Chapter 19
I’M SITTING ACROSS THE table from my mom and Cara and Linney, trying to blink away images and memories of Nate’s hands on my back in that dressing room, the way we fell into each other, like it was inevitable.
I bite the back of my pen with a vengeance, trying to focus.
We’ve taken to having these daily “lunch planning meetings” which I can tell are the highlight of my mother’s day.
They say planning a wedding can be a full-time job.
Or maybe I’m just using that as an excuse to avoid my actual job.
I should be working on content for my newsletter or dropping an AMA box onto the feed.
Something to keep engagement up, but I can’t stomach the idea of being on social media right now.
Leaving LA and returning home to the lake, it’s like I’ve dropped into a vortex, another world.
My mom is saying something about the flower shortage due to a recent drought, but I’m having a hard time paying attention, because behind her, through the screen door, I can see Nate working in the yard, making repairs to the old structure.
And though I am still staunchly against the rushed nature of this wedding—and still working through my mixed, distrustful feelings toward Cara, I have to say—it’s pretty meaningful the way Nate has devoted himself to this task.
When I was little, I’d often go out and lie along one of the benches in the gazebo and imagine I was on the set of a movie, or in love with an Austrian soldier, or just part of some story that was so much bigger and more romantic than my real life could ever be.
So watching Nate restore it after so many years of the gazebo just sitting there by the water, languishing, has me thinking wistfully of the past—and that younger Nikki who still believed in real-life fairy tales.
“So you’ll see what you can do tomorrow, Nikki?” my mom is saying.
“Hmm? What?”
“I was saying you may have to speak to the farmer about whether peonies are reasonable this time of year.”
“Oh, um, yeah, of course. I doubt peonies are realistic, unless they’ve got a hothouse, but I’ll find out.”
“And by the way, honey, where did you end up putting those boxes of bud vases you said you got from the store the other day? I haven’t seen them yet. It might affect what varietals we choose.”
I suppress an eye roll. But then I remember about the box of vases, and it’s all I can do not to crack a grin. “Oh right, of course! They’re still upstairs. I was going to save them for the day of…”
“No, let’s see them now,” Mom says matter-of-factly.
I hustle up to my closet room and bring the box back downstairs.
Mom starts picking through the vases, pulling out the porcelain cow, then a rooster.
“Nikki, what are these?”
“They’re little vases!” I say cheerfully. “Look, see how the cow has a hole in its back? You put the flowers in there!”
Mom gives me a look. “I think we were picturing more like mini mason jars, sugar,” she says pointedly.
“Ohhhh.” I draw out the word, looking apologetically to Cara. “Sorry—you said, ‘farmhouse chic,’ so I thought…”
Cara is pulling out more figurines from the box with an unreadable expression on her face. There’s a horse, and a sheep with curly porcelain wool.
A small smile creeps onto her face. “You know what? I love them.”
“You do?” Mom and I say in unison.
“Totally. They’re quirky and fun. This one is so dang cute.” She holds up the horse, which looks like a cross between a Precious Moments figurine and a My Little Pony. “I could see myself designing my next jewelry line around him.”
Okay, well now, she’s laying it on thick. There’s no way she’s “inspired” by these tacky little vases.
Satisfied that I’ve “won” this round, I place the vases back into their box and go to bring them back upstairs when Mom reaches out and touches my arm.
“When you come back down, sugar, I want to talk to you about something. Just us.”
MOM SUGGESTS SHE AND I go for a walk along the lake, so we can talk in private. I’m convinced the little talk between me and Mom is going to be a lecture about how I have to be nicer to Cara, and I’m braced to defend myself.
So I’m surprised when she surreptitiously shoves a basket in my hands and starts marching out toward the lake’s edge. Instead of stopping once we’re far enough from the house, Mom just keeps on walking. Determinedly.
I put my phone in my butt pocket so I can carry the basket, then jog a bit to keep up.
“Where are we going?”
“Just a little ways up,” she pants, and I realize we’re heading deeper into the wooded area around the side of the lake.
“Mom, careful—that’s where it gets muddy, right before the strawberry patch.”
“I know, sugar. That’s where we’re going.”
“Ah. Hence this basket.”
“Exactly! I thought we’d see how many wild ones we can find. We’ll obviously have to supplement with store-bought, but there’s just something special about the wild little babies, don’t you think?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say. I used to love coming out here and picking them—just enough to snack on before I made it back to the house.
I had this little fantasy that if I ever decided to run away from home, I’d be able to camp out right here and subsist on strawberries.
Of course, back then I felt like I was miles from home instead of less than a hundred yards.
And my childhood fantasy overlooked key facts like that the strawberries were only seasonal for a brief window in early-to-mid summer, and also that I was absolutely not the type of child who would ever run away.
I’m way too much of a people pleaser for that, and would have worried too much about other people worrying.
And finally, I was also not the type of child who would survive in the outdoors overnight.
I don’t even like camping unless it’s in a cabin with plumbing.
I remember Emma telling me about the time she and her now-fiancé, Finn, slept out under the stars. She said it was incredibly romantic, but the whole time she gushed about it, all I could think about was the potential for bugs and wild animals.
Nope, no way.
My mom and I make it to the strawberry patch and bend down to start picking a few, but it’s not as easy as when I was a kid.
They grow right along the ground, and you basically either have to squat really low or give up and kneel down in the mud.
Plus, my mom is no spring chicken anymore, and I can tell all the bending isn’t great for her back.
“Look for the ones that have just the tiniest bit of white at the top—the too-ripe ones might have worms.”
