Nick
You'd think with Jess's obvious (was it obvious?) rejection of him or her lack of acknowledging his confession it would have crippled him but he's realized this is actually much more Nick Miller's speed.
Nick Miller doesn't do love, he does unrequited love and he does it well.
He belongs in a miserable pit of loneliness, bottle of booze in hand sitting on a broken stool in a poorly lit bar next to folks nursing whatever long ago hurt they suffered; those were his people.
Not a girl who embodies sunshine itself.
No, he'll forever be the guy who should have done something but didn't.
Could have had something but won't.
Would have tried but gave up too soon.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda.
His life can be summed up with those three words. Perfectly tragic and succinct.
It's what he plans on having etched in his gravestone.
"Here lies Nick Miller, King of the shoulda, coulda, woulda."
Well jokes on the universe since he's currently checking off one thing on the old bucket list: Gardening! It's such a relaxing and calming activi-
"OW! Son of a bitch!" Nick shakes his hand out and brings his bleeding thumb to his mouth, immediately regretting it as the disgusting taste of dirt and iron overwhelm his senses.
Spitting out the blood/dirt mixture, he examines the superficial injury before a pair of gardening gloves are dangled in front of his eyes.
"Brambles," is all Tran says as Nick snatches the gloves from his proffered hand.
"Yeah, brambles. My whole life is a damn bramble, Tran."
Tran's bemused expression his only response as the old man shuffles to another part of the garden.
Pulling the weathered gloves on then picking up the small trowel, Nick starts in-expertly digging at the dirt surrounding a plant with no real purpose in mind, undoubtedly will end up killing it.
Flopping down on his butt with a sigh, he pulls a blue bucket of fertilized dirt between his legs, maybe instead of weeding he can fertilize. He digs in and grabs a handful of the smelly dirt and flings it to his right, clumps of it sticking to some plants, weighing the leaves down but he's too distracted to care.
His mind is zeroing in on the one topic he's desperate to forget. The shoulda, coulda, woulda's regarding Jessica Day and that night on the rooftop bar in New York City.
He should have kissed her.
He could have kissed her.
He would have kissed her.
Sure, she might be engaged to marry a real specimen of tall man hunk, but at the time he didn't know that and he had never felt the things he'd been feeling in that moment. The pounding heart, the warm flush on his face, the jumpy finger tips, the weird belly swirls, but a pleasant kind, not pukey kind. All of it had coalesced into a perfect storm of confusing but exhilarating feelings that for once in his life he knew he should have acted on.
But he hadn't. And he'd never get the chance again. Because now she's engaged.
Or is she? His treacherous mind whispers. If he thinks too hard on it (which he puts all his efforts in not doing), she never actually did confirm the engagement, actually spent a lot of time looking shocked and panicked...he remembers having a brief flashback to Bambi at one point for some strange reason; and there was no ring he could remember seeing, though that shouldn't mean much, Jess doesn't seem like a blood diamond girl anyway, she's the best...wait no... the worst! She's infuriating and beautiful and nosey and he's going to stop thinking about her!
This is supposed to be a time of avoiding all things Jessica Day, but the mystery behind this supposed engagement is too enticing to resist, barring his obvious stake in whether it's true or not, he never could resist a good mystery. He does write them for a living...another not-secret-anymore thanks to Miss Day.
Well, that's not really fair, he doesn't know if she's told anyone yet, but the big reveal to everyone in the office feels inevitable. Hence, the avoidance.
A foggy memory ripples its way through his mind. When he had returned to the hotel room that night. In that vague space between completely asleep and struggling to stay awake, because Jess had been talking and she had emphatically asked him to stay awake and listen, and he had been doing his best but the sweet boozy blanket of oblivion had been tucking him in all nice and cozy.
"...had this plan before you...plan's been shot...you've come along...you make everything harder..."
Groaning, he rips off the gardening gloves to scrub a hand down his face. That memory isn't exactly encouraging. Seems as though he causes Jess nothing but grief.
Whatever. Forget her, Miller! She's been evasive regarding her relationship status from day one...hasn't she? There, that helps, blame shift, that makes him feel a tiny bit better.
Huffing he rises to one knee and starts fiddling with the plant in front of him.
