Chapter 27
NIKKI
As weeks pass, my mood lifts and my energy increases. I almost feel normal. Almost. Some of the time. I still have nightmares sometimes, but not as often. And when it happens, I reach for Marek in my sleep.
I miss him. Sometimes I think I catch his scent. I miss hearing his voice and his laugh and his ridiculous “see you later, alligator” goodbyes.
I miss the way he made me see things differently. Life is short. He knows that better than anyone, and now I know it too. Have fun. Fuck hard. Play harder. Do things that make you happy.
Fuck hard. I miss that, too. When I first got here, I wasn’t thinking thirsty thoughts, but now… my libido seems to have returned. And I have a lot of hot memories in my “finger vault.”
* * *
“Who is truly responsible for what happened?” Eve asks.
“I want to say it’s me. Because it was my tour, my concert.”
“But you know you’re not responsible for the maintenance of that building. Or the weather.”
“Yes.” I drop my gaze to my hands. “But I feel responsible. Those people wouldn’t have been there in that building if it weren’t for me. I feel like I don’t deserve to live when others died. I don’t deserve to be happy. I don’t deserve to have good things happen to me.”
“That’s survivor’s guilt,” she says matter-of-factly.
“It’s quite common. After experiencing a traumatic event where others were hurt and you weren’t, people often ask the question, ‘Why not me?’ You may feel you’re undeserving of being spared when others suffered.
You feel guilty. Responsible for what happened. ”
I nod.
“Guilt is a normal reaction to surviving a disaster that may have affected other lives. Understanding that is a crucial first step to moving past those feelings.”
“Right.”
“What do you think you could have done differently that would have prevented that?”
I swallow. “Nothing.”
I tell her about my feelings of having let so many people down with what happened.
“You know, perfectionists often think their happiness is based on who they are and what they do.”
Um, yeah.
“Also, those with low self-esteem are more likely to question whether they ‘deserve’ their good luck. This can lead to feelings of inadequacy and guilt.”
I nod slowly.
“The truth is, everyone is entitled to feel happy.”
I gaze at her, my throat thick.
“When you feel guilty, try to remind yourself that there probably isn’t anyone to blame for the accident. Don’t take the blame for it. Mourn those who were affected and recognize you were not responsible.”
She tells me grief is a normal response to a tragedy, and that focusing on guilt instead of grief isn’t helpful and could make my mental health worse. “You can handle the sadness associated with that loss,” she says.
Another day, she says, “Luck is random.”
I nod. Marek and I talked about this, after he told me what happened to him.
“Just because you experienced good luck while someone else experienced misfortune doesn’t mean it was your fault.”
“Right. I know that. I’ve learned that a lot of my career is luck. I can work my ass off, but there’s a lot of luck and good timing involved. Last year, the TikTok algorithm was a huge factor in the success of ‘Charmer.’”
“It still had to be a good song.”
I smile. “Yeah.”
“Think about your family and friends who love you and how they feel about your survival,” Eve says.
I think about Mom and Dad and Grayson, and how distraught they were after the accident. How Mom and Dad broke down and cried when they finally saw me. “I know my parents love me,” I say slowly. “They were so upset.”
And then I think about Marek. I was flipping balls for the last three days. He told me how he hadn’t known if I was one of the people who’d been killed and that he was ready to fly to Germany that moment to get to me. I remember being fascinated by his anxiety over me.
“Do you love your parents?”
I blink. “Of course I do.” I pause. “I do. I hated seeing them like that.”
“Imagine how they would have felt if you had died in the accident.”
My stomach twists sharply. I imagine my parents.
They would have been devastated. And I think about Marek again.
We barely knew each other. But deep inside, I know that’s a defense.
We did know each other. I tried so hard to put him out of my mind, all those months, to focus on my career, on pushing harder, working harder.
I told myself I didn’t have time for a relationship.
And after the accident, I told myself I didn’t deserve a relationship.
Another defense. Because holy shit, I love that man.
“There’s someone else,” I say slowly. I haven’t mentioned Marek until now. “Someone… I love. I think he cares about me, too. He was so worried about me when he saw the news. He was afraid I was one of the ones who’d been killed.”
She nods. “Remind yourself of those who would be devastated if they lost you. Remind yourself how relieved and grateful they are that you survived.”
I look up at her, my head spinning. I feel like someone just opened a window and I can see.
“Your survival is a gift. Practice sharing it with your loved ones. Do it for them. Because you love them.”
I’ve broken down and cried in front of Eve more than once.
