Nothing More (6 page)

I know I don't have years to wait; I'm not getting any younger here. But thoughts like that aren't helping me move on.

The couple stops for a kiss and I look away, smiling because I'm happy for them. I'm happy for the strangers who don't have to spend their nights alone, jerking off in the shower.

Gah, I sound bitter.

I sound like Hardin.

Speaking of Hardin, I can call him and blow at least five minutes before he hangs up on me. I pull my phone from my pocket and tap on his name.

“Yeah?” he says before the second ring.

“One of your famous warm hellos.” I cross the street, continuing my aimless trek in the general direction of my neighborhood. I should get to know this area better anyway; may as well start today.

“Warm as I'm gonna get. Do you need something in particular?”

An angry cabdriver shouts out of his window at an elderly woman as she slowly crosses the street in front of his car.

“I'm looking at your future self, actually,” I tell him, laughing at my insult. I watch the scene in front of me to be sure the woman makes it across okay.

He doesn't laugh or ask what the hell I'm talking about.

“I'm bored and wanted to talk about your trip here,” I say into the phone.

“What about it? I haven't booked the flight yet, but I'll be there around the thirtieth.”

“Of September?”

“Obviously.”

I can practically see his eyes roll from here. “Are you staying in a hotel, or at my apartment?”

The old woman reaches the other side of the street and I watch as she goes up some steps and into what I assume is her place.

“What does she want me to do?” His voice is low, cautious. He doesn't have to say her name, hasn't in a while.

“She says she's fine with you staying at the apartment, but if she changes her mind, you know you have to go.”

I don't draw many lines between the two of them, but Tessa is my priority in this situation. She's the one I hear crying at night. She's the one who's trying to become whole again. I'm no fool—Hardin is probably even worse off. But he has found himself a support system and a good therapist.

“Yeah, I fucking know that.”

I'm not in the least surprised by his annoyance. He can't stand anyone, including me, coming to Tessa's rescue. That's his job, he thinks. Even though he's the one I'm protecting her from.

“I'm not going to do anything stupid. I have a few meetings and wanted to maybe hang out with you and her a bit. Honestly, I'm just happy to be in the same fucking state as her.”

I focus on the first part of his sentence. “What kind of meetings? You're trying to move here already?”

I sure hope not. I'm not ready to be in the middle of a war zone again. I thought I would have at least a few more months before the magical forces of insanity brought those two back together.

“Fuck no. It's just some shit for something I've been working on. I'll tell you when I have time to explain the whole thing, which is not now. Someone's calling on my other line.” He hangs up before I can respond.

I look at the time on my screen. Five minutes and twelve seconds, a record. I cross the street and shove my phone back into my pocket. When I reach the corner, I look around to gauge where I am. Rows of brick town houses and brownstones line both sides of the street. At the end of the block, a small art gallery shows prints of brightly colored abstract shapes hanging from string through its window. I haven't been inside, but I can only guess how expensive the pieces are.

“Landon!” a familiar voice yells from across the street.

I search the sidewalk and see Dakota. Damn that woman and her lack of clothing. She's dressed the same as yesterday: tight spandex, workout shorts, and a sports bra. Her chest is on the smaller side, but she has the perkiest tits I've ever seen. Not that I've seen a lot of them, but hers are amazing.

She starts waving at me as she crosses the intersection, and if this isn't some sort of fate-driven meet-up, I don't know what is.

W
HEN SHE REACHES ME
, Dakota immediately wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me to her. Our embrace lasts a few beats longer than usual, and when she pulls away, she leans her head on my arm. She's nearly a foot shorter than me, though I always liked to tease that her hair, that wild mass of curls, adds four inches onto her driver's license stats.

Her nose is red and her hair is particularly wild. It's not cold yet, but it's windy and air off the nearby East River adds a chill. She's not dressed for the fall weather; in fact, she's not wearing much of anything. I'm not complaining.

“What are you doing over on this side of the tracks?” I ask.

She lives in Manhattan, yet this is the second time I've seen her in Brooklyn this week.

“Running. Crossed the Manhattan Bridge, then just kept trucking.” Her eyes meet mine and then quickly dart to my forehead. “What the hell happened to your face?” Her fingers press against my skin and I wince.

“It's a long story.” I touch over the sensitive spot with my fingers and feel the knot next to the cut.

“Did you get in a street brawl on the way here?” she teases, and a tingling blossoms in my chest, me missing her even though she's standing right here.

There's no way in hell I'm telling her what actually happened to my head. Or my knee. Gah, I feel like such a creep now that she's in front of me and I think of her every time I make myself come.

“Not quite.” I shake my head and continue: “I fell in the shower. But I like your version better. Definitely makes me sound cooler.” I chuckle, looking down at her.

My answer humors her and she bounces on the heels of her bright pink Nikes. The yellow check mark on her shoes matches her sports bra and the pink matches her tiny, tiny shorts.

“So what are you up to? Do you want to get a coffee or something?” she asks.

Her eyes dart across the street and she stares at the couple I saw earlier. Their hands are intertwined as they trot down the streets of Brooklyn. It's a romantic sight, him wrapping his coat around her shoulders, leaning down to kiss her hair.

Dakota looks back up at me and I wish I could hear what's going on inside her head
. Does she miss me? Does seeing that couple happy and holding hands make her want my affection?

She wants to hang out with me now—
what does that mean?
I have absolutely nothing to do, but I probably should act like I have somewhat of a life outside of school and work.

“I have some free time now.” I shrug my shoulders and she loops her arm through mine and leads the way. During the walk, I try to compile a list of normal conversation starters that would be nearly impossible to make come out awkward. I say “nearly” because if anyone has a talent for turning normal situations uncomfortable, it's me.