"Hey Tran, is this a weed?" He calls out, contemplating the plant and preparing to tear it from the ground.
"That's a tomato plant."
Nick's heart begins to pound and he refuses to turn around and face the one person in the world he doesn't want to see (lies, lies, lies). A wave of frustration washes over him. Does no one respect the principals of avoidance anymore?
He needs a distraction, something, anything to avoid the stream of word-vomit he has bubbling up his throat.
He spots his salvation in the form of a long piece of hay and plucks it up from the ground to stick between his teeth. There. Rounding out the whole image. Meet Farmer Nick, formerly Writer Nick, but still Always a Disappointment Nick.
Unfortunately, her perfume has already over-powered any scent around him, eclipsing the dirt, flowers, (and thankfully) his own unpleasant sweaty odor, but this only serves to frustrate him more so he takes up the trowel and starts digging and continues to dig even when her pale calves come in to view, the bottom of a light pink dress floating around her knees. He hears her clear her throat before overturning an empty wooden crate to sit on. What gets him to finally look up is the strange sound of scratching and crinkling, like someone squeezing a burlap sack of dead leaves.
"So this is the plan now? Farmer Nick?"
Well he wasn't that far off, nodding in appreciation at the sight of a medium sized stuffed scarecrow cradled in her arms as well as confirming her words.
"Eschewing the city life for fresh air, tomato plants and ants crawling on your face," she gestures to his face.
Nick scrunches his eyes in confusion before his periphery catches sight of the little black bug bee-lining up the piece of straw in his mouth towards his face. He makes a very feminine squeal before noisily spitting out the straw and wiping frantically at his face, then glaring at Jess, as if it was her fault. Probably could have been. He doesn't doubt she can charm animals to do her bidding, Disney princess that she is.
And Prince Charming, he is not. He's the jester. The fool. The schmuck.
In a futile attempt to save face, Nick returns to digging, focused on ignoring the girl and her stupid stuffed scarecrow.
She sighs loudly, "Well, work's been weird without you. Real tense vibes around the office these days."
Jess never really did require his participation to have full conversations with him.
"Leo hardly leaves his office, and he's been wearing this ridiculous fedora, like a 40s era mobster..."
Nick pauses at that. That's Leo's, "I'm about to fire someone" hat. Shit, shit, shit. On top of all this ridiculous emotional garbage, now he's going to get fired?! Great. Just pile it on universe.
Jess continues, unaware of his sudden tension. "There's so much whispering and throat clearing at work, like we're at a perpetual wake or something. It's dark times, Miller."
He can tell she's trying to hide the anxiety in her voice over the current office environment, but she's failing miserably. He looks up, squinting at her, "That's how it is at work?"
She meets his eye and it's like a dam breaks. "Well it would probably change if you'd just flippin come back, Nick!"
He lifts his hand, shaking his head vehemently, pointer finger raised in a gesture to get her to stop or give him a minute to respond before she really gets going.
"Whether you realize it or not, you're the real leader of that office! Leo may be the CEO, but he's clearly lost without you and probably about to make some crazy decisions! Just come back! I haven't said anything to anyone, I swear!"
At this point Nick gives up, disgruntled and fighting the urges screaming in his veins to just stop her mouth with his, he proceeds to rub his fingers in his eyes in agitation, shaking his head in a last ditch effort to get her to just stop.
"And you need to understand something and let me explain!"
Well now that just pisses him off, not that he wasn't already pissed off... he's always pissed off. But her words raised the bar. Did he not try and talk to her the entire trip back from New York City? In the airport, on the plane, in the airport again. What the fuck is she saying, let her explain?!
Bringing his hand to his heart, shaking his head, "I tried," he says earnestly. "But you kept running away!"
She looks a little chagrinned at that but he gets little satisfaction from it. He just wants her to leave, or he'll leave. She probably wants to set-up that stupidly awesome scarecrow.
"Look, I know I messed up, and may have inadvertently left things out about my life and may have been willingly blinding myself to certain things and... feelings, so right now I just need you to listen."
Nick drops his head in resignation, they're sitting in a terribly awkward silence that makes him want to bury himself in the dirt he's currently squeezing between his fingers. He lifts his head, looking to the right and taking in Tran's garden that he was slowly but surely going to accidentally destroy. Speaking of the old man...
