My eyes widen, fixed on hers. I rub my mouth.
Her teeth trap her bottom lip. “He does. I thought you both… watching you together, you were so connected. I thought you felt the same.”
My heart freezes. “I can’t… I’m not…” I stop, my throat squeezing shut.
Mabel waits, even though I know she’s not a patient person.
“I told him,” I finally choke out. “I’m a mess. He deserves better.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, nodding. “Lots of people love you, Nikki. Lots of peoplewantto love you. But when you don’t love yourself, you push away people who try to love you.”
“I…” My sinuses sting. I rub my mouth. I don’t push people away. “That’s not…”
She tilts her head. “Think about it.”
* * *
I don’t want to think about what Mabel said. Just hearing the words was like pushing on a bruise. If I think more about it, it’ll be like poking an open wound. I don’t want to think about Marek loving me. Or maybe he doesn’t, because I’m not loveable.
Maybe getting farther away will help, so I pack up and fly to L.A. I let Blake and Harper know I’m coming, determined to be strong enough to get back to business. But I’m not. I’m not strong enough.
Harper lets me cry on her shoulder, then she picks up the phone and calls a therapist and pulls some strings to make an appointment for me. She drives me there the next day. I don’t want to go. But none of my excuses make any sense.I don’t have time.Ha.The therapist will sit there and judge me.I need to be judged.What good is talking going to do?That’s denial.
Dr. Eve Gamble apparently is experienced with people who don’t want to talk to a stranger about their shit. She doesn’t judge me. She listens and asks questions and sometimes I don’t know how to answer the questions, but I keep trying.
As the days go by, I spend time at therapy. At the piano, playing, singing, writing. Sitting in meeting rooms with Blake and Harper and my agent Anderson and Bruno. And I spend time sitting on my terrace overlooking the city and thinking.
One of the things Eve tells me is that helping other people is a way to use my guilt to honor the people who were lost or hurt at my concert, and give me a sense of purpose. So I take that to the team and we start planning a benefit concert… in Berlin. Can I go back there? Can I perform at a concert?
I have to.
There are lots of things I have to do that I’m not sure I can.
I find some music that I wrote last year. A song called “No Matter Where” that I wrote around the same time as I wrote the songs for my album “Waiting for Stars.” “Charmer,” one of the singles from that album, ended up hitting number one on the Billboard Hot 100, which was what threw my life into glorious chaos.
I read the lyrics of “No Matter Where” and my heart contracts sharply.
It’s a good song. I mean, I love it because I wrote it, but objectively I think it’s good. I didn’t end up including it on the album because it felt too personal. Too vulnerable. But now… shit. I’ve survived a deadly disaster. I’ve survived people saying I can’t cut it. I’ve survived my own damn mind games. How bad can it be to share something so intimate? And isn’t that what the best music is?
My impulse is to immediately record and release it. But that voice in my head tells me not to be hasty. So I set it aside and explore other ideas.
Eve suggested I put my emotions into music. “Whatever pain you can’t get rid of, make it your gift.” Which is so obvious—I always do that! My songs are known for being somewhat autobiographical—about friends, romance, heartbreak, and more recently socio-cultural issues important to me—and vulnerable in a raw, authentic way. But right now, my feelings are so intense and so sensitive that exposing them feels terrifying.
But isn’t that what the best music is?
Like I said, there are lots of things I have to do that I’m not sure I can.
One day after I see Eve, I pause outside the building housing her office. Across Larchmont is a tattoo shop. I’ve had this idea floating around for a while, but now that I’m practically right in a tattoo shop… I’m going to do it.
I cross with the lights at the intersection then hustle down the sidewalk. I hesitate at the door. Am I crazy? This isn’t the place I got my other tattoos. I don’t know anything about this shop. I don’t want to end up with a methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus infection. Or hepatitis. Jesus.
I pull out my phone and do some speedy googling. I read the “about” info—owned by a woman, that’s good—then reviews. All excellent. Okay. I’m going in.
The girl at the front smiles as I walk in, but when I tell her I don’t have an appointment, her face falls. “We’re all booked up this afternoon,” she says. “But I can book you in… let’s see…” She clicks a computer mouse a few times. “Next Thursday?”
I pout. “Damn. I don’t want to wait that long.” The fact that they’re booked up is a good sign, though.
“Are you…” She tips her head. “Nikki Sullivan?”
