Chapter 9
Nine
There was millionaire spaghetti on the kitchen island again, but this time, Nikki was across from it, standing with her hands folded in front of her as Mom began to serve it.
“Actually, I can do it.” Nikki perked up.
“Sure thing.” Mom nodded and handed Nikki the serving tongs.
When Nikki put a small serving on her plate, Mom and I shared a fleeting, uneasy glance, but kept silent.
We moved to the table after we’d all served ourselves, and I realized it was the first time we’d actually eaten at the kitchen table since I’d been home from school.
Dr. D’Antoni outlined a few dos and don’ts for Mom and me when we were getting ready for Nikki to leave Otter House. Objectively, she was doing well—well enough to go home, obviously—but then we were cautioned that recovery was a long-term process that went well beyond her time at Otter House.
Dos: Express approval and affection (but not in a patronizing way, because Nikki would hate that), even when it comes to non-food-related things; make your communication meaningful; allow them to safely repair their relationship with food on their own terms.
Don’ts: Shame your loved one into eating; shield them from the natural consequences of their eating disorder; blame or guilt yourself.
While all that stuff made sense, it wasn’t exactly easy to remember them in the moment where she was pulling the guts out of her piece of bread to lower the carb intake. I swirled around my spaghetti as I watched her, but when she ate the bread, relief settled in.
“I made an appointment at the salon tomorrow,” Nikki said as she cut up her spaghetti. “If I have to go one more day with these grown-out roots, I might resort to shaving my head.”
“I can take you,” I responded, keeping my tone casual as I twirled around more spaghetti.
Nikki shot me a wary glance across the table. “I’m gonna be there for, like, four hours.”
“That’s okay.” I shrugged. “I’m not working tomorrow, and I’ve got no plans.”
Which wasn’t even a lie. I’d queried a few more agents in the last few days but wasn’t expecting to hear back from anyone so quickly. It was just going to be me, my struggling manuscript, and Gracie.
“Fine, then.” Nikki offered me the same shrug and squirmed a little in her chair. “If you say so.”
There had always been an agreement in our house that those who did not cook, cleaned—which was really Mom’s way of getting us to help clean up when we were kids, and because the skillful cooking gene was obviously not passed to Nikki or me.
We kept up the agreement even as we grew up, and now, I relished the normalcy of it.
“Do you wanna catch up on Love Is Blind?” Nikki asked me as she handed me a dish to dry.
“Sure.” I nodded, running a dishrag over the bright floral-patterned ceramic dishes Mom loved so much even though they were older than I was.
There was a chip on the edge of the dish I was drying, and I remembered dropping it once as a kid.
I was so distraught about it, thinking I’d done something so horribly wrong, but Mom consoled me and insisted that now the dish had “character.” I must have been seven years old, but that memory had stuck with me.
Nikki and I settled into the couch to watch Love Is Blind with Gracie, who seemed happy that Nikki was back as she steamrolled herself all over her. Nikki laughed as she riled Gracie up (as much as a senior dog could be riled up), and I felt that wave of relief wash over me again.
My phone buzzed in my sweatshirt pocket, and I tried to angle myself into the couch so Nikki didn’t curiously try to get a glimpse.
brOOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge): hey I know your sister’s coming home today. everything is gonna be fine. I’m here if you need me
My heart swelled in my chest, and as I was typing a reply, a pillow smacked me in the face.
“Hello? Take a trip to la-la land?” Nikki waved at me.
“Sorry, what?” I put my phone down in my lap.
“I said I’m going to the bathroom.”
I looked back up at the TV, which was now paused on Nick Lachey giving the spiel to the season six contestants.
“Sure.” I nodded, swallowing the knot that began forming in my throat. “I’ll be right here.”
Nikki sighed as she sprang out of the couch cushions and walked to the bathroom in the front hallway. I scooted forward and held my breath, as if that could help me hear better. I wasn’t even sure what exactly I was listening for, but I was just going to trust my instincts—for better or for worse.
Only when Nikki came out looking exactly the same as the way she’d gone in was I able to exhale and lean back into the couch.
“You good?” she asked, dropping back onto the couch and sending a few throw pillows to the floor. Gracie sighed a very labored sigh before rolling herself back into Nikki.
“What?” My words got stuck in my throat, like I’d swallowed a wad of peanut butter. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
That seemed to be enough for Nikki as she pressed Play on the show, but even after an entire episode had gone by, the tightness in my chest had yet to disperse. I took a steady breath, and then another, but it was still there. I studied the way she absentmindedly twirled her hair.
