Chapter 2
“THE FOOD WAS REALLY good, though,” I say as the elevator doors ping open to my apartment floor. “Maybe I should’ve toughed it out.”
“I will take you next time,” Sybil promises as she follows me down the hall. “As soon as you’re back after the Fourth of July. Remind me, you’re gone for one week or two?”
“One,” I say. “Well, about ten days. I’m staying through my birthday, so you’re off the hook for planning me something,” I tease.
Sybil’s face falls. Ever the consummate party girl, she takes her friends’ birthdays very seriously.
She always has the most elaborate ideas—and then forces our friend Emma to actually plan and execute them.
Like the incredible Gatsby-themed party they threw for Willow one year, complete with a massive champagne tower and a twelve-piece jazz band.
“I’m going to scheme something up anyway, you know.
” She says it almost like a threat. “You enjoy your sweet little lakeside birthday, but prepare yourself for an epic follow-up bash when you get back. You only turn thirty once. Oh my gosh, wait—” Sybil’s face brightens, and I can practically see the lightbulb hanging over her head.
“We should do something big, as the Core Four—since we all turn thirty this year! Maybe we can go back to Willow’s aunt’s place! ”
“That’d be amazing,” I say. Sybil was my college roommate, and the first time I met the other girls in our friend group—both of them Sybil’s friends from growing up in Texas—was on a backpacking trip after freshman year.
We traipsed across Europe, culminating in a stay at Willow’s family chateau (yes, an actual chateau) in France.
We’ve reached the end of the hall, and I start to dig through my purse for my keys.
“By the way, there’s something I need to tell you, Sybs.” The keys rattle as I unlock the door. “I’m—”
Sybil freezes in the doorway, taking in the cardboard boxes that line my now-blank walls. “What has happened to your house? Are you being slow-motion robbed?”
I laugh. “I’m moving. My lease was up at the end of June. But I begged for a few extra days in here to finish packing.”
She brightens. “Oh good, because Santa Monica is sooo far from me in traffic! Please tell me you’re coming closer to Pasadena?”
I hesitate. She looks so happy about my moving to the (way too expensive for me) neighborhood where she and her fiancé live, and I don’t want to squash it, but if I can be honest with anyone, it’s Sybil.
“I mean, I haven’t really figured out where my next place is.
I’m just throwing everything in storage until I land another good deal.
I figure I can use the time at home to look for a place online.
And if I end up needing to stay in Georgia a little bit longer, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. ”
Sybil senses something in my hesitation, and her eyebrows shoot up. “But you’re not… you’re not leaving LA. Right?”
“No! Of course not. I’m just going to get my bearings while I’m at home for the holiday and then… reevaluate.” I jam as much confidence as possible into the words.
I left Georgia when I was eighteen to come to USC in a confetti-burst of victory.
Out of my high school class, I was going the farthest and to the most prestigious school.
I’ve spent over a decade of my life in this city.
It’s where I became an adult. Where I met my best friend…
who then introduced me to all of her best friends.
If I’d never come to LA, I never would have met the Core Four.
I definitely never would have found myself at the center of the LovedBy universe.
Besides, I love it here. The easy access to the beach, the amazing hiking trails, the unlimited taco options…
but it’s not for the faint of heart. Honestly, that’s another reason why I love LA.
Everyone you meet has some amazing job, plus a side hustle.
They’re teaching Reformer Pilates or designing a new app, or landing a walk-on role for the next big HBO series—all while looking effortlessly golden-tanned and beachy-breezy. It’s a challenge to keep up.
But I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge.
Besides, even if I’m a little exhausted by this world, it’s everything I wanted and worked for.
I always dreamed of leaving my small town and living a bigger life.
And now here I am, doing it. My athleisure brand has a huge partnership opportunity on the horizon with the FitGirl subscription service, and I’m in talks to start up a podcast in the fall, recording at a studio out here.
LA is where all the action is, and I wouldn’t give that up.
“I just need… not even a break. More like a mini reset,” I tell Sybil. Like when I used to take a catnap on the LovedBy set before a shoot that we knew would take us all night.
Sybil glances around at the chaotic mess of boxes. “Okay, well. I’m no Emma, but I will do my part to help you pack.”
I laugh, because she’s right. Of the four of us, Emma is the one you call when you need any part of your life organized and put back together again. If I could hire her to be the personal planner of my entire future, I totally would.
But Sybil has other gifts to offer. She plucks a bottle of wine from the brass cart in my living room. “We’ll start by eliminating the need for you to pack this!”
Glasses clink as she selects two from the same cart and sets them on my coffee table.
There’s a squeak and a pop as Sybil pulls the cork free, practically knocking herself over backward in the process.
The red wine splashes softly as Sybil pours, the smell of blackberries and pepper rising.
She hands me a glass, and my fingers brush against hers, but she doesn’t let go.
The silliness has faded from Sybil’s eyes, and in its place is a rare seriousness.
“I know you haven’t been happy,” she says quietly. She’s not playacting at sadness now. There’s real concern behind her words.
