Chapter Nine Every Rose Has Its Thorn #2
“Too late.” She huffs, tucking her hand back in her pocket. “Sorry,” she adds, when I freeze. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I almost feel guilty. Almost.
I cut off another thorn before meeting her eyes. “I’m sure your Oscar more than makes up for any hurt you felt from me leaving.”
“It doesn’t.”
I suck my teeth and grab the next flower. “I guess you should have thought about that before you stole my role then,” I say,
even though it’s not really about that.
“I’m the one who encouraged you to audition in the first place!”
“And then you stole the role.”
I don’t know why I’m doubling down on this. My mom is right—I was miserable out there by the time the part was even up for grabs. I don’t know if landing it would have fixed anything. But
still, it would have been nice to try. It would’ve given me another excuse to stay.
“I didn’t—” Nikki says, and then cuts herself off. “Forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“Nothing. I don’t want to fight. I’m glad we’re talking right now and I’d like to keep it that way,” Nikki says. “Can we just rewind a little?”
“Till when?”
“Till before I pissed you off?” she says, her voice lilting up like a question.
“Hmm.” I tap my chin. “How well does your time machine work? We’d have to go all the way back until . . . when? The day we
met? You took my iPod and wouldn’t give it back. I chased you all around set and then I seem to remember it devolving into
the first of many tickle wars between us, so . . . that was probably the start of it.”
Nikki lets out a little laugh, poking her tongue into her cheek as she nods. “I was trying to flirt with you, you know.”
“You were terrible at it.”
“It did eventually work,” she points out. “Regardless, can we skip ahead a little from there? I was thinking more like five
minutes ago or so.”
“Okay, new question,” I say. She gestures to me like “go ahead.” “Are you still with Eliza?”
Eliza McCormick was Nikki’s agent extraordinaire—a stage mom, cheerleader, and rabid dog all rolled into one. She couldn’t
stand me and didn’t care one bit that when she negotiated contracts for The Nikki and Andy Show, her push for more often left me with less.
Eliza’s favorite catchphrase was “Someone’s going to get the money—it might as well be my client.” She and Nikki were thick
as thieves—Nikki even thanked her in her award speeches. It’s why I stopped watching them.
I don’t blame Eliza for my relationship with Nikki failing, but I don’t not blame her, either. It hurt how Nikki always put what Eliza wanted first, always ran to her for advice, always defended her
when we fought. It sometimes felt like Eliza was just as much a part of the relationship as I was.
“No,” Nikki says, looking away. “Not for a while.”
“What?” I practically screech. “The dream team broke up? I never thought I’d see the day, especially with the way you always
went to bat for her when we—”
“I moved over to someone at WME,” she says, like she’s talking about changing the sheets and not dropping the person Nikki
always credited with getting her big break in this messed-up industry. “I’ve been there a few years now. It’s better for me,
I think. I’ve got a manager now too, and a PA. They keep me on a tight leash these days.”
“Yet here you are, standing in my flower shop.”
“Yet, here I am,” she says, her voice dropping a little. “Blowing them all off for you. You don’t happen to have an old iPod
laying around, do you?”
Nikki leans across the counter, plucking the flower from my fingertips. I swallow hard, shifting closer in my stool and regretting
ever putting this counter here between us. She tips her head to the side with a little smile, as if she knows what I’m thinking,
and I squirm even more.
I grab the next stem too fast, desperate for a distraction. The tip of my finger catches on one of the loose staples that
held the bundle together. “Shit,” I hiss.
A tiny bead of blood wells up, and I shove it into my mouth, glaring at Nikki. That’s the thing about the past, isn’t it? It’s always going to make you bleed.
“Let me see.” Nikki rushes over and pulls my hand toward her. She squints as she studies the tiny wound from every angle.
“What, are you a doctor now too?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the fact that if I parted my legs, she’d basically
be between them.
“I did have that guest spot on Grey’s Anatomy,” Nikki says, still staring down at my finger.