She gave me a quick side-eye after she realized I’d been watching her and not the show, and I quickly dropped my gaze to my phone. There was my text from Brooklyn, still open and unanswered. I locked my phone and left it unanswered.
For now, I needed to be present for her. No distractions, and no guilt.
>> <<
Prior to going to Otter House, Nikki had a well-kept, high-maintenance blond routine.
She’d found a hairstylist she liked at a trendy salon downtown called Tempest, complete with trendy plants (real?
fake? who was to say) on every shelf and trendy, modern furniture.
She went every three weeks, making sure to send me pictures every time she sat in the chair with foils in her hair, looking stunningly extraterrestrial.
Lula, her hairstylist, didn’t ask questions as to why Nikki’s roots were so grown out and why she hadn’t come by in over a month.
I’d prepared for it, ready to jump in with a well-practiced lie about how we’d been visiting a cousin’s cousin in Florida and stayed longer than we intended to, but it never came up.
I couldn’t pretend I understood the embarrassment aspect of it, but to watch Nikki squirm with the shame of it all hurt me in a different way. Almost secondhand, like putting your hand a little too close to the fire but not quite getting burned.
Instead, the two of them carried on yapping about who knows what while I sat in the empty salon chair beside them, refreshing and refreshing and refreshing my email.
Since he was clearly undeterred from my radio silence yesterday, a text from Brooklyn popped up on my screen.
brOOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge): we should do movie night friday or something
brOOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge): if you’re up for it
brOOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge): need to start your reeducation of decent films and all
I smiled—the kind of smile that comes a little too naturally and too easily—and it was noticeable.
“Who are you texting?”
Nikki had spun around in the salon chair, the foils in her hair crinkling as she tried to move her head toward me.
“No one.” I pulled my phone into my chest.
She gawked as she sat back in her chair. “You’re a terrible liar. It’s that guy from Otter House isn’t it?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because the face you’re making is the same face you made when he came up to us that day.”
She smirked a conniving smirk at me, and if I wasn’t so taken aback, I would have almost been impressed.
“You’ve clearly learned your keen perception skills from me.”
Her expression softened, and she nodded, more to herself than me. “You don’t have to keep this kind of stuff from me, you know.”
“I’m not,” I answered a little too quickly.
She scoffed and shot me an unamused look, despite how hard it was to take her seriously looking like half a girl and a half a radio transmitter.
“Don’t give me that look,” I warned.
“Okay but seriously.” Nikki slapped her palms down on the thighs of her jeans.
Last summer, she and Mom had spray-painted bright-yellow smiley faces on the knees.
“If you’re talking to a guy, I want to know, mostly for my own selfish reasons so I can live vicariously through you.
Since I am, obviously, not talking to anyone. ”
The subtle sting of that last sentence was what got me to surrender.
“Fine.” I groaned. “We’ve hung out a few times. As friends.”
“Uh-huh.” Nikki nodded and rolled her eyes. “Friends.”
“Yes, friends.” I leaned forward in my chair, as if we were sharing secrets like we were little kids again. “And he asked me to hang out again this weekend, as friends.”
“Okay, then.” She shrugged, but hints of that conniving smirk remained. She was unconvinced, but so what? It was the truth. She could handle it. “Friends are nice, I guess.”
“You’re still my best friend, don’t worry.” I finally smirked back, and Nikki stuck her leg out from under the nylon cape to gently kick me in the shin.
“Well, duh. I’m irreplaceable.”
That warm secondhand burning sensation spread through my chest, and even though I knew it was her standard dry humor, I wasn’t sure she knew how true that was to me.
There were days I genuinely contemplated that, but being here now, reveling in what felt like normalcy, made that hollow feeling seem further and further away.
Lula came back to the chair and pulled apart a few of the foils from the top of Nikki’s head.
“We gotta let you cook under there now,” Lula said to Nikki. “I’ll be back to check on you in fifteen.”
“Cook?” I chuckled.
“Yeah.” Nikki nodded eagerly. “The color has to activate with heat from my head, or something like that. It sounds right, anyway.”
I snickered. “I see. Maybe you should go to cosmetology school with all that insider knowledge.”
“You know what? I’ve actually thought about that. I might.”
We shared a true, genuine laugh, the way we used to before everything seemed to change, and it made me realize that maybe change was okay. Things weren’t going to go back to the way they were before, but they could change into something else. Something good.
I opened my text messages and typed a response.
NAT: I’m in