“Oh, yeah. Blake the snake.”
She giggles. “Come on, he’s not that bad.”
“Whatever.”
“He says we have interest from a big movie studio in a sync deal.”
“A what now?”
“They want to use one of my songs in a movie.”
“Oh. That sounds good.”
“It is!”
“Sounds like big money.”
“Yeah, it can be. It’s also great exposure.”
This is the first time she’s talked about business.
My GPS guides us into Pennsylvania and we decide to take a break for lunch and shopping in Scranton. I locate a Dick’s Sporting Goods and with Nikki bundled up with a scarf and hat tugged low on her forehead, we enter and find the women’s boots. She’s interested in a pair of Doc Martens, but I guide her over to a pair of Sorels that’ll be nice and warm for walking. The bored sales associate barely looks at her and finds her a size six, and Nikki pronounces them a perfect fit. Then we track down a pair of snow pants for her.
“I bet you want to look at the hockey gear,” she whispers to me as we walk to pay for her boots and pants.
“Maybe just a quick look…” It’s not like I need anything. I’m picky about my skates and sticks and loyal to the Diehl brand. A few years ago I was in a bit of a goal-scoring slump and the equipment rep from Diehl sat down with me and gave me some suggestions and let me try out a few different sticks with a stiffer blade and right away everything felt better. So I stick to what works.
But I can’t resist looking at a few sticks.
“That stick is three hundred and fifty dollars,” Nikki whispers, wide-eyed.
“Yep.” I slant her an amused glance. “You used to play. You should know sticks are expensive.”
She snorts. “Notmysticks. I think mine cost about fifty bucks. If that.”
I stroke the shaft with my fingertips. “It’s nice. But enough of this. I’m starving.”
After we’re back in the car, I ask, “Do you want to take a chance on a sit-down place? Or go through a drive-through?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Drive-through, I guess.” Moments later, she points. “Hey, there’s a Sonic! I haven’t been to one of those in years.”
“I’m good with that.” We wheel into the parking lot.
“I really want a slushie,” she says. “I’m not allowed to have them.”
“I bet one slushie won’t wreck your vocal cords.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” she says morosely. “Lemonade slushie, please.”
I hate it when she talks about her career being over. I want to argue with her and spank some sense into her. But I think she might have to figure that out for herself.
We get cheeseburgers and fries along with the slushies and eat in the SUV. Nobody pays any attention to either of us.
“This is kind of cool,” Nikki says grudgingly. “I like being ignored.” She pops a fry into her mouth, chews and swallows, then says, “I also like cheeseburgers and fries.”
Memories of that night in Vegas slide into my brain. Jesus. Not a care in the world, either of us, just having fun and having hot ninja monkey sex. I remember how carefree Nikki was, how bubbly and upbeat she was, how fun and sexy. It’s so fucking hard comparing that to how she is now—shut down, tired, apathetic. I think she’s doing better than she was that day I arrived at her apartment; but she’s definitely not her normal self. And that is so fucking sad I could cry.
“Let’s play French toast,” I say.
