Nothing More

  I check the clock on the wall and cringe when I notice it’s not even ten yet. I had kept the doors open longer than usual for a group of women talking about divorce and babies. There were a lot of “Ohs” and “Oh nos!” so I figured I would leave them in peace until they solved one another’s life problems and were ready to go. At a quarter after nine, they left, their table covered in napkins, cold half-drunk coffee, and half-eaten pastries. I didn’t mind the mess because it kept me busy for a few extra minutes. I spent so much time closing . . . meticulously placing stacks of napkins into metal canisters . . . sweeping the floor one straw wrapper at a time . . . and walking as slowly as I possibly could to fill up the ice bins and canisters of ground coffee.

  Time isn’t on my side tonight; I’m beginning to question my relationship with Dakota. Yeah, time rarely works in my favor, but tonight it’s teasing me more than usual. Each minute that passes is sixty seconds of mockery; the little hand on the clock keeps ticking, slowly, but those ticks don’t seem to add up—it doesn’t feel like time is moving at all. I begin playing that elementary-school game of holding my breath in thirty-second increments to pass the time. After a few minutes of this, I’m bored and move to the back room with the cashier drawer and count the money from the day. The shop is silent, except for the buzzing of the ice machine in the back room. Finally, it’s ten and I can’t stall any longer.

  Before leaving, I glance around the shop one last time. I’m positive I didn’t miss anything, not one coffee bean is out of place. I usually don’t close alone. My schedule alternates between closing with Aiden and closing with Posey. Posey offered to stay with me, but I overheard her talking about having trouble finding a sitter for her sister. Posey is quiet and she doesn’t share much of her life with me, but from what I can gather, the little girl seems to be at the center of it.

  I lock the safe and turn on the security system before I close and lock the door behind me. It’s cold out tonight, a slight chill comes from the water and settles over Brooklyn. I like being close to the water, and for some reason, the river makes me feel some sort of detachment from the hustle of the city. Despite its proximity, Brooklyn is nothing like Manhattan.

  A group of four—two women and two men—walks past as I lock up and step out onto the sidewalk. I watch as the two couples split into handholding pairs. The taller of the guys is wearing a Browns jersey and I wonder if he’s checked their stats for the season. If he had, he probably wouldn’t be prancing around in that thing with such pride. I watch them as I follow in their wake. The Browns fan is louder than the rest of the bunch and has an obnoxiously deep voice to boot. He’s drunk, I think. I cross the street to get away from them and call my mom to check on her. By “check on her,” I mean let her know that I’m fine and that her only child survived another day in the big city. I ask how she’s feeling, but in typical fashion she pushes that aside to ask about me.

  My mom wasn’t as worried about the idea of me moving as I thought she would be. She wants me to be happy, and going to New York to be with Dakota made me happy. Well, it was supposed to. My move was supposed to be the glue that would keep our fraying relationship together. I thought that the distance was the thing that was chipping away at us, but I hadn’t realized it was freedom she craved. Her freedom-seeking came so unexpected to me because I’d never acted possessive with her. I never tried to control her or tell her what to do. I’m just not like that. Since the day the spunky girl with the noodles for hair moved in next door, I knew there was something special about her. Something so special and real, and I never, ever wanted to hide that. How could I? Why would I? I reinforced her independence and pushed for her to keep her sharp tongue and strong opinions. For the entire five years we were together, I treasured her strength and tried to give her everything she needed.

  When she was afraid to move from Saginaw, Michigan, to the Big Apple, I found a way to calm her fear. I’ve had the experience of a few moves myself; I moved from Saginaw to Washington just before my senior year of high school. I constantly reminded her of her very good reasons for wanting to go to NYC: how much she loved dance and how talented she was at it. Not a day passed when I didn’t remind her how great she was and how proud of herself she should be. With blistered toes and bleeding feet, she rehearsed day and night. Dakota has always been one of the most motivated people I’ve ever met. Excellent grades came easier to her than they did to me, and she always had a job when we were teens. When my mom was working and couldn’t drop her off, she rode her bike a mile to her cashier’s job at a truck stop. Once I turned sixteen and got my license, she let her dad pawn her bicycle for extra cash and I gladly drove her.

