Chapter Twenty-One Sad Songs on Repeat
Chapter Twenty-One
Sad Songs on Repeat
I don’t get out of bed for two days.
On the third day, Johnny shows up to drag me out of it and throw me into the shower, but it hurts, how every place has a memory
of her, even there. How I wanted space but now that I have it, all I want is to give it back. There’s a desperate, clawing
sensation in my chest these days, like my heart is trying to extract itself all on its own, like it would have rather left
with her than sit here with me for another second.
I can relate.
There’s a place set at my table with a cup of tea and some food when I get out of the shower. I rubbed my skin raw with the
hot water; the sensation is making me feel even more fragile and exposed. Johnny sits in the other chair, hands folded in
front of him, concern pulling down his normally jovial cheeks. I slide into the empty seat across from him, pushing my food
around instead of eating it.
“I can’t believe she did this again,” he says, and I look up, startled.
I haven’t really explained what happened beyond texting Regan “she left, it’s over,” which resulted in Regan rushing right over.
I told her she didn’t have to—she’s been on babysitting duty with me way too much—but she insisted.
She said I’ve been covering so many of her shifts lately that it’s the least she could do.
Before I could even protest, she added, “Besides, friends don’t keep score.
They just show up,” and I knew the argument was lost.
I was grateful for the company, like I’m grateful for Johnny’s now, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I’m still not, if
I’m being honest. But while Johnny’s anger is refreshing, or at least better than the pity or misery I’ve been draped in for
the last couple of days, it feels disingenuous to let him keep blaming her. I broke my own heart—and maybe hers too. It’s
time to own up to it.
“She didn’t,” I croak out, my voice scratchy and tired from disuse. It’s not just the talking; it’s that I haven’t done anything really, besides lie in bed and watch all the TikToks that I shouldn’t, and stare at all her Insta posts that I shouldn’t.
The morning that she left, she posted a single image—a picture of the ocean taken from her cabin door. The little rickety
steps are in view, as are the tracks from my bike, my pathetic footsteps wedged into the sand beside it.
There was no caption.
Most of the comments were random fans commenting “pretty” or “where is this?” but there was one, from a woman named Julia,
that simply said “come home.”
Come home.
The jealousy roiled up inside of me at the sight of those words.
Who was this woman? How did she know Nikki?
The truth, I realized in that moment, is that her life is probably full of people I don’t know—friends, (ex) lovers, her team—all of them strangers.
She’s probably not sitting around with our old friends and neighbors any more than I am here.
No, she’s living her whole new life at her whole other home, one I’ve never been a part of and now never will be.
I can’t be jealous, and I certainly can’t be mad. She offered me her hand and I bit it.
This is on me.
“You don’t have to defend her,” Johnny sighs, leaning back in his chair. “I was never her biggest fan.”
Right. Time to fess up.
“She really didn’t, though,” I say, taking a sip of the tea and then clearing my throat. “This one is all on me.”
“None of this is your fault,” Johnny says, reaching forward to cover my hand, looking more sympathetic and gentler than I
have any right for him to. “I don’t care what she said or how she tried to convince you otherwise. Nikki waltzed in here,
got what she wanted from you for her book, and then took off to leave you with the consequences. It’s okay, though, Annie.
You’ve done this before; you can do it again. You’re way stronger now than you were last time.”
And it’s weird, isn’t it, how Annie—the name I’ve embraced so fully these last few years—suddenly sounds so wrong. Call me Andy, I said, the first day I met Nikki all the way back on that casting call looking for “teen girls between the ages of fifteen
and nineteen with a wholesome look.”
Now here I am, with neither name fitting.
“I sent her away,” I finally force out. “Nikki didn’t want to go.”
“Of course you—wait, what?”
I push the eggs around on my plate some more, wishing I could bring myself to eat so I’d have an excuse not to answer him.
I take a deep breath instead. “I made her leave. I told her we were falling into old patterns and that I didn’t trust her.
I’m a coward, though. I don’t even think it was about that. I was just scared of what would happen if we took the leap and
it didn’t work out again. I couldn’t stop worrying about it. I pulled the rug out from under us just to be first.”
He looks at me, confused, so I tell him the whole sordid story start to finish. I tell him how, even though I put her through
the wringer, she kept showing up for me day after day—how it was beautiful, it was brilliant, it was terrifying.