“You were a patient who died in your second episode,” I deadpan, trying to tug my hand away. Nikki doesn’t let go, so it has
the opposite effect and pulls us even closer.
She looks up with a grin. “You watched.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve been watching Grey’s my whole life; it was definitely not on purpose. If anything, you almost got me to quit the show entirely.”
Nikki hums like she doesn’t believe me but still doesn’t let go of my hand.
“What do you think, Dr. Grey, will I live?”
“Probably,” she says, looking down at me through her eyelashes. “You don’t even need superglue this time. You just need . . .”
She trails off, slowly lowering her head. “This,” she whispers, before pressing her lips to my fingertip. “And this,” she
says, kissing it again. “See? All better.”
The air between us crackles to life as I shift my legs and pull her in closer.
What am I doing? What am I doing! This is the opposite of containment! This is worse than hearts on the jar! This is both
of us in the jar together!
I don’t even care. The woman I loved forever, the woman who was once so casually cruel, is kissing me all better.
Is sliding her hand up the back of my neck, so gently, like I’m the only thing in the world that matters anymore.
I squeeze my eyes shut, overwhelmed as the heat of her skin dances along all the places where we’re pressed together.
I part my lips, expecting to feel hers on them any second, but instead she rests her forehead against mine—the way we used
to do when things got tough or set ran long or one of us just needed a little grounding.
Nikki would take my hand back then, or I would take hers, and we’d find some dark corner where we could squirrel away for
a little while. People assumed we were making out or feeling each other up or something else juvenile and unimportant like
that. But really, she would lean into me—just like this, breathing me in like I was the air that she needed, like I was her
whole sky instead of just a fleck of stardust.
On really rough days, she would curl up next to me, her head in my lap, my fingers in her hair, and I would read my flower
books to her. Chapter after chapter, until she fell asleep.
Nikki lets out a shaky breath, dragging me back to the present as her free hand brushes my cheek—an act that is far, far too
intimate for the middle of a floral shop on a random Tuesday in the middle of March.
I should be pushing her back. I should want to! I should yell at her for being so forward or crack a joke about her still wanting me—anything to try and defuse the tension.
But I can’t. I won’t. I angle my head, brushing my nose against hers.
I’m fully intending to kiss her—half on autopilot and half hoping that if we give in this once we can get it out of our systems. I move forward, just barely, our lips brushing once, twice, three times, feeling like a lit fuse dying to go off.
I’m just about to fully commit, when she pulls back, hard and fast. My startled eyes meet her apologetic ones as she stumbles
back like I burned her.
And isn’t that classic Nikki?
Everything’s on her time, still, even now. When we make out, when we meet, when we forgive . . . when we have our last kiss. It’s all about her.
It occurs to me for the first time that, with her money and her connections, she probably could have found me sooner, if she
wanted to. But no, she came now, she chose now, when it most benefits her. When she has a book to sell.
“Sorry,” Nikki says, leaning down to catch my eye. “I want to, but . . .”
“It’s fine. Just go,” I say quietly, my brain and body whiplashed from the last few minutes.
“Andy—”
“Go!” I say, more firmly.
“Can I at least explain—”
“No.”
She stands up a little taller, like she’s ready to fight me on this.
“Don’t,” I say when she opens her mouth. “I’m really tired of listening to you spin things. I need a break, okay?”
She shakes her head. “Someday, Andy, you’re going to have to accept the fact that you’re only sitting on half of the story.
What you call ‘spinning’ is just me filling in the blanks.”
Regan walks up, standing beside me. I had forgotten she was still in the back.
Oh god, how much did she hear? How much did she see?
“I’m sorry, Nikki,” Regan says, sounding like she really means it. “If Annie wants you to go, it might be better if you did.”
“Come on—”
“Get out of here, Nik. Please!” I say, my voice cracking on the last word.
She opens her mouth one last time and then shuts it, hanging her head. Regan pulls me into a hug, gesturing toward the door.
Neither of us moves until it finally clicks shut behind her.