  And yet, in her family life I suppose freedom was something Dakota never felt like she had. Her dad tried to keep her and her brother, Carter, prisoner in their redbrick house. The sheets that he tacked over the windows couldn’t keep either of his children inside. When she got to New York, she saw a new type of living. Watching her dad wither away into nothing with anger and booze wasn’t living. Trying to wash away the guilt of her brother’s death wasn’t living. She realized that she had never truly lived. I had begun living the day I met her, but for her it wasn’t the same.

  As much as the destruction of our relationship hurt, I didn’t hold it against her. I still don’t. But I can’t say that it didn’t cause me real pain in addition to erasing the future we had mapped out together. I thought I would come to New York and share an apartment with her. I had assumed that every morning I would wake up to her legs wrapped around mine, the sweet smell of her hair in my face. I thought we would make memories while learning the ways of the city together. We were supposed to take strolls through parks and pretend to understand the art hanging in fancy museums. I expected so much when I started planning my move here. I expected it to be the beginning of my future, not the end of my past.

  To her credit, she saw things coming, saw her feelings for what they were, and broke up with me before I moved out here. Rather than try to fake it for some time before it blew up in both of our faces, she was honest with me. Still, by the time she finally ended things, I was too invested in the move to change my mind. I had already transferred schools and put a deposit on an apartment. I don’t regret it, and looking back, I think it was what I needed. I’m not completely enthralled by the city yet—its charm hasn’t really hypnotized me like it does some, and I don’t think I’ll stay here after I graduate—but I like it enough for now. I would like to settle somewhere quiet, with a big yard and sunlight that makes everything gorgeous and browns my skin.

  It helps that Tessa moved here with me. I’m not happy about the circumstances that brought her, but I’m glad I could provide an escape for her. Tessa Young was the first friend I made at Washington Central University, and she sort of ended up being the only one I had up until I left. She was the first and only friend I made in Washington, and vice versa. Her freshman year was rough. She fell in love and got her heart broken almost simultaneously. I was in a weird place, between my stepbrother, who I was trying to build a relationship with, and my best friend, Tessa, whose wounds came from the same man.

  I opened my door to Tessa the moment she asked and I would do it again. I didn’t mind the idea of sharing my apartment with her, and I knew it would help her. I like my place as the friend, the nice guy. I’ve been the nice guy my entire life and I’m more comfortable in that role than any other. I don’t need to be the center of attention. In fact, I recently realized that I go out of my way to avoid any situation that would put me there. I’m known for being the supporting act, the supportive friend and boyfriend—and I’m perfectly okay with that. When everything went down in Michigan, I wanted to suffer alone. I didn’t want anyone to bleed with me, especially not Dakota.

  Her pain was inevitable, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t fix it. I had to let her bleed and I was forced to sit back and watch as her world was ripped apart by a tragedy that I tried my damnedest to prevent. She was my bandage and I was her n
et. I caught her when she was falling, and we will be bonded, whether it’s by friendship or more, until the end of time because of the pain we’ve shared.

  My mind doesn’t often wander here, to the memories that I’ve forced myself to forget. That can of worms is closed. Sealed with super glue, and buried under nine feet of cement.

  chapter

  Three

  WHEN I GET TO THE apartment, I’m greeted by a medium-sized package on the doorstep. Tessa’s name is scribbled in black marker, telling me immediately who it’s from. I shove my key into the door and gently kick the box inside. The lights are off, so I know Tessa’s not home from work yet.

