Nothing More (7 page)

She shakes her head, huffing out a held-in breath.

“No, they didn't have to. Every single lead they choose is white. I'm so tired of it.”

I lean my back against the wooden chair and take the first sip of my coffee.

“Did you speak to someone?” I ask timidly.

We've had this talk before, a few times. Being biracial in the Midwest didn't trouble anyone in our neighborhood, or hardly anyone at our school. The population of Saginaw is pretty even when it comes to race, and I lived in a predominantly black area. But still, there were a few times when someone would ask her or me why we were together.

“Why do you only date white guys?”
her friends would ask her.

“Why don't you date a white girl?”
trashy girls with white eyeliner and gel pens shoved into their mock-designer Kmart bags would ask me. Nothing against Kmart, I always liked that store before it closed down. Well, except the sticky floors—they were the worst.

Dakota slurps on the end of her straw for a few seconds. When she pulls away, she has a dot of whipped cream on the corner of her lip. I fight my instinct to gently swipe it away.

“Remember when we would sit in Starbucks in Saginaw for hours?”

And just like that, she's closing off her real complaint. I don't push her to talk about it any longer. I never have.

I nod.

“And we would give them fake names every time.” She laughs. “And that one time that lady got so pissed because she couldn't spell Hermione and she refused to write our names on the cups anymore?”

Her laughter is real now and suddenly I'm fifteen, running down the street after a rebellious Dakota, who has leaned over the counter and stolen the woman's marker right from her apron. It was snowing that day, and we were covered in dirty brown slush by the time we made it home. My mom was confused when Dakota shouted that we were running from the cops as we ran up the stairs of my old house.

I join her soft reverie. “We actually thought the cops would waste their time on two teenagers stealing a marker.”

A few customers look in our direction, but it's pretty packed in here, so they are quick to find something else to look at, something more entertaining than an awkward coffee date between two exes.

“Carter said that the woman told him we were banned from there,” she adds, her gaze growing somber.

The mention of Carter prickles at the back of my neck.

Dakota must see something in my eyes, because she reaches across and puts her hand on mine. I've always let her.

Taking a page from her book, I change the subject. “We had some good times in Michigan.”

Dakota tilts her head and the light above us hits her hair, making her glow. I haven't realized just how lonely I've been lately. Aside from Nora's quick touch, I haven't been touched in months. I haven't been kissed in months. I haven't even hugged anyone except Tessa and my mom since the last time Dakota came to visit me in Washington.

“Yeah, we did,” she says. “Until you left me.”

I
'M WONDERING IF MY EXPRESSION
looks anything close to how I feel. I wouldn't be surprised if it did. My neck definitely jerked when she said that.
She had to have seen that
, is all I can think as I stare at her incredulously and wait for her to take back the harsh words.

“What?” she asks, deadpan.

There's no way she actually . . .

“I didn't want to leave . . . it's not like I had a choice.” I keep my voice quiet, but I hope she can hear the sincerity in my words.

The guy at the next table looks up at us for a second, then turns his attention back to his laptop.

I grab both of her hands on the table and gently squeeze them between mine. I catch on to what she's doing. She's upset about school, so she's projecting her anger and stress onto me. She always has, and I've always let her.

“That doesn't change the fact that you did. You left, Carter was gone, my dad—”

“I wouldn't have gone anywhere if I had a say in it. My mom was moving, and staying for my senior year of high school wasn't a convincing enough reason for her to let me stay in Michigan. You know that.”

I'm gentle with her, the way I would be with a wounded animal lashing out at anyone who approaches.

Her anger is deflated instantly and she sighs. “I know. I'm sorry.” Her shoulders slump and she looks up at me.

“You can always talk to me about anything,” I remind her. I know how it feels to be a small person in such a big city. I haven't really heard her talk about any friends except Maggy, and now I know she's friends with Aiden for some awful reason that I don't understand but I don't think I want to inquire too deeply about. The way she spun for him . . .

Dakota looks toward the door and sighs again. I've never heard a person sigh so much in my life. “I'm fine. I'll be fine. I just needed to vent, I guess.”

That's not enough for me.

“You aren't fine, Baby Beans,” I say, instinctively using her old nickname. Her wince quickly shifts to a shy smile and I sit back and let the familiarity of us take over. She's softening now, finally, and it makes me feel less awkward around her.

“Really?” Dakota's chair drags against the floor as she moves it closer to mine. “That was a cheap shot.”

I smile, staying silent and shaking my head. I didn't use the name in order to gain some advantage. I had called her that by accident one day—I honestly have no idea why—and it just stuck. She melted then, and she's melting now. It just slipped out without me thinking, but I can't say that I'm not happy when she leans her head against my arm, wrapping her hand around it. The silly, accidental nickname has always had the same effect on her. I've always loved it.

“You're so solid now,” she says, squeezing my biceps. “When did that happen?”

I've been working out more, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want her to notice, but now that she has noticed, together with her nearness, it makes me slightly shy.

Dakota's hands run up and down my arm and I gently brush her curly hair away from my face.

“I don't know,” I finally respond, my voice sounding much softer than I intended. Her fingers are still playing at my skin, tracing phantom shapes onto it, making goose bumps rise. “I've been running a lot and my building has a gym. I don't use it often, honestly, but I run almost every day.”

It feels so good to be touched. I had forgotten just how good it feels to have simple companionship, let alone actually feeling the warmth of another person. The image of Nora's nails raking down my stomach flashes through my mind and I shiver. Dakota's touch is different, softer. She knows just how to touch me, what I'm used to. Nora's touch sent waves through me; this touch is calming.

Why am I thinking about Nora?

Dakota continues to caress me while I try to push Nora from my head.