“Ew.” I wrestle a few from their leaves and plop them into my basket. “This is a nice little trip down memory lane, Mom, but how many of these bad boys are we picking?”
“I just want as many as possible, as I’ll need a whole bunch for the cake.”
“Wait, please tell me you’re not baking a cake for dessert tonight? On top of everything else you’re doing this week?”
She laughs. “No, sugar, these are for Cara and Cooper’s wedding cake. I’m making them a big strawberry shortcake, since it’s Cara’s favorite, you know. And I thought it’d be extra special to have some of our fresh-grown strawberries in the mix.”
Cara’s favorite. Of course. Those damn strawberry necklaces—inspired by her profound love of strawberry shortcake. I sigh and suppress an eye roll.
“That’s really thoughtful of you,” I tell her. Because it is, even if I resent it a little.
“Well, you know, I realize this whole thing is very rushed, but I still want to make it as perfect as we can. It’s important to try to do that, don’t you think?”
I look at her, surprised she’s finally admitting to how insanely rushed this whole thing is, but I can’t read her expression, as she’s busy focusing on digging out a particularly buried strawberry.
“Mom, why are you this obsessed with the wedding? I mean, I know you love a family event and an opportunity to host, but this feels… I don’t know. Hasty? Crazy, even?”
I brace myself for another explanation just like my dad’s. That we do crazy things for love, yada yada.
But instead, she looks up at me with an expression so foreign it takes a moment to realize it’s vulnerability. My mom’s perfect Southern hospitality comes from such a genuine place that I sometimes forget there’s even the possibility of anything different behind the performance of it.
“Mom, what is it? Is there something I don’t know? Something about Cooper and Cara, or—”
“Nikki…”
Just then, my phone starts ringing and buzzing in my butt pocket. “Sorry. Let me just silence this.”
I set down the basket and yank my phone out to send the caller to voicemail, but a name I really wasn’t expecting flashes across the caller ID. Sloane N.
“Whoa,” I say, letting out a breath.
“Whoa, what, honey? What is it? Is it important?”
I look up at her. “It’s one of the producers from LovedBy.
” For some reason, my heart is lodged in my throat, making it hard to swallow.
It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to anyone from the show.
At the time we were shooting, Sloane and I were actually pretty close.
You kind of can’t help but bond with your producer.
They’re with you all the time, on camera and off, pumping you up, consoling you when you’re down, and of course, mining you for vulnerabilities that make for good TV.
She checked in on me a few times after the show ended but then I stopped answering, and life moved on, and now it’s been forever.
The phone keeps ringing in my palm, and I hold it slightly away from me, like it has come alive like a frog and might jump.
Mom gasps. “Oh my lord, well, answer it, Nikki! Obviously, answer it!”
And so, with trembling hands, I do.
AFTER SOME NICETIES, SLOANE gets to the purpose of her call.
“So, I’ve been talking to the team, and we would love to have you on the next season of Shore Thing.”
“Oh wow,” I say, because I genuinely wasn’t expecting that. LovedBy: A Shore Thing is their beachy spin-off show, made up of contestants from past seasons of the regular LovedBy.
“You’re obviously a fan favorite,” Sloane continues. “And I think people would really love to cheer you on, see you get another chance at love.”
“That’s sweet.” I feel dumb with these two-word answers, but my mind is still reeling.
“Listen, take a minute to think about it. We don’t need an answer until Sunday.
” Sunday. As in, four days from now. As in, the day of the wedding.
“I’ll send over more info, so you and your reps can take a look,” Sloane continues.
“But I just wanted to call personally to say how happy we’d be to have you. ”
“Thanks, Sloane. I’ll, um, I’ll give that some thought.”
When I hang up, my mom is looking at me expectantly.
“They want me to come back on the show—on A Shore Thing.”
“Oh my,” Mom says. “Are you going to do it?”
“I’m—I’m not sure yet. What do you think?”
Mom schools her face into neutrality, but the tiny sparkle in her eyes gives her away. “I know things didn’t work out the way you’d hoped last time, but I still think there’s someone out there for you.”
My treacherous brain supplies an image of Nate, which I mentally shove aside.
“This could be a wonderful opportunity, new people, new places…” Mom continues.
“You never know what might come of it.” Her neutral mask melts away, replaced by a grin that practically radiates glee.
“And, selfishly, you know I would love to see you on my screen again. You’re so good on camera, sugar.
I mean, you’re living all the way out there in LA; seems like you might as well try to make something of it. ”
She gives a good argument…
But what would the FitGirl reps think of this? The last thing I want to do is compromise that new partnership or seem less committed to it.
And then I can’t help but wonder… What about Nate?
I flash back to yesterday’s dressing room kiss for the umpteenth time.
We’re just friends, I remind myself. We both agreed that what happened yesterday was a slipup, a heat-of-the-moment mistake.
I like Nate—maybe more than I should—but it’s messy, and ill-defined, and basically has the shelf life of the four days remaining between now and the wedding.
I can’t let my feelings for him dictate whether or not I take this opportunity.
“You’re right, Mom,” I say, squeezing her arm. “I’ll just sleep on it and call Sloane back tomorrow to tell her the good news. But you can’t say anything, okay? They’re really strict about that. I’ll have to sign all kinds of NDAs…”
“Alright, honey, alright.” Her smile turns misty.
“Oh, Nikki-Belle, it’s all just so exciting.
The idea of you finding someone who makes you happy—well, that would mean the world to me.
” She glances toward the house, where Cooper and Cara are practicing their first dance on the lawn.
“With everyone else paired off, I can’t help but hope you’ll find your match. ”
I swallow. “I hope so, too, Mom.”