“What? I’m totally happy.” But I reply too quickly and too brightly. Dammit.
“Are you?” she asks, releasing the glass.
My other hand curls around the wine in a defensive hold.
It’s wine from her fiancé Jamie’s vineyard.
It’s delicious, but each sip is a reminder: it’s no longer Nikki and Sybil, two single besties ready to take on the world.
It’s Sybil and Jamie. I’m the third wheel now.
A dull ache starts at the base of my rib cage, but I ignore it and take a long pull from the wine, feeling my lip gloss stick to the rim of the glass.
My mother has always had strict rules for drinking—for me, at least. My younger brother, Cooper, could do no wrong.
They’d thought it was funny when they realized he’d been topping off my dad’s Wild Turkey with iced tea.
And my older siblings—twins—were a law unto themselves.
Now they’re both established adults with their own families, but I think my parents were just happy that Linney and Pete made it to adulthood with four limbs apiece.
But the rules were always set for me: never more than two drinks, only clear liquors, and only ever allow one lipstick print along the rim of your wine glass.
Mom was also the one who taught me how to walk smoothly in high heels, even when you had blisters.
How to apply mascara from the back seat of a moving car.
How to smile just right, tongue pressed to your front teeth, eyes soft.
Everything I needed to win over pageant judges with a picture of perfection—no matter what was happening below the surface.
I both loved and hated it. But right now, I’m grateful for the training.
When I put the wine glass down, my smile is back in place.
I rest my hand on her arm. “I’m fine, Sybs.” I press as much truth as I can into the words. “I mean, yeah, tonight sucked, but you came and rescued me. The next date will be better.”
But I’ve either lost my touch, or Sybil can see through the facade. She clocks me with an unconvinced look.
“Fine.” I sigh. “I just don’t get what I’m doing wrong. I mean, I’m picky! I only go out with guys if they seem like they might actually have potential. I literally follow our damn list to a T. But they never turn out as good as they looked on paper.”
Sybil quirks her head. “You mean that list we made after Aaron? The ‘Reasons to Get Back Out There’ list?”
“Exactly!”
It was the result of a wine night much like this one, except Emma and Willow were here too.
Willow wanted to call the list “Reasons to Get Laid,” and Emma preferred “Reasons to Risk Your Heart Again”—but the idea was the same.
I was so heartbroken and embarrassed after Aaron, I couldn’t imagine what could possibly compel me to enter the dating pool again, so Sybil insisted I make a list of all the qualities a guy would need to lure me back to the market.
The crème de la crème of wish lists. A series of attributes so compelling as to make the guy worth shaving my legs for.
The list started off seriously enough: He’d need to have a good job (“six figures,” Emma scrawled in the margins).
He’d need to be tall (I’m 5’9”). He’d need to be ready for a serious commitment—I wanted to be married within three years; kids within five.
He’d need to share my faith. (“Good Jesus-lovin’ boy,” Sybil added).
After a few glasses of wine, items like: “understands how to wear jeans” and “successful like Christian Grey but without the sex closet” were added.
“Sounds like maybe it’s time to throw out the list, Nik.”
I laugh. “I definitely threw it out already—after you knocked over that second bottle of pinot and used it as a napkin.”
Sybil shakes her head. “Metaphorically, babe. You can’t checklist your way into a love that won’t let you down.”
I twist the wine stem between my fingers, considering. I do love a good checklist.
“The list was fun and all,” Sybil continues. “But look at that guy tonight—Tony? Tyler?”
“Taylor.”
“Right. I’m sure Taylor ticks all the boxes: ambitious, tall, handsome, good shoes, probably wants two point five kids and a golden retriever…”
“So?” I say, feeling a little defensive. “What’s wrong with that? I want those things too.”
“I know you do, Niks,” Sybil says. “And I’m sure you’d love that point five of a child with all your heart.
But you can’t boil a relationship down into a list of reasons why you should fit with someone.
You just have to put yourself out there and find someone you click with—even if they’re a sweet, skinny-jeans-wearing medium king who wants ten kids. ”
“Ten!?” I say, practically spitting out some of my wine.
“You know what I mean.” She puts her glass on the coffee table and turns to fully face me on the couch.
I realize that the Sybil before me is different than the one I met freshman year of college.
There’s wisdom there, the kind that comes with making mistakes and growing from them.
She’s changed, but I’ve just been stuck. Stalled like the traffic on the 101.
“Ugh. You’re totally right. I know you’re right.”
“Ah, that feels really good to hear. I’m almost never the right one in a conversation!” she says. “Cheers to that!”
I smirk and toast her glass with mine.
Then Sybil leans back, her posture relaxing into something more familiar.
“Go on, go home and ‘reorient’ yourself. Hang in the hammock, sleep till noon, jump in the lake—actually, better yet, push Cooper in the lake.” I laugh.
Sybil’s an only child but has adopted Coop as her honorary little brother.
“Do whatever you need to. Take your time. Come back to LA refreshed,” she says.
“I will,” I tell her, praying that it’s true. “I promise.” I take another sip of my wine, careful to leave only one lipstick print.