“I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking,” she says. “I don’t even remember some of the things that happened after that. I was in a daze. I just knew I had to keep it together. People were killed. Injured. Missing. I was safe. I told myself I should feel lucky. I couldn’t feel bad about what happened to me, when others were so much worse off. And then I f-felt so guilty. For being alive. For being unhurt.”
“There are more wounds than just physical.” I make my first comment.
She dips her head slowly, then lifts it up. “Yes. That’s true.”
I tighten my arms around her and pull her closer, pressing her head to my chest. Anguish lodges in my throat, and my breath burns in my chest. “It’s normal to feel guilty,” I scrape out. “Totally normal to think that. And the reason you think that is because you have so much empathy.”
She shifts against me. “I don’t get it.”
“You survived. You want others to have survived.”
She considers that. “I guess that’s true. I just don’t know how to get past that. I can’t imagine going back to how things were before.”
“Things will never go back to how things were before.”
Her head moves against my hand in a tiny nod.
“But you can have a good, happy life, even if it’s different. Even ifyou’redifferent.”
I had a crush on her for months before I met her. Now I’m getting to know the real Nikki. My imagined, idealized version of her doesn’t live up to reality—she has flaws and she’s wounded and stubborn. Even the version of her I got to know in Vegas is different from who she is now. And yet… I’m still painfully, desperately attracted to her. To her courage and authenticity and quirky charm. I still feel like there’s some kind of limitless connection between us, that’s inexplicable but palpable.
“I am different. I know it. I’ve been so shitty to you.” A sob catches in her throat. “Everything annoys me. I hate myself.”
Every muscle in my body tenses, my arms tightening again. “Please. Don’t do that.” I shift, rolling her gently to her back, moving over her to look down into her face. “Don’t hate yourself. Don’t hate anyone. Life is too short for hate.”
She looks back at me for a stretched-out moment. Then gives another tiny nod.
“Give yourself some grace, like you would anyone else who’s going through something like this.”
I want her to know she’s loveable. I want to tell her I love her. But I can’t. So I show her.
I kiss her soft mouth, her lips pouty from crying. I touch her everywhere, cupping her breasts, thumbing her nipples, caressing her arms, trying to show her with every touch how loveable she is. How beautiful she is. I kiss my way down her throat, her chest, and she tastes sweet. Heavenly. I kiss each nipple, then glide my tongue over her abs, around her navel. So much skin, silky, warm. Shifting my body, I open my mouth on her lower belly and I part her thighs with my hands. Her scent fills my head, making me drunk. My whole world slides and narrows to her skin and her scent and her taste, all the heat and wonder of her.
“Perfect,” I breathe. “Beautiful. I want to put my mouth on you.”
She moans.
I kiss her on the softest flesh, then lick her there, so gently. Over and over, tonguing her clit, making her gasp and quiver and tangle her hands in my hair. I give myself over to pleasing her, telling her without words that she is good and lovely and deserving of everything beautiful in the world. And she comes on my tongue, on my mouth, calling my name, pulsing with pleasure. And I’m in love.
17
NIKKI
Marek and his team have a two-week break coming up for an international hockey tournament that’s being held instead of the All Star game. That kind of makes me sad, because I like thinking about the All Star game and how much fun it was and how exciting it was meeting Marek there and hooking up with him. Those are nice positive memories compared to the horrific ones that keep intruding into my brain.
I’ve slept with Marek every night. And we’ve had lots of sex. It’s like I can’t get enough. I’m desperate and greedy for it. It’s the only thing lately that makes me feel something. Connecting with Marek in such an elemental way, in a way that’s beautiful and vulnerable and joyful, makes me feel that life has value.
We talked about what it means. He’s been very clear that his goal in life is to live free and have fun. So I know not to expect more than that. And I don’t anyway; I’m a train wreck right now. So we agreed we like having sex with each other but that’s all this is.
Since I talked to Marek that night about the concert disaster and how I’m feeling, I’ve been able to think about what happened in Germany a little more. Yes, it’s scary. Yes, those thoughts make me feel things I don’t want to feel. But maybe I’m able to feel those things and not completely fall into a dark vortex of despair because I get to feel alive and secure.
I’m not exactly a joyful energetic spirit right now. I still take at least two showers a day and spend most of my days watching TV in bed. I’ve thought about my music, but I feel so disconnected from it right now. It was once my whole life and now feels like it doesn’t matter. But that leaves a gaping emptiness inside me that I don’t know how to fill.
I’ve gone on more walks with Marek and let him feed me healthy meals. I’m not quite as much of a recluse. I even went out to a nearby bodega when I inexplicably had a craving for strawberry ice cream, although my heart was working double time until I made it safely home. But I did it.
And I’ve been making bread. It seemed like something simple I could manage—flour, salt, yeast, water. It’s been oddly satisfying. Thanks to several YouTube videos, I’m now proficient and trying my hand at sourdough.
I’ve become quite fond of my sourdough starter. It’s a living thing and you have to continuously feed and water it, like it’s a dog or a plant, or a husband. I feel like this is good training (or a caution?) for having a relationship. As I lovingly watched him come alive, I named him Breadly Cooper. We’re in a relationship. The only relationship I can handle right now.
