Save the Date
but that's how it will be
Nick Jonas is proud of himself—after graduating college roughly 18 months ago, he is finally moving out of his parents’ house. Being a struggling musician isn’t as glamorous as the movies make them seem and he has no fairy godmother to suddenly help him get signed. So, he relies on various jobs here and there to help him pay his rent and his tuition. But he is content all the same.
His room is bare and his possessions moved to oversized boxes—as a perfectionist, he’s surprised at the amount of trash that had gradually collected through the years. He’s been packing for days, getting sidetracked by old songbooks and photographs. He’d found sheet music after sheet music with lyrics scrawled on about his college sweetheart; they had broken up when they both realized that their careers wouldn’t take them the same places.
“Nicholas, I wish you’d eat something,” Mrs. Jonas says to her son. She’s a tired, middle-aged woman with laugh lines and a big Italian heart. She doesn’t look as Nick as he wanders about the kitchen, but reads away at the morning newspaper.
“I can’t, Mom,” he tells her. “I have to pack up all of my things in my truck and then drop it all off at the apartment,” he explains these things like they’ll take days as opposed to a few hours. He takes a bite of toast, “Then I’m going to meet with some guys about possibly getting a record deal.” Nick had been to a handful of these meetings before, getting his hopes up and waiting weeks for a call that would never come—he isn’t holding his breath.
She pats his knee as he takes a seat and sets her newspaper down, “Break a leg, honey.” She reaches over to the center of the table, pouring coffee into a mug and placing it in front of Nick.
He tilts his head to the side, squints his eyes, and reads the small print of the paper. “Is that—?” he moves the paper toward him and chuckles one in shock, “Oh, wow. It is.”
Mrs. Jonas glances sideways at the paper and Nick taps the picture, “Look who’s getting married.”
She smiles, “I’m so glad—she was always a nice girl… It’s a shame it didn’t work out between the two of you.”
Nick bites the inside of his cheek, cracking a smile as he recalls all of the memories he and this girl had together—it was his college girlfriend, who he would probably have married had they not gone their separate ways. “Huh,” he says.
✗ ✗ ✗
The apartment Nick moves into isn’t a large space; he’s moved in with a friend of a friend and is to pay roughly $350 a month.
When the interview is over and his truck unloaded, Nick finds himself alone in his new room. He pulls out his favorite old songbook, flipping through the pages first and reading the bolded titles of songs that he is now embarrassed to have written, and reads the side notes he can’t remember adding. Everything in this book is about the same person, the same experiences, the same setting. He remembers ice skating with her in Central Park and kissing her at the start of every New Year until their split.
“I wonder how she’s doing,” he says under his breath. His voice becomes louder as he realizes that he’s now able to talk aloud without fear of being heard, “Probably well. I mean, after all, she’s getting married…” he laughs once. The sound is dry and humorless and he feels an unfamiliar emotion in his chest. If he thinks hard enough, he can still feel her body next to his—still feel her cool hands against his palms, her hair tickling his face.
He looks at the book again, deciding that, if he gets a record deal, he will alter these songs and publish them in case she should hear them. The memories are sweet and the lyrics relatable—each song swelling with potential and begging for recognition. They need to be heard.
His room is bare and his possessions moved to oversized boxes—as a perfectionist, he’s surprised at the amount of trash that had gradually collected through the years. He’s been packing for days, getting sidetracked by old songbooks and photographs. He’d found sheet music after sheet music with lyrics scrawled on about his college sweetheart; they had broken up when they both realized that their careers wouldn’t take them the same places.
“Nicholas, I wish you’d eat something,” Mrs. Jonas says to her son. She’s a tired, middle-aged woman with laugh lines and a big Italian heart. She doesn’t look as Nick as he wanders about the kitchen, but reads away at the morning newspaper.
“I can’t, Mom,” he tells her. “I have to pack up all of my things in my truck and then drop it all off at the apartment,” he explains these things like they’ll take days as opposed to a few hours. He takes a bite of toast, “Then I’m going to meet with some guys about possibly getting a record deal.” Nick had been to a handful of these meetings before, getting his hopes up and waiting weeks for a call that would never come—he isn’t holding his breath.
She pats his knee as he takes a seat and sets her newspaper down, “Break a leg, honey.” She reaches over to the center of the table, pouring coffee into a mug and placing it in front of Nick.
He tilts his head to the side, squints his eyes, and reads the small print of the paper. “Is that—?” he moves the paper toward him and chuckles one in shock, “Oh, wow. It is.”
Mrs. Jonas glances sideways at the paper and Nick taps the picture, “Look who’s getting married.”
She smiles, “I’m so glad—she was always a nice girl… It’s a shame it didn’t work out between the two of you.”
Nick bites the inside of his cheek, cracking a smile as he recalls all of the memories he and this girl had together—it was his college girlfriend, who he would probably have married had they not gone their separate ways. “Huh,” he says.
✗ ✗ ✗
The apartment Nick moves into isn’t a large space; he’s moved in with a friend of a friend and is to pay roughly $350 a month.
When the interview is over and his truck unloaded, Nick finds himself alone in his new room. He pulls out his favorite old songbook, flipping through the pages first and reading the bolded titles of songs that he is now embarrassed to have written, and reads the side notes he can’t remember adding. Everything in this book is about the same person, the same experiences, the same setting. He remembers ice skating with her in Central Park and kissing her at the start of every New Year until their split.
“I wonder how she’s doing,” he says under his breath. His voice becomes louder as he realizes that he’s now able to talk aloud without fear of being heard, “Probably well. I mean, after all, she’s getting married…” he laughs once. The sound is dry and humorless and he feels an unfamiliar emotion in his chest. If he thinks hard enough, he can still feel her body next to his—still feel her cool hands against his palms, her hair tickling his face.
He looks at the book again, deciding that, if he gets a record deal, he will alter these songs and publish them in case she should hear them. The memories are sweet and the lyrics relatable—each song swelling with potential and begging for recognition. They need to be heard.