The walk to Starbucks is only a couple of blocks, but Dakota has been next to silent the entire time. Something is off with her, I can tell.

“Are you cold?” I ask. I should have asked her earlier. She has to be cold, she's barely dressed.

She looks up at me, and her Rudolph nose gives her away even though she's shaking her head.

“Here.” I gently pull away from her and pull my sweatshirt up over my head and hand it to her.

It cuts me a little when she smells the gray fabric, just like she always used to. She was obsessed with wearing my hoodies when we were in high school. I had to buy one every other week to keep up with her thieving ways.

“You still wear Spicebomb,” she says, not asking.

She bought me my first bottle of cologne for our first Christmas together and one every year after.

“Yep. Some things never change.” I watch as she pulls my sweatshirt down over her. Her curls push through first and I help yank the fabric down over her mass of hair. The sweatshirt hits her just at her knees.

She looks down at the design printed on the front.

“Deathly Hallows.” She touches the tip of the triangle with her unpainted nail. “Some things really do never change.”

I wait for her to smile, but it doesn't come.

She smells the sweatshirt again.

“Is it because you like the smell, or because you probably still have a stash from me?” Dakota laughs finally, but, again, it's off.

“You grab a table and I'll get the coffee,” I offer. This is what we always did back in Saginaw: she would pick a table, usually by the window, and I would order our matching drinks. Two mocha Frappuccinos, an extra pump of liquid sugar for her, an extra shot of coffee for me. I always ordered two pieces of lemon pound cake and she always ate the icing off of mine.

My tastes have changed over the years, and I can't bring myself to drink the sugary milk shake disguised as coffee anymore. I order her Frappuccino and grab myself an Americano. Two lemon pound cakes. While I'm waiting for my name to be called, I look over at the table where Dakota is sitting staring off into space with her hands tucked under her chin.

“A mocha Frap and an Americano for . . . London!” The cute barista yells out the wrong name. She's perky as she sets the drinks on the counter, a huge smile on her face, the same as with all employees I see working for the mermaid chain.

Dakota sits up slightly when I reach the table. I hand the large plastic cup to her and she examines mine.

“What's that?” she asks.

I sit down across from her and she brings my cup to her lips.

“You'll hate that—” I try to warn her.

It's too late, her eyes are already closed and her face is already crumpling. She doesn't spit it out, but she wants to. Her cheeks are full of the espresso-and-water mixture and she looks like an adorable little squirrel as she struggles to swallow.

“Ew! How can you drink that?” she exclaims when she finally gets it down. I slide her cup closer to her for a chaser. “It tastes like straight tar—ew!”

She's always been a tad dramatic.

“I like it.” I shrug, sipping the coffee.

“Since when do you drink fancy coffee?” Dakota scrunches her nose in disgust again.

I chuckle. “It's not ‘fancy.' It's only espresso and water,” I say, defending my drink.

She snorts. “Sounds fancy to me.”

There's something behind her words. I can't pinpoint it yet, but it's like she's mad at me for something that I'm not aware that I did.

It's like we're still dating.

“I got you some lemon cake, too. Two pieces.” I slide the brown paper bag across the table to her. She shakes her head and pushes her hands out, moving the bag back to my side of the table.

“I can't eat stuff like that anymore and I'm already having this coffee as my lunch.” She scrunches her nose and I remember her complaining about the change in her eating habits she had to make for her academy. She has to keep a strict diet, and lemon pound cake doesn't fit anywhere into that.

“Sorry.” I wince and fold the edges of the bags to close them. I'll take it home and eat it later, when she's not around to witness my gluttony.

“How have you been?” I ask her after a long stretch of silence. It's like neither of us knows how to act when we aren't dating. We're acting as if we're strangers. We were friends for years before we dated; our friendship grew as her brother and I became best friends. A chill runs down my spine and I wait for her to answer.

“I'm okay.” She sighs. Her eyes close for a moment and I know she's lying.

I reach across the table and rest my hand next to hers. It wouldn't be appropriate to touch her, but I want to, so badly. “You can tell me, you know.”

She sighs again, refusing.

“I'm your safe place, remember?” I remind her of her claim on me. The first time I found her crying on her front steps with blood in her hair, I promised that I would always keep her safe. Neither time nor a breakup would change that.

That's clearly not what she wanted to hear, and she pushes my hand away with a “don't.”

“I don't need a safe place, Landon, I need . . . well, I don't even know what I need because my life is fucking failing and I don't know how to fix it.” Her eyes are dark now, waiting for my response.

Her life is failing? What does that even mean?

“How so? Is it school?”

“It's everything—literally every damn thing in my life.”

I'm not following. That's probably because she hasn't given me any information to allow me to help her.

When I was about fifteen, I realized that I would do anything to make sure she was okay. I'm the fixer, I'm the one who fixes everything for everyone, especially the curly-haired neighbor girl with an asshole for a father and a brother who could barely speak in his home without getting a bruise for the effort. Here we are, five years later, out of that slow, eroding town, away from that man, and some things really never change.

“Tell me something that I can go on.” My hand covers hers and she pulls away, just like I knew she would. I let her. I always have.

“I didn't get the part that I've been training and
training
and
training
for the last two months. I thought this role was mine. I even let my GPA drop because I spent so much time rehearsing for my audition.” She lets out a forced breath at the end and closes her eyes again.

“What happened with the audition? Why didn't you get it?” I need more pieces of the puzzle before I can form a solution.

“Because I'm not white.” She says it loud, certain.

Her answer presses against the small bubble of anger that only holds things that I'm helpless over. I can fix a lot of shit, but I can't fix ignorance, as much as I would love to.

“They said that?” I keep my voice down, even though I don't want to. They couldn't have possibly actually said that to a student?