutes steady for him.

"To . . . our partnership," he toasts off-the-cuff, holding up one of the glasses. "To how much money you'll make me when this place takes off. Which it will."

"Thank you," she says seriously, "for believing in my dream. Dreams, plural, actually. You're good at that – blindly supporting all my harebrained schemes."

"It's not a scheme. Not this time. With the right location and a slight assist from me in the cost-cutting department, you're going to be successful."

She looks down into her glass, uncharacteristically shy.

"And," he continues, "you should know that you're good at that too. Never giving up on me. Giving me second chances."

"To not giving up," she toasts, then hesitates before clinking her glass to his.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says, shaking her head, "It's dumb."

"No, tell me."

"I guess I just realized how important that's become to me. Not giving up on things. On my dreams. On other people. Most importantly, on myself."

It seems almost impossible how they could be the same two people who met three years ago in the Whitefeather conference room. The memory is still remarkably vivid in his mind. Her, in an obnoxiously bright pink and purple rash guard, ditching all her responsibilities to go to a water park with the supposed man of her dreams. Him, so stuck in his father's talons he would do anything to please him. Her, struggling to tread water, trying not to drown. And him, merely existing, taking pleasure in nothing in life.

"To not giving up," he agrees and touches his glass against hers.

After taking a thoughtful sip of champagne, Rebecca skips over to the cashier stand and takes her place behind the counter.

"Hi, welcome to Rebetzel's, what can I get you?" she asks cheerfully.

Nathaniel steps up to the counter and pretends to review the invisible menu, touching a contemplative finger to his lips.

"One cinnamon sugar and a black coffee."

"Cinnamon sugar?! No gluten-free?"

He shakes his head with a small grimace. "As your new, albeit silent, partner, I must advise you: no more gluten-free."

"What?! But . . . I do that for you," she says, so innocent and sweet it makes his chest throb.

"I know, but does anyone else buy it? Be honest."

"Maybe?" she squeaks. "Fine, it's gone. That'll be seven fifty. Have a truly happy day!"

She dances out from behind the counter and sweeps her hands over one of the tables. "I can picture it now," she says dreamily, "Everyone in town, here, eating my pretzels. People gathering and talking and laughing and communing, you know?"

He grins and watches her weave in between tables like a Disney princess sauntering through her fairytale forest.

She starts gesticulating wildly with her free hand as she spitballs, "We could put something decorative on each table. Maybe a succulent or a candle or fresh flowers or something. And I could play our favorite show tunes over the speakers. Oh, and here!" She stops abruptly under the archway, her champagne sloshing against the sides of the flute. "This is where we put the giant pretzel. Every customer will pass under it."

Her use of we makes his heart sing.

Watching her float around the space, so happy and animated and bubbling over with anticipation only chips away at his dwindling will power to resist loving her even more. He used to think he loved her, during the affair, when their relationship was a heady cocktail of sex and danger and secrets. He sees clearly now that he had no fucking idea what it meant to love her. It's almost laughable to him now. What a fool he was. To be this deeply in love with her as a person, not with some idea of her or some twisted projection of who he thought she was, is something he never could have fathomed in those days. How ironic that their relationship was once almost solely based on chasing sexual release. And now, their relationship is completely devoid of sexual intimacy, yet is intensely intimate in so many other ways. Ways he didn't even know he was capable of.

"Aren't you excited?! I'm so excited!" she squeals, hopping toward him.

"I am excited," he says, content. "I do have one idea of my own. Besides axing the gluten-free pretzel."

Her eyes go wide and she grips his forearm enthusiastically, pulling him closer. "Please! Tell me all your ideas!"

"I was thinking we could employ women released from prison. There's a government program, actually, with tax incentives for businesses. You and I both know they have such a hard time finding jobs and reintegrating into –"

Rebecca grabs the back of Nathaniel's neck and slams her lips into his.

His eyes fly open in surprise, only to see hers squeezed shut and her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Their noses bump uncomfortably into each other and she lets out a muffled oof sound against his lips. She sinks down to the ground from her tiptoes and he follows, letting his eyes drift closed as she slowly drags her lips over his, taking his bottom lip into her mouth.

The kiss is a multitude of dualities, none of which should be able to exist together. It's familiar, yet new. Clumsy, yet comforting. It's thrilling, breathtaking, exhilarating, but, at the same time, it feels like coming home. He wants to cry, he wants to laugh, he wants to shout at the top of his lungs. He wants to gather her in his arms and whisk her away, yet he wants to live in this moment forever. His body is on fire, yet a shiver nips at his neck.

Her lips are tangy and sweet, the faint odor of alcohol clinging to her breath. She exhales through her nose with a contented sigh and the sound shoots tingles up his spine. His fingers grow restless. He wants to feel her, surrender to his urge to devour her. With a movement a bit too sudden, he tries to cup her jaw, intending to deepen the kiss and weave his fingers through her hair. However, he's forgotten about the champagne glass he's holding, and it slips out of his hand and falls onto the ground. The plastic clatters on the cement and the champagne splashes onto their ankles.

They both jump, breaking away from each other.

"Sorry! Oh god, I'm sorry," she exclaims, her voice high-pitched and louder than normal. She's panting, breathless, and her eyes dart down to her shoes like she's been scolded.

"No, it's –" he starts.

"No?"

"I mean, it's OK."

"Sorry. That was . . . I got, um, swept up in the moment," she says, shaking her head.

Nathaniel bends down and picks up the glass off the ground. When he stands back up, Rebecca is touching her fingertips to her lips with a dazed expression.

"We should go," she says, "I have to finish my song. I think I told you Heather and Valencia are even coming. So. Yeah. I should go."

He swallows. "Sure. I'll, um, walk you to your car."

Not a word is uttered as they walk side-by-side to the street at a respectful distance. He follows her to the driver's side of the car and she turns around and leans against it, her eyes darting around, unsure where to look. On any other day, he would give her a quick kiss on the cheek and be on his way. He wouldn't think twice about it. However, after what just transpired, their normal routine seems strangely both too intimate and not intimate enough at the same time.

Part of him worries that the kiss was Rebecca-typical impulsivity. But the way her lips slanted over his, insistent and hungry, the way her fingernails dug into the back of his neck, the way she sighed into his mouth, didn't feel like impulsivity at all. It felt like the rush of a dam breaking after months of buildup. Or maybe he's projecting.

The silence is unnerving. Her chest rises and falls with each labored, shallow breath and he sees in her eyes something he hasn't since their last big fight. Fear. Not fear of him, but the fear of the consequences of her actions.

She wrings her hands together as she stares up at him, her eyes pleading for him to make the next move. The last thing he wants is for her to spiral over this – to think she's made some kind of monumental mistake that will jeopardize their relationship. With the intention of reassuring her everything can be normal, if that's what she wants, he leans down to peck her on the cheek as usual. That is, until her eyes track down to his lips and her mouth parts, and it's all the encouragement he needs to change his trajectory. He lingers one more brief moment, then kisses her on the lips. It's gentle, soft, and lasts only a few seconds. But he's done it. He's made a choice.

Her eyes stay closed for a beat longer after he pulls away. She wets her lips as her eyes flutter open and she smiles at him, beams, as if she has a secret.

They're free falling. Now it's only a matter of time.