Nikki pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of her hoodie. “She’s disappointed in me.”
I shook my head. “No. Not at all. Sometimes I get frustrated, but I’m not mad or disappointed.” My throat tightened, but the confession squeezed past the tense desire to keep it together because I thought that would fix everything. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Finally her fingers stilled. She pressed her lips together into a faint frown, and signs of the emotion she had been trying to tamp down flickered over her face. She looked away, staring hard at the painting of an oyster shell on the wall on the other side of the room, like if she focused on something else long enough, the moment would pass and we’d move on.
Mom let out a quiet breath, her voice gentle. “Nikki, honey, we’re here with you.”
Nikki kept quiet, her response coming in the form of a slow nod. She swallowed, still staring at that distant spot on the wall.
Dr. D’Antoni let the silence hang in the air again for a few moments before speaking up, her tone unwaveringly calm. “There’s a lot to process here, but this is good, Nikki. Thisishard, and the instinct is to joke or deflect because it makes dealing with the situation easier. But I also want you to notice what happens when you don’t.” She paused and gestured to me and Mom. “See what happens when you allow yourself to hear that the people who love you are here for you.”
Nikki exhaled slowly. “I’m trying.”
It was the first time she’d said that word in these sessions.Trying. Trying was a start. Trying was good. I’d take trying.
>> <<
Mom made millionaire spaghetti that night, and it wasn’t lost on me that it was a meal Nikki used to love and beg for when we were growing up. I sat at the kitchen island, where most of the painter’s tape and tarp were now gone, and all that was left was soft baby-blue paint drying on all the cabinets.
“Well, that went about as well as it could have,” she said as she scooped a chunk of spaghetti and sauce onto my plate. “Given the circumstances.”
“Dr. D’Antoni said it was aminorregression,” I added, stabbing the pasta with my fork. “But regression is regression, isn’t it?”
Mom leaned against the island, electing to stand while she ate. “According to her, minor regressions like skipping a meal here and there are normal. It’s almost impossible for people with mental health conditions like that to shut it off. They’re habits, and we have to be understanding of that.”
“Even though that makes sense, it doesn’t make it feel any less shitty.”
Mom looked up at me with a soft smile. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Nat. You’ve been a fixer your whole life, so it’s in your nature to want to fix what’s going on with her, but it’s not that simple. You have to let her try and fix herself, and you can only be there to support her.”
Gracie sat at my feet and huffed out a weary sigh. Sleeping all day must have beensohard for her. Normally I would have given her some spaghetti, but Mom was taking her to the vet tomorrow for a checkup, and spaghetti was not an ideal part of a dog’s diet, no matter how old and needy they were.
“I know that.” The words escaped in a soft breath.
Mom stood upright and shrugged. “That’s all you can do for now.”
After we ate and moved to the couch to watchBake Off, my mind wandered to Brooklyn. Did he have the kind of setbacks Nikki had? Did his sister worry like I did?
As if the universe was broadcasting my thoughts, my phone lit up with a text from him.
BROOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge):you working tomorrow?
I smiled to myself as I typed up a response.
NAT:depends, are you planning on playing Jenga with my new paperback releases again?
BROOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge):that was going great until you breathed on it
BROOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge):maybe I just need you to do your job and recommend another sick book
“Who are you texting?”
I snapped my gaze up to see Mom trying—and failing—to be discreet about leaning over and trying to peek at my phone screen while she balanced precariously on our squishy couch cushions and pile of blankets.
“Nobody.” I shot her a sideways glance as I scooted away from her.
For a moment I thought she’d let it go, but as Netflix transitioned to the next episode, she casually chirped, “Could it maybe be thefriendyou met for coffee last weekend?”
The wordfriendflicked off her tongue tauntingly, and she knew it, too, as her lips lifted into a coy little smirk.