I feel slightly embarrassed by her attention, but at the same time, it feels really good to have my hard work noticed. I've changed my entire body over the last two years, and I'm glad she seems to appreciate it. She was always the prettier one in our relationship, and maybe my new physique will make her want to touch me more, maybe even spend more time with me.

It's a shallow, desperate thought, but it's all I've got right now when it comes to holding on to Dakota.

She's even more beautiful now than she used to be, and I imagine she will continue to grow more and more beautiful as she transforms into a woman. We used to plan becoming adults together. We would have two kids, she said, even though I kind of wanted four. The world felt so different then, and this idea that we could grow up to be anything we wanted seemed so tangible. When you're submerged in a small town in the Midwest, bright lights and big cities seem so farfetched to most—but they didn't to Dakota.

She always wanted more. Her mom was an aspiring actress who moved to Chicago to get into a theater production and thereby become a massive star. It never happened; the city stole her soul and she became addicted to the late nights and the things that keep you awake to enjoy them. She never managed to get out, and Dakota has always been determined to do what her mom couldn't: make it.

She leans closer. Her hair tickles my nose and I sink farther back into the chair.

“Tomorrow my meltdown will seem funny,” she says, sitting back up in her chair, turning the conversation away from me.

And truth be told, I'm glad for it. I tell her I agree that tomorrow everything will look different, better, and that if she needs anything, I'm only a call away.

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Dakota's phone starts to ring. As she talks, I push a napkin around the table and then start tearing the paper into little pieces.

Finally, she chirps into the phone, “I'll be there, save me a spot” and shoves it into her bag. She abruptly stands and throws her bag on her shoulder. “That was Aiden.” She takes a long slurp of her Frappuccino. My chest tightens and I stand up, too. “There's an audition and he's going to save me a spot. It's for an online ad for the academy. I gotta go, but thanks for the coffee—we need to catch up again soon!” She rests her hand on my shoulder when she kisses my cheek.

And after that flurry, she's gone. Her half-full Frappuccino remains across from me, mocking my loneliness.

T
HE ENTIRE WALK HOME I
keep thinking:

A. That was weird.

B. I can't stand Aiden and his creepy white hair and long legs—what the hell does he want with her, anyway?

C. He's probably trying to convert her to the dark side—but I'm onto him!

When I open the apartment door, I'm met by the thick scent of vanilla. Either Tessa has gone overboard on the body spray again or someone is baking. I'm praying for baking. The smell of it comforts me—my childhood home was always full of the sweetest smells of chocolate chip cookies and maple squares—and I don't really want to be feeling this way about some body spray; the bait-and-switch would be too similar to what I just had with Dakota . . .

I toss my keys onto the wooden entry table and cringe when my Red Wings key chain chips off a flake of the wood. My mom gave me this table when I moved to New York and made me promise that I would take care of it. It was a gift from my grandma, and my mom holds anything associated with her late mother above nearly everything else, particularly since there isn't much left—especially after Hardin shattered an entire cabinet of cherished dishes.

My grandma was a lovely woman, my mom tells me. I only have one really strong memory of her, and in it she is anything but lovely. I was about six at the time and she caught me stealing a handful of peanuts from a massive barrel at the grocery store in town. I had a mouth- and pocketful of them in the backseat of her station wagon. I don't remember why I did it, or if I even understood what I was doing, but when she turned around to check on me, she found me cracking open shells and chomping away. When she slammed on her brakes, I choked on part of a shell. She thought I was faking it, which only made her more upset.

I coughed the lodged chunks out of my throat and tried to catch my breath as she busted a U-turn right in the center of the highway, ignored the honks from understandably angry drivers, and drove my butt back to the store. She made me admit what I had done and apologize not only to the clerk, but also to the manager. I was humiliated, but I never stole again.

She passed away when I was in middle school, leaving behind two daughters, who couldn't be more opposite from each other. The rest of my information about her comes from my aunt Reese, who makes it sound like she was a tornado compared to the rest of my calm family. No one messed with anyone with the last name Tucker, my mom's maiden name, lest they had to deal with Grandma Nicolette.

Aunt Reese is a cop's widow with big blond hair, teased and sprayed high enough to hold her abundance of opinions. I always liked being around her and her husband, Keith, before he passed away. She was always happy, always so funny, and she snorted when she laughed. Uncle Keith, who I automatically thought was awesome because he was a cop, always gave me hockey trading cards when I saw him. I remember wishing he had been my dad a few times. Pitiful, yes, but sometimes I just wanted another guy around. To this day, I remember when he died, and the gut-wrenching screams of my aunt resounding through the hallways, and then the way my mom's face was so pale and her hands so shaky when she told me, “Everything is fine, go back to bed, sweetheart.”

Keith's death turned everyone upside down, especially Reese. She nearly got her home foreclosed on because she was just
that sad.
She no longer had any interest in life, let alone pulling out a checkbook to write a check from an account full of blood money her husband's life insurance had deposited there. She wasn't cleaning, cooking, or dressing herself; she always took care of her children, though. The toddlers were bathed and groomed, their little round bellies proof that she put her children above anyone else. Rumor has it that my aunt gave all the money from Keith's death to his oldest daughter from a previous marriage. I never met her, so I couldn't tell you if it's true or not.

Reese and my mom were close their entire lives, being only two years apart in age. While Aunt Reese has only visited Washington once, they talk on the phone a lot. My grandma's death didn't seem to affect Reese the same way it did my mom. My mom dealt with it with a gentle approach and a lot of baking. Still, it was hard on her, and this table that I just scratched is about the only thing she has left.

Bad son, I am—

“Hello?” Tessa calls from the kitchen, interrupting the picture of little Yodas swimming around in my head.