Chapter 18 #2
“Good job, love. A scene in Chakra would have been hid-e-ous. Although two attractive men duking it out for you in public is not the worst look. Page Six would have eaten it up.”
“Always the PR maven,” I exclaimed, swatting Kiara’s arm. “So, we ended up fighting outside and I broke up with him.” I spoke as nonchalantly as I could, trying to hide the slight quiver in my lips.
Kiara’s smile faded. “Oh no. I’m so sorry. Here I am, making light of the whole thing. You all right, love?” she asked, reaching out to hug me.
“It wasn’t pretty, but this has been coming for a while,” I said, hugging her back. “I really needed to make some life changes. My lease is up soon and I was thinking of moving back into Manhattan.”
“Really?” she asked. “You know … Ricky just finished a luxury rental property in Tribeca. It’s not fully occupied yet so you could still get in.”
“You think?” I asked excitedly, then sighed when I remembered who I was talking to. “Girl, what am I saying? I probably can’t afford to rent a parking space.”
Kiara winked. “Friends and family discount, love.” She named a rental price that was only a few hundred dollars more than what I was currently paying.
“You serious?” I asked, grabbing her hand.
“Yep. And they’re ready, so you could move in whenever.”
“Kiara, you have a knack for bailing me out,” I told her, sincerely grateful for this beautiful, generous powerhouse.
“And I am lucky to have such an excellent new friend,” she replied, squeezing my hand.
Then she went over to Betty to tell her she got her first cover offer.
Betty’s yelp was loud enough to turn every head in the office in her direction.
She turned toward all the curious faces, pumped her fist in the air, and yelled, “I’m gonna be on the cover of Sugar! ”
“My goodness, this is certainly very, very posh,” Teresa kept saying in a thick British accent.
I’d asked her to come with me to check out Matsumoro Tribeca and was now almost regretting it.
She hadn’t stopped commenting about how luxurious the building was since we’d walked into the expansive lobby.
Between the twenty-five-foot-high ceilings, indoor Japanese garden, sauna and Jacuzzi in the building’s gym, and the rooftop deck with water views, it was impressive.
But Teresa’s reaction was not what I’d expected: Instead of being excited, she was unmoved, even disdainful of the building and its amenity overkill.
And she kept using the word posh. Definitely not a Teresa word.
“Tee, what is your problem?” I whispered as the building manager led us through a small lounge and down a wide carpeted hall toward the one-bedroom apartment we were here to see.
With the break Kiara gave me on the price, I could finally upgrade from a studio, and I was dying to see how it would feel to not sleep in my living room.
“Nothing,” Teresa whispered back as the manager pointed out the zebrawood accents, the Noguchi light fixtures, and the tropical floral arrangements on a hall table that were, apparently, changed every week. “This is simply to die for, dahling.”
The manager paused in front of the apartment door, taking extra long for dramatic effect.
When he swung it open, I understood why.
We were on the penthouse level and the first thing we saw as we entered the living room was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows through which there was an unobstructed view of downtown Manhattan.
Even Teresa couldn’t pretend to be blasé about the view.
“Okay, wow,” she said incredulously.
“Wow is right,” the manager chimed in. “And wait until you see this.” He walked us to the bedroom, where he motioned toward French doors that led to a small deck.
I’d never even dreamed that I could have outdoor space in Manhattan, and I was already imagining drinking a glass of wine overlooking the twinkling cityscape.
Meanwhile Teresa was in the next room, freaking out over the stainless-steel Viking and Bosch appliances.
“I know the kitchen’s just gonna be home for your vast collection of cereal boxes,” Teresa said, coming to check out the deck. “But if you suck up to me enough and let me sun on your deck, I’ll come over and make arroz con pollo.”
“Deal,” I said, running my hand over the sleek glass railing.
After we left, Teresa and I stopped at Rosa Mexicano. I had to put down my margarita mid-sip when Teresa offered to help me pack. “So, you’ve finally seen the light?”
Teresa shrugged and bit into a chip. “Girl, the apartment is gorgeous. It really is…” She trailed off and took a sip of her drink.
“But,” I prompted her, realizing my reaction was premature.
“But I just don’t want you to get caught up in all of this,” she said, waving her hand in the vague direction of my new life.
“All of what?”
“This,” she said, gesturing more emphatically this time. “The parties and the people and the weird paper lamps.”
“They’re Noguchi, and hella expensive.”
“So? They’re made of fucking paper,” Teresa retorted.
“Look, the apartment is obviously fabulous, courtesy of your fabulous new buddy, Kiara,” she added with a touch of bitterness.
“But you’re making a lot of changes in your life all at once.
All I’m saying is to be careful not to let your head get turned around. ”
I was getting annoyed, in part because I knew Teresa resented Kiara for facilitating my entry into a world she didn’t trust, and in part because she had a point. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I finally said, taking a big gulp of my margarita. “I’ll try not to transform from a Denise into a Whitley.”
“I’m not saying don’t enjoy it. I just don’t want you to go from a cage right on into some kind of gilded aviary.
” I was distracted by the high-pitched giggles coming from a pink-sashed bridal party that had entered the room, so Teresa had to grab my hand to pull my attention back.
“Listen, you let go of the anvil around your neck, so it must feel like you’re free to fly as high as you want.
But this shiny new lifestyle is going to trap you like a chicken in a fancy coop if you let the stupid shit become too important. ”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Did I hear you call Joseph an anvil?”
Two things I knew for sure about Teresa: I could never get anything past her, and, no matter what, she always had my back. She’d been the only person who hadn’t questioned my breakup with Joseph.
