ASHLEY
Nicci stands in the doorway like a ghost from another life, her hands folded neatly over her purse. For a moment, I think I am hallucinating. But then she steps inside and her scent fills the room. Strong, familiar and a tad bit nostalgic.
Her eyes sweep across the litter of balled-up sketches on the floor.
I lean back in my chair, twirling the pencil between my fingers. "You came to gawk?"
"No." She counters, her lips tightening. "I am here because you called me, remember?"
Right. I had. The call had been impulsive, desperate maybe. But watching her stand there, I remember why.
Nicci had always been my mirror, my muse, even when she was manipulative, jealous, and impossible. She has an eye for what cut through the noise. When I had creative block, she used to pull me out of it with a single suggestion. Even a single tilt of her head could sway me in a better direction whenever I was in a dilemma.
