Chapter Eight TruthDare But You Can’t Pick Dare
Chapter Eight
Truth or Dare But You Can’t Pick Dare
It’s two days of quiet before Nikki comes back—well, sort of.
It’s more like two days of me waffling back and forth trying to decide how to feel. On one hand, my mom’s right. Closure would
be good for both of us. On the other, the one I’m really trying not to think about, is the realization that the thought of saying goodbye to her—permanently—makes me feel a little bit like one of those gutted fish they sell at the market.
Then there’s the secret third thing that I’m extra, totally, extremely trying not to think about, which is that, when Nikki
didn’t show up the day after the diner, my heart felt like it dropped into my toes . . . and then proceeded to spend the entire
day getting squished and splattered and stepped on inside my shoe.
It’s not that I want to see her again. I don’t. I wish she never came here. It’s just that it was easier to never want to see her again when I knew I would.
“Nikki just called in an order.” Regan sighs as she walks into the back room, where I’m doing inventory of all the boring day-to-day stuff we use, like floral blocks, wraps, and shipping supplies. “I’ll handle the note and packaging, but—”
“You need me to actually make it,” I say, acting more put out than I actually feel.
This could be a solid compromise. Maybe Nikki and I can’t have each other in our lives, but maybe we can have this. She can call in orders and I’ll send them out. A weird little grown-up version of Marco Polo where we let each other know
that yes, we’re still alive but no, we don’t need to talk. Everything could stay superficial and out of sight and . . . yeah,
I don’t know. That might be even more painful than that perfectly awful idea of closure.
I grab the slip and study the flowers she’s requested. It seems like a basic apology bouquet, with a few bonus orchids thrown
in. She’s liked orchids ever since she saw my dad’s hothouse collection when we were on break after the first season of our
show, so I’m not surprised.
I wander around the store, grabbing everything I need and then hastily assembling it all. I have to keep my head down and
get to work like any other day and stop thinking about what else she’s put in that memoir of hers or why she’s not coming
in.
Technically, nothing in my life has changed. I remind myself of that over and over and over, and hopefully—if I can at least
stop yelling her name in public places, and she stops tempting fate by acting like a baseball cap and a lack of highlighter
on her skin make her invisible—that can remain true, even after the book comes out.
If it can’t? Well, I’ve been spiraling about that since I left the diner too.
Most likely scenario: I’ll be looking at another move—although I’m going to have to get creative to find someplace more remote than here. The other, bigger problem is that the idea of losing Regan and Johnny hurts more than probably even leaving LA did. We’ve made a little family out here.
They took me in when I was at my lowest, and instead of taking advantage, which so many other people would have done, they
helped me put myself back together. I’d like to think I helped them too—and I don’t just mean paying extra rent. I mean sitting
with Regan whenever her aging father is admitted to the hospital or making sure Johnny eats dinner when he’s working extra
late because he let an employee leave early for their kid’s play. Again. And now, it’s all in jeopardy.
I should have never sent that text. She’d already been here a week without me knowing. She probably wouldn’t have come to
the shop if I hadn’t.
I shove the last orchid into place, completing the bouquet, and then pass it to Regan to package. Maybe the fact that Nikki
called it in instead of showing up here means she already left. Maybe she’s decided now, only marginally too late, to start
respecting my boundaries.
I’m glad she’s gone, if she is. So glad. Just extremely glad.
Two days more pass before she calls in another order. And then another two days after that she calls in again. Regan takes
to answering every time the phone rings just in case it’s her so I don’t have to—and I pretend I don’t get a stomachache trying
to decide if it would be worse if they stopped.
It’s funny, she technically could call or text me whenever she wants—I unblocked her number again—but it’s only the shop phone she chooses. It’s only the shop phone that I hear ringing in all my bad dreams. Maybe she thought of the Marco Polo idea too.
Regan helpfully offered to block her number when the new pattern became apparent, but we both know her money’s good and we
desperately need it. We’d be ridiculous to turn her apparently unlimited floral budget away. Besides, it doesn’t bother me that much, I lie to myself, making yet another bouquet for some faceless person in Nikki’s life.
Is it for someone she’s kissed or a coworker? Are those things even mutually exclusive? They weren’t when we were on set together.
Are these orders a way to stay connected or to remind me that she still runs the show? What does my mom even know about closure?
