I pause in unwrapping a package of cheese. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” A whisper of a smile passes over her lips. “They wanted to move out of the city, so they bought this… cottage, I guess? It’s pretty big though. Absolutely hideous. But they’re working on renovating it. It’s on the water and it’s got some land that’s pretty.”
“Why aren’t you there with them?”
“I don’t want to be. I want to be here. In my own home.”
I nod. I don’t think she should be alone right now. But I guess her parents know her.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” I start grating cheese.
It takes her a moment to answer. “No.”
“Maybe it’s too soon. But you should talk about it. I’m a safe space.”
“You don’t need to be traumatized by all the details.”
I hide my flinch. It’s entirely possible I could be triggered. But she doesn’t need to know that. I need to be here for her. “I can handle it.”
As I prepare food, she’s so quiet. Unlike the vibrant, bubbly star I was with in Vegas. This scares me even more.
“I saw that you visited people in the hospital.”
“Yeah. Little girls.” She closes her eyes. “I had to do it before I left.”
“That was kind of you. And brave.”
She shrugs.
I also saw her Instagram post about how sorry she was, and her management team’s post saying they mourn the lives lost. And I saw a picture of her arriving at Newark Airport on Friday. That was when I called Anderson, my agent, to try to find her, losing my shit over knowing how close she was.
“We canceled the tour,” she says morosely.
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” I check the macaroni. “I’ve been thinking about you. How this tour was everything you wanted.”
She gives a tiny nod without looking up.
“Congratulations on your success,” I add. “Your album is doing fantastic.”
“It is.” She doesn’t sound particularly happy, but I guess it’s hard to be happy after something like this.
“I messaged you a few times.” I scoop out some of the pasta water for the sauce. “To congratulate you and tell you how proud I was of you.”But you never answered.
“I got the messages. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. Things were crazy.”
That’s bullshit. But I don’t say that right now.
I stir things together and fill bowls with the pasta, then slide one in front of her along with a fork. I join her on the other stool. I’m not exactly hungry; my guts are twisted in knots, like they have been for the past three days. But I fork up some macaroni and eat it.
Nikki does, too, blowing on her forkful, which puckers her lips into an adorable kiss shape. God, I want to kiss her.
I stare at my macaroni and poke it with my fork.
“Thank you for this,” Nikki says. “It’s delicious.”
“Good. Have you been eating? Maybe some food will help you feel better.”
“I’ve been eating. Some. Well, not much.”