"Where did Tran go?" He asks. Good, deflection, a classic Miller strategy.
"His granddaughter picked him up for a family thing."
"Why wasn't I invited?" He says under his breath as he rises to his feet, clapping his hands together to remove the dirt. Jess remains seated with her head raised, squinting into the weird in-between cloudy-bright sky. God, her eyes look so blue right now, it pains him. He can't do this. Wants more than anything to be anywhere else in the world right now, but Tran's small kitchen will have to suffice.
He starts in the direction of the house and hears Jess stand and her homemade scarecrow flop to the ground.
"Nick!"
He continues walking, planning on trekking dirt through Tran's house out of spite. That'll teach the old man to leave him out of family events. And then he'll go to a bar to be among his people.
Unfortunately, his route is suddenly blocked by a five foot four blue-eyed she-devil in a light pink dress.
"Look, Jess-"
"I want rooftop-Nick back," she interrupts. "Give me him right now. The calm, contemplative, honest version of you."
Well, that crosses the line, he's had enough of this horrible situation. His feelings are out of control, his head is all kinds of scrambled, warring between not giving a crap about what she's got to say and desperate to hear every word. It all comes out of him as he gets up close to her face.
"This is me, baby, take it or leave it!" He shouts.
"Let me fix this!" She shouts back.
"What could you possibly do that'll fix this?" He answers loudly, both of them are breathing hard, staring daggers into each other's eyes.
About five seconds go by before he forces himself to drop his eyes to his dirt stained jeans.
"I'm not doing this, Jess," he says defeated as he bulls passed her but suddenly a small hand is gripping him at the elbow, bunching the material of his shirt as he's swung back to face her. He's momentarily surprised by her grip strength when all brain function abruptly zaps out as her lips crash into his.
The kiss is fierce and passionate, driven by whatever unknown thing has been building between them for months. She exhales heavily through her nose, the warm air caressing his face as he dips his knees and wraps his arms around her without hesitation, pulling her body close to feel every inch of it. Her arms press in around his neck as his hands roam her body, seemingly with minds of their own. He's acting like a man experiencing a last kiss, as if he's about to head off to war, about to face death and this is his last chance, the final moment of something beautiful before it's taken away forever.
Because it probably will be. He's Nick Miller, after-all, and if the universe saw fit to deign him with this kiss, then he's going to make the most of it, because only destruction will follow. (Ok, that's a little dramatic...he can't help it, it's the writer in him).
He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and feels her tongue brush along the underside of his top lip, making his knees shake. Their lips finally separate but they don't move any further from each other. Foreheads pressed together, he peaks his eyes open just a slit to see hers are closed softly, jaw loose as she breaths heavily between parted, swollen lips that are just beckoning him to return to them; so he does, but this time he goes in slowly and gently presses his lips to hers. A kiss completely opposite to the frantic one before. He feels her breath shudder out through her nose and he follows the gentle kiss with another final peck, reluctant to break away from her at all.
He stands to his full height, still completely pressed to her. Her right hand is gripping his bicep just above his elbow, the other gripping his red shirt near his waist, the material pulling down his back.
She's heavy-lidded and a bit dazed when he meets her eyes and he doesn't doubt that a similar expression can be found on his own face.
"Something like that," she says softly, warm breath brushing over his lips.
He's stunned. For the first time in weeks his mind is quiet. No thoughts or doubts or distractions running through his crazed mind. He caresses her face with his thumb, attempting to brush off the dirt smeared there from his wandering hands.
His eyes dart between hers, taking in the blown pupils, the sky blue rims. She seems just as shocked by her actions as he is and before he can cobble together a coherent thought, she's pulling away, tucking her hair behind her ear, turning and walking away. Soft footprints in the grass the only evidence she was even there. Well, that and the way his lips feel swollen, his racing heart and the fading heat along his front where her body had been pressed.
The only action he can muster is bringing his fingers to his lips, rubbing his mouth side to side before dragging his entire hand over the scruff on his cheeks, staring at the doorway she disappeared through.
Well, what the hell is he supposed to do now?