She dissects plants for a living.
The reality is that it doesn’t matter why she’s doing it, just that she is and that it’s very good for business.
Nikki has called every other day for the past two weeks . . . until today. I’m pretending like I don’t care about the break
in pattern. That I never got used to it. That I don’t feel like a toy that outlived its usefulness and was knocked into the
trash—again—by this woman. But I do.
Regan is just about to flip the sign to closed, and I’m sweeping the floors and trying not to look mopey, when Nikki appears
at the door. She shoves it open in a rush, nearly knocking Regan over in the process.
“Oh god, sorry!” Nikki yelps as Regan shoots her a glare. “I didn’t see you there. Am I too late?”
“Too late for what?” Regan asks, rubbing her hip where she banged it against a fresh display of roses. “Too late to learn any manners? It’s a possibility if you’ve been making a habit of running people over.”
“Too late to put in today’s order,” Nikki says, urgently walking toward me.
I lean the broom against the wall and head behind the counter, grabbing the order slip as if she were any other client. As
if my heart isn’t hammering out of my chest at the sight of her, here, again. With me, again.
She’s got the weekender bag that we picked out together a hundred years ago slung over her shoulder and the same leggings
and hoodie she wore every time she had to fly back then. Old habits die hard and all that.
I raise an eyebrow. “Did you come straight from the airport?”
“Yes, and nobody would Uber me here, so I had to rent a car again,” she huffs, dropping her bag onto the floor and blowing
her bangs—new since I last saw her—out of her face.
“What’s with the haircut?” I ask, studying the jagged angles. I try not to notice the way they freshly frame her delicate
features—somehow making her look both sexy and adorable.
Fuck my life.
“Oh, so now we’re allowed to ask about haircuts?” Nikki laughs and does a little twirl. “Do you hate it? Dakota Johnson dropped out of
a guest spot last second. I got the call up, but they wanted to stick with the ‘vibe,’ whatever that means. So, bangs it is.”
“They can just make you do anything? If they want bangs you have to do it?” Regan asks curiously.
I glance at her, surprised that she’s choosing to engage with Nikki. We’ve rehashed my conversation with my mother about a thousand times these last couple weeks. Maybe it’s got Regan just as confused as I am now too.
“I don’t know that cutting my bangs really constitutes doing anything . . . but, kind of. They put out call sheets of what they’re looking for and it’s kind of like ‘get in or get out,’ ya know?”
Nikki says, looking equally surprised.
“Hmm,” Regan squeaks, considering it all. “That’s very weird.”
“Yeah, it is, but I try not to think too hard about it or I start spiraling.” She giggles, like it’s an inside joke we don’t
get. “Anyway, may I please put in another order? You wouldn’t believe how much people love your work.”
“Actually, I would,” I say, standing up a little straighter.
Nikki studies my face and a fresh smile curls up the corner of her lips. It swiftly turns into the signature “thoughtful pout”
that her agent used to make her include in all her headshot portfolios. “You know,” she says, “confidence looks good on you,
Ducharme.”
“Is remembering to call me Anne really too hard for you? You gotta pull out the last names, Colletti?” I press, and she looks
away.
“Something like that,” she says, her serious tone of voice making the moment more loaded than it should be.
“You know, if you left me alone you wouldn’t have to worry about what to call me.”
“Now, where’s the fun in that?” She winks. “So? Are you going to take my order? I’ve heard the employees here are real sticklers
about loitering, so . . .”
I glance at Regan, who’s trying hard not to laugh.
Even I’ve noticed how happy Regan has been these last couple of weeks, how much more relaxed.
Selling the starlet du jour expensive overpriced flower orders every forty-eight hours has certainly had its perks.
We’ve pulled in nearly half a year’s worth of profits in just a matter of weeks.
“Okay, what is it?” I ask, pressing my pen to the paper.
I expect the next day to be quiet, following with the pattern and all, but Nikki appears moments after I unlock the front
door—waltzing in and leaning against the counter like she belongs there. I wish I could tear out the piece of me that’s happy
to see her and stomp it into oblivion, but alas.
“Good morning,” she says a little too cheerfully . . . or maybe I’m just extra grumpy since my coffee maker refused to brew
anything this morning and I was up late obsessing over how long Nikki might stay in town for this time.