“What can we do to help?” Mom asks. “Do you need to see a psychologist?”
Ugh. Marek suggested that, too. “No, no. I’m good.”
“We could go to L.A. with you,” Dad says. “Stay for a while.”
“I… don’t know when I’ll go back to L.A.”
“Blake’s there. Your whole team is there. You should be there.”
“How are you going to get back into things if you’re not there?” Mom asks.
My stomach tightens. She assumes Iwantto get back into things.
“Think of the people waiting for you to pick up your career again,” Dad says. “Blake and Harper and Bruno, everyone at the label. Your band and your dancers.”
“Your fans,” Mom adds. “You should see them on social media.”
I wince. I don’t want to see that. I know only too well that social media can be toxic. I’ll bet a lot of people aren’t happy about my absence.
But she has a point. Even though I try not to take their questions as judgment or their comments as criticism, even though I have that ugly feeling that I’m letting them down in the worst way after all they’ve done for me, I’m letting other people down, too. Most especially my fans, who I love, who are so important to me. I wouldn’t be where I am without them.
And that makes me feel decidedly queasy.
* * *
Mabel didn’t say she was coming over to watch the game; we just saw each other last night. But she shows up with a bag of popcorn and a bottle of wine shortly before the puck drops on Saturday night.
“Hey,” I say, letting her in. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
“I forgot to tell you. I mean, ask you. Do you have other plans?”
“You know I don’t.”
She makes a face. “Yeah.” She sets the wine on the counter. “I came in case you needed popcorn and wine.”
“Why would I…”
She raises her eyebrows, giving my puffy pink face a once-over.
“Right.” I move to the cupboard. “I’ll get the glasses.”
“Things didn’t go well?”
“Pretty much as expected.”
She unscrews the cap of the wine and pours a generous amount into each glass. I pick up one and take a big swallow. “I’m sorry. Want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know. Let me drink more wine first.”
“Fair.”
We settle on the couch in front of the TV as we’ve done a lot of times now. I remember the first time she came over to keep me company and I freaked out because she was so talkative and loud and animated. And how the next time, I didn’t want her to come at all because of that.
Now, I’m so moved by the fact that she came over knowing I might need support (or wine), I want to cry. I swallow wine to wash away the lump in my throat.
“I like you, Mabel,” I say randomly.
“Oh my God!”