I’m not proud of it, but she doesn’t judge me.
This is one of those times. I can’t believe how turning those thoughts around makes such a difference.
I’ve been so self-centered, making it all about me and my guilt, and not thinking about the people who care about me.
How it’s a good thing I’m here. “Somehow I kept thinking my parents were disappointed in me.” I swipe my hands over my face.
“Because my concert was ruined. The whole tour was ruined. I was convinced my career was over.”
“Because you were responsible.”
My lips twist to the side. “Yes.”
“Have they said anything that makes you believe they blame you for what happened?”
I think about that, too, and shake my head. “No. That came from me.”
Her lips lift into a near-smile.
“I felt I was letting them down because I couldn’t get right back to work. Because everything we’d worked so hard for was wrecked.”
“Is it possible that some of your childhood wounds are preventing you from working through the trauma of the accident?” she asks gently.
“Oh, great.” I make a face. “Just what I need. More wounds.”
I tend to use smartass comments when she says something that makes me uncomfortable, but I am paying attention and taking her questions seriously.
I’ve talked to her at length about the things my parents drilled into me, about discipline overcoming my impulsivity and my sometimes flakiness if I wanted to succeed.
Which led me to believe that I had to be perfect to succeed.
And I had to succeed to make them happy.
And I remember Mabel saying if you don’t love yourself, you’re pushing people who love you away. I denied to myself that I do that. I don’t push people away—intentionally.
I’ve dated lots of guys and some of them I really liked. Even loved… although not like how I feel about Marek. But those relationships never lasted long. Sometimes it hurt, sometimes it was disappointing, sometimes I was, whatever. Although, there were times I did feel lonely.
I wrote a song about it called “By Myself” and in my head I sing the lyrics, “Fame doesn’t answer when I call its name, and love doesn’t linger—it just plays the game.”
You can have it all, be surrounded by people, and still feel alone.
I don’t think I exactly push people away, but maybe it is hard to love me… because I think I’m not perfect.
There’s no such thing as perfection.
Marek’s words slip through my mind.
“Perfectionism is really about fear,” Eve says.
I return my focus to her, my mouth working into a dubious pucker.
“Fear of making a mistake. Fear of failure. Fear of disappointing others. Does that make sense?”
That’s me. That’s totally me. “Yes.”
“It takes courage to be imperfect,” she continues. “Because you will fail. Everyone makes mistakes. And you will disappoint someone. But you can live through that. We all live through that.”
The last few months, I’ve been anything but perfect.
All that time I spent with Marek, I was a mess.
I had panic attacks and nightmares. I spent all day in my pajamas.
I had no structure or routine to my life—my nightmare!
I neglected my music and my business and my fans.
I was bitchy and lazy and neurotic. And yet he still didn’t want me to leave.
When I get home, I sit on my couch facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Los Angeles.
Darkness is falling and lights sparkle and glint in a stretch to the Pacific Ocean, the Sunset Strip a glowing snake winding through the glitter.
The horizon is a strip of hot pink and peach where ocean meets sky.
On clear days I can even see Catalina Island from here.
My house is a little box in the Hollywood Hills, but it has an amazing view.
I love Marek.
I cover my face with my hands, regret a heavy weight in my stomach. I remember how kind and gentle he was with me when I was falling apart. How he pushed, but not too hard. How he made me laugh. How he made me come.
I sigh.
I remember running through the snowy woods with him, being chased by a witch’s ghost, and us nearly falling down laughing at ourselves.
And the care he took with me that night after I was so stressed about the snow.
He’s always been mindful of my desire to not draw attention to myself, even before the concert disaster; I remember that night at the hotel in Vegas when he placed himself between me and others waiting for the elevator, blocking their view of me.
How he booked a cottage instead of a hotel room so I could have privacy.
I relive the day Marek took me back to my apartment and told me he didn’t want me to leave. And I rejected him.
I was so sure in that moment that it was the right thing for both of us.
I didn’t believe he wanted something more than fun and games, and I was a mess and needed to heal.
I truly believed that I didn’t deserve to have good things happen to me because of all those people who died or were injured in the disaster.
I love him and I lost him because of that stupid belief.
My regret turns to anguish, my chest tight with pain, my throat crowded with emotion. I wish I could go back and do things differently. But I can’t. I can only go forward.
A mistake is a lesson.
But man, I’m tired of learning lessons. It’s exhausting.
I don’t know what to do about this. I think I owe Marek… something. An apology at the very least. I drag myself up from the couch and head downstairs to my little music room. Which is where I get the idea.