I used to think music was all I had. All I wanted.
That’s not true anymore.
I do still believe in music, though. I remember talking to Marek about it and saying that music tries to express the incomprehensible, but there’s always something missing. And it’sthat—it’s what’s missing—that brings me back. Over and over. It’s frustrating but also freeing. Inspiring. Trying to fill that gap, the space between the lines, the rests between the notes. The space in our hearts and in our souls.
Music isn’t everything. Having your health, having love and family and friends is important, too. But… I want to sing. Iloveto sing. I want to make music.
24
MAREK
“You’re leaving.”
“Yes.” Nikki smiles at me as if she just told me she won the lottery. “I really have to deal with life. It’s a good thing,” she adds.
I just walked, or I should say limped, in the door after a five-hour flight from Utah, after losing last night and getting hammered into the boards hard enough to knock the wind out of me. The only thing keeping me going was that Nikki was waiting for me at home. Now I’m wondering if my brain got scrambled in that hit because I can’t make sense of this.
“Right. Of course it is.” I give my head a shake. “Are you prepared to deal with media if they try to hunt you down?” I’m confused, but all those fierce, protective feelings still surface.
“I think so. I can’t hide away forever.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “That’s true.”
“I need to get back to Los Angeles. I have a lot of business things to deal with. A possible sync deal. Maybe… I don’t know… rescheduling the tour.”
“Yeah. I’m sure there’s a lot.”
“Thank you for letting me stay here. I know I wasn’t easy to deal with.”
“It was… fine.”
“No, it wasn’t.” She rolls her eyes self-deprecatingly. “But thank you. You gave me time to just… be. And you pushed me to get out of my rut.”
What is happening here? She’s leaving. She’s fucking leaving.
I knew this was going to happen. I’ve always known this was going to happen. And I should be glad that she’s feeling better, feeling well enough to go home and deal with media and all the music business stuff she’s been ignoring for the last six weeks.
But I’m not glad. Which makes me a selfish asshole, I guess, but I’ll own that.
“So…” She pauses to rub the base of her throat. “I don’t know what my life is going to be like. I know I have more issues thanVoguemagazine, and I have a lot of stuff to work on. And you deserve better than that.”
She’s saying words. I don’t comprehend these words.
“Nikki.” I croak out her name. Then I can’t speak. I swallow through broken glass. This moment has always been inevitable. “When do you want to leave? I’ll take you home. Do you need help packing?”
“You don’t have to sound like you can’t wait to get rid of me!” She says it lightly, but her voice rises in pitch.
“Just trying to help.”
“I’m all packed up and ready to go. But you just got home.” She pauses and bites her lip. “Are you okay? After that hit?” Her hands move like she wants to touch me, then drop to her sides.
“Yeah. Stiff and sore. But I’m okay.”
She nods, her gaze scanning me. “Good. You were gone for a while. I… well, good.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, I can call an Uber.”
I’m so fucking tempted to say, sure, call an Uber. But I don’t. Because I can’t stop. Can’t stop wanting her to be safe. Can’t stop loving her.
I ignore the burn in my chest and help carry her belongings down to my SUV, then drive to the Upper West Side.