“You already know that man really wanted you to be a fancy fashion editor at a fancy magazine that would impress his fancy friends. He liked to listen to hip hop but he didn’t want you to bring the culture into his immaculate home. The Sugar thing was never going to work for him.”
“But damn, an anvil?” I tried to keep it light though her expression was serious.
“Okay, I hear you. I won’t let my head get turned around by the industry bullshit, no matter how many bouncers at exclusive clubs wave me past the velvet rope or how many chauffeur-driven Escalades I ride in or how many penthouse apartments I live in… ”
“Girl, shut up!” Teresa finally laughed.
“You had better be listening. But I’m not gonna deny that this is all mad sexy.
” She ordered us two more margaritas. “My treat,” she said when I protested.
“It’s not every day that my girl finally gets a piece of the pie.
” Then she started humming the theme song to “The Jeffersons.” We cracked up and any leftover tension between us disappeared.
Teresa loaded a terrifyingly large dollop of the spiciest salsa on a nacho chip. My eyes watered just thinking of how much that would burn my tongue. “Hey, did Derek ever reach out to you?” she asked, not flinching at all as she chewed.
“Derek who?” I returned nonchalantly, although I knew Teresa was referring to the public defender she’d introduced me to at the Vietnamese restaurant.
Teresa waggled her finger. “You can’t fool me, chica. You know exactly who I’m talking about. Derek just started a gang assault trial. Some prosecutor is trying to use hip hop lyrics to pin a crime on a kid, and I mentioned that you may be able to give him some info because of your new gig.”
“Okay, I’ll look out for his call,” I said, loading a nacho with the same lava-hot salsa Teresa had casually popped in her mouth. My lips were on fire before I could swallow.
“I bet you will!” Teresa hooted. She gave me a knowing look, then winked as she heaped more of the salsa-from-hell onto her plate.
As I got ready for bed, Teresa’s words rang in my mind.
How was I going to stay grounded? I didn’t want to wake up one day and see a “party hag” like Serena or Luna cackling back at me in the mirror.
Von had started to bring me enough invitations to music release parties, club openings, private tastings at expensive restaurants, fashion shows, and celebrities’ birthdays to keep me out on the town almost every night.
And now that I’d be living in one of the most stylish buildings in New York, I’d surely meet swanky neighbors in the sleek marble elevators who would lure me to even more exclusive events.
I hadn’t even been at Sugar three months, and it was already hard to imagine returning to my former life.
After a few sleepless hours, I grabbed a pen and the notebook on my bedside table.
Since my college days, I’d kept a journal by my bed to jot down ideas I didn’t want to forget or thoughts about my life.
The pages were a mix of fleeting inspirations, half-formed plans, and the kind of raw honesty I couldn’t share with anyone else.
Writing had always been a way for me to untangle the knots in my head, each word loosening the tension until even my most fraught emotions could find release.
Eventually, my pen started to move, almost on its own, and my writing ended up taking the form of a message to my Sugar readers. So I decided to turn it into my August editor’s letter.
Hey, girlfriend. I hope you like this issue!
It’s only my third as editor in chief and I’m still working out the kinks.
Sugar is a work in progress—and, as I’ve recently realized, so am I.
Confession: I’m very new to this game and I’m so not perfect.
I’m really trying to make the right decisions for myself and for this magazine that I’ve come to love like a sister.
But sometimes it’s hard to get clear on what’s right, what’s real, and what are my own insecurities whispering that I shouldn’t even bother trying.
Here are some of the major decisions I’ve personally made within the past few months: I quit a huge job right after I got a big promotion; I broke up with my serious boyfriend; I’m moving out of the Brooklyn apartment I’ve lived in for the past four years and into a new borough; and I started this glorious new gig as the editor in chief of Sugar.
My head is spinning, and I’ve been second-guessing myself.
One thing I do know for certain is that I need Sugar—and a fresh start.
That’s why I’m particularly excited to feature Betty Brown, a brand-new R&B artist, on our August cover.
Betty’s fresh sound and Bed-Stuy-meets-apple-pie look are like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
Some people thought it was risky to put an untested artist on the cover.
But I think it is the most Sugar thing ever to be the first to get behind a dope artist who we believe people across the country will love.
It is a little scary to push through all this personal and professional change at once.
Yet I’m more aware than ever that the only way to grow as a person is to challenge yourself—and to feel a little afraid.
Adventure, fulfillment, and success lie outside your comfort zone.
If you let fear of the unknown limit you, you can’t possibly become the greatest person you could be or live the best life you could have.
Still, knowing that and acting on it are vastly different things. And, like I said, I stay second-guessing myself …
I’ll make a deal with you: I promise you transparency if you promise me not to listen to that pesky voice telling you what you can’t do.
I’ll give you the real deal about what’s happening in my life on this page every single month.
And you go out there and do some stuff that scares you.
Please send me a letter or an email letting me know what cool new adventures you’re having and what you’re learning in the process.
In the meantime, stay strong and be true to your true self always.
Love, Nikki
I had no idea how long it took me to write the letter because it flowed out of me.
When I was done, I felt much calmer and clearer, like I’d just had a good long talk with Teresa.
Sitting on my tiny sofa in my dark studio, lit only by my bedside lamp, I decided that instead of writing a boring editor’s letter about why you should turn to page 126 or 73 or 29 for whatever was in the magazine, like I had in my first two issues, I would share my real stories and let our readers see me as a real human being—flaws, insecurities, and all. I decided to call it “Nikki’s Notes.”