He listens intently, only getting up once to grab a Diet Coke and then resting his elbows on the table, and when I finally
finish, when I tell him how I slept with her to escape my feelings and then accused her of being the one doing it, he sucks
a breath through his teeth so hard I hang my head in shame.
We’re quiet for a bit after that as he twirls his soda in slow circles on the table. I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking
about me right now, or about him and Regan.
“You’re sure Nikki hasn’t tried to contact you or guilt-trip you, or manipulate you in any way, since you asked her to leave
for good?” he finally asks.
“Nope,” I answer, my lip starting to tremble. “I haven’t heard a peep.”
“Annie,” he says. “Did you do this to yourself this time?”
“Yep,” I say, my breath hitching as the tears come again.
Johnny’s around the table in seconds, wrapping me in a hug that’s strong and warm and loving . . . but it’s all wrong. It’s too big, it’s too firm. His hands too rough and large. I cry harder as I pull away, too lost in my own grief to even allow the comfort.
“I don’t blame you for any of this,” he says, finally giving up the pretense that I’m going to eat and dragging us both over
to the couch instead. “You shouldn’t blame yourself either.”
“How can I not?” I ask.
“Because she hurt you, very badly, and there’s no timeline for healing from that. You don’t have to forgive her, ever. Even
if you love her still, or again, or whatever the hell this is between you. If you don’t ever want to see her again, you’ll
get through this just like you got through it last time. You don’t have to do it alone. You’re my best friend, and my other
best friend’s best friend.” He smiles. “I’ve got you, whatever you want to do.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know what I want.”
He sighs, squeezing my shoulder. “You don’t have to know. No one has to! That’s the beauty of life, right? We’re all just
swirling around the sun on this rock, completely winging it.”
“What if I made a mistake?”
“Then congrats, you’re human. You can try to fix it or not. It’s up to you.”
“What if I take too long trying to figure out what I want, and she gets sick of waiting?”
He shrugs with a laugh. “Some people are worth waiting for. Trust me, I know. If she’s not around by the time you figure your
head out, then that’s an answer in itself.”
I look up at his sad smile, thinking about how long he’s been waiting on Regan.
As long as I’ve known him. Probably much longer than that.
She had sworn off dating altogether by the time I met her, thanks to a string of bad relationships, but Johnny has been there, patiently proving to her that there are good men left in the world, loving her, never pushing—living his life and letting her set the pace as they take slow but steady steps toward each other.
A part of me still can’t help but wonder, though, if he was the one who hurt Regan in the first place, if the damage he was
undoing was inflicted by his hand, like it is with me and Nikki, would it still work between them? Would it ever be enough?
I’ve made a lot of mistakes with this reunion; I know I have. But I also know that I can’t give in to my desperation for her
to come back, at least not yet. I need to figure out what I want—for my future and all the people I want in it—now that she’s made her case abundantly clear. I need to sort my head
out first, or it isn’t fair to either one of us. Nikki hurt us first, yes, but I’m hurting us now—that has to stop, either
way. I have the space I wanted again, but this time, I need to use it. I need to heal, really heal.
“I don’t know where to start with figuring this out,” I say, hugging a pillow to my chest.
Johnny gives me another sad smile. “It’s okay to decide to stand still for a minute, if you need to, as long as it’s not forever.
You’ve built a great life here. You don’t need her to be a part of it unless you decide there’s a place for her here and you want her to fill it. Look, I respect her for backing off and realizing you needed time—that says a lot for her character.
But she still kind of sucks for what she did before, and for the record, I’m still happy to slap her if that helps at all.”
I laugh despite everything, hugging the pillow a little tighter. “I might be the one who deserves to be slapped.”
“Nope, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says, popping his “p” for emphasis, before looking down at his watch. “Shit, I lost
track of time and there’s a carburetor calling my name down at the shop. Want me to toss those eggs in the microwave for a
second before I go?”
“God no, gross, microwaved eggs?” I shudder.
“I could whip up some more?”
“No,” I giggle. He would honestly remake my whole breakfast if I let him. Regan and I are lucky to have him. “I’ll make some
for myself, though, don’t worry.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” I say. “Now go, before your carburetor takes off without you.”
“That’s not how that works,” he says with a laugh, giving me another hug before heading out the door. “Make. Your. Eggs.”
I nod and then wave him off, making a show of going into the fridge and grabbing eggs to demonstrate how serious I am.
I’ve got this. I know I do, especially with Regan and Johnny here with me.
Even if I don’t quite know what this is yet.