I laugh again. “That’s exactly what Nate said too.”
“So he knows? What does he think?”
I sigh. “That’s the problem. I don’t know. I wanted him to beg me to stay, you know? To tell me not to go on the show but… but he didn’t.”
“It’s a huge decision, Nik. Maybe he just doesn’t want to influence you.”
“Iwanthim to influence me. I want him to feel the same way. I want him to want a relationship. Withme.”
Emma sighs. “My love. There is only one way to get an answer. And that is to ask the question.”
I sigh. “Ugh, mygod. I hate it when you’re right.”
She blinks and smiles. “Which is always.”
I laugh. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge. At least a tiny bit.”
“Any time, babe. And Nikki?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to be anywhere by thirty but right where you are.”
And just like that, all the emotion comes flooding back up through my chest and into my throat. “Love you,” I say, and we hang up before I risk crying in front of her again.
AFTERIHANG UP,there’s this urgency pulsing through my veins. Because Emma isprobably right. And now I know I’m not going to be able to relax or feel normal around Nate until I get the words out.
But I’m also a little nauseous and panicked—because what if Emma’s wrong? What if telling him is just one more messy, off-script move to add to the list of disastrous choices I’ve been making this summer, from giving up my lease in LA, to thinking it was okay to try and “subtly sabotage” a wedding, to letting myself catch feelings for a walking-disaster commitment-phobe just because he has great arms and the sweetest smile in the world and makes me laugh in a way that causes me—for whole minutes at a time—to forget that anyone might be watching? Just because of how he looks in my eyes, and how he reads my moods, and how he makes love to me in a way that makes me feel like I’m levitating?
I do some breathing exercises as I shower and get dressed, choosing my outfit carefully—a pair of high-waisted white shorts and a white eyelet tank top. The look is sweet and summery yet mature. But my hair is still being impossible even after I’ve blown it out.
“Mom?” I call down the stairs.
“In here.” Her voice wafts over to me from the sewing room.
“Do you know where the mousse is?” I ask as I leave the yellow bathroom and walk down the hall to pop my head into the sewing room.
My mom’s head is bent down over the sewing machine in thecorner, sunlight from the window behind her pouring in, illuminating the gray amid the blond in her bun.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has guarded the serenity of her sewing room with an iron fist. Under no circumstances were any kids allowed inside. Ever. It was her single sanctuary in a house overrun with four children. The only time I was allowed inside was when she was pinning my dresses and costumes.
But with the wedding only three days away, even Mom’s sacred space hasn’t been spared from the chaos. The room is being used as spillover sleeping space for Linney’s kids. The daybed and its trundle have been packed away for the day, but Anna Carol’s pink walrus and William’s knit blanket are tucked carefully beside the pillow.
Along the far wall, several of my pageant outfits still hang proudly on display.
“Mom?”
My mom is holding a pile of white lace in one hand, a needle with pale blue thread in the other. “Oh hi, Nikki-Belle,” she says, finally looking up. “Happy birthday, sugar. What a cute outfit!”
“Thanks.” I beam.
“Oh, but I see you’ve got humidity hair. I think the mousse might be in the bathroom in my room, sweetie.”
She turns her attention back to her needle, and I deflate a little.
But then she looks up again. “By the way, I left you a biscuit with a candle in it downstairs, sweetheart.”
I smile. It’s a sweet tradition she’s always insisted on keeping up. No matter how much we’ve already celebrated my birthday, the actual day can’t go by without a little gesture.