  I’m tired and I get to sleep in tomorrow. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, my classes begin later than the rest of the week. I’m very much looking forward to it; Tuesdays and Thursdays are my favorite days of the week because I can lie in my bed in boxers and watch television. It’s a simple, somewhat sad luxury, but I enjoy every second of it. I kick my shoes off and line them up while yelling Tessa’s name through the apartment, just to make sure she isn’t here. When she doesn’t respond, I start to undress in the living room, just because I can. Another simple luxury. I unbutton my jeans and push them down my legs. I even kick them off, letting them flop to the floor. I even leave them there. I’m feeling slightly rebellious, but mostly really exhausted.

  After a second thought, I pick up my pants, shirt, socks, and boxers from the floor and carry them into my room, where I toss them on the floor to clean up later.

  I need a shower.

  The handle to the shower in my only bathroom sticks almost every time I turn it on. It takes at least one minute for the water to wend its way through the pipes. Our super “fixed” it twice, but it never stays. Tessa even tried to fix it herself a few times. Turns out repairwoman isn’t her thing. At all. I laugh at the memory of her soaked body and how mad she was when the water burst from the pipe. The metal handle went flying across the bathroom, putting a small hole in the drywall. A few weeks later, it broke again when she turned the shower on and ended up yanking the flimsy handle off the wall. The result was her getting sprayed in the face with ice-cold water. She screamed like a banshee and ran out of the bathroom like she was on fire.

  As I listen to the water moving through the lines and take a quick piss, my mind drifts through the day, how fast my classes seemed to go by, how surprised I was when Dakota and Maggy came into Grind. I still feel weird about seeing Dakota, especially with Aiden, and I wish that I would’ve had some time to prepare. I haven’t talked to her in a few weeks and it was hard to concentrate when she was wearing such revealing clothing. I think it went pretty well, though; I didn’t say anything completely embarrassing. I didn’t spill coffee or stumble over my words. I wonder if Dakota felt awkward and like she was forcing conversation with me, or if she barely notices the tension anymore?

  She doesn’t reach out to me much—ever, really—so I have no idea how she feels or where we stand. She’s never been very vocal about her emotions, but I know she’s the type of girl who holds a grudge for life. She doesn’t have any reason to have negative feelings toward me, but my mind immediately goes there. It’s a little weird to me that we went from talking every day, to barely at all, to radio silence. After she called me to end our relationship, I tried to keep our friendship afloat, but she’s given me little help.

  I miss her sometimes.

  Hell, I really fucking miss her.

  I got used to not seeing her when I moved from Michigan to Washington, but we still talked daily, and I’d fly out and visit her every chance I had, even once I got busy with college. When she moved to New York, she started becoming distant. I could tell something was off, but I kept hoping it would get better. Still, with every phone conversation we had, I felt her slipping away from me more and more. Sometimes I would just sit and stare at my phone, hoping that she would call back and want to hear about my day. Just ask one question or give me more than a quick, two-minute rundown of her day. I hoped that maybe she was just adjusting to her new life. Maybe she was going through a phase, I thought.

  I wanted her to get the full experience of her new life and make new friends. I didn’t mean to take anything from her. I just wanted to be a part of her life like I always had been. I wanted her to throw herself into her dance academy; I knew how important this was for her. I didn’t want to be a distraction. I tried to be as supportive as I possibly could, even as she began to carve me out of her life. I played the role of supportive boyfriend as her schedule became fuller and fuller.

  I had always played that role well, ever since we were kids. I’m comfortable in this role, just like the nice guy. I stayed patient and ever so understanding. The night that she called to give me reason after reason why our relationship wasn’t working, I still nodded along on the other end of the line and told her it was okay, that I understood. I didn’t understand, and her “reasons” felt flimsy, but I knew there was no changing her mind, and as much as I wanted to fight for her, I didn’t want to become a burden to her. I didn’t want our relationship to become another thing she had to fight. Dakota spent her life fighting and I had managed to be one of the few positive forces in her life, and I want to keep it that way.

  I was frustrated, and in a way, I still am. I don’t really understand why she couldn’t spare a little time for me when all of her Facebook updates were pictures of her at different restaurants and nightclubs with her friends.

  I missed hearing about her day. I wanted to listen to her brag about how well she did in class. I missed her raving about how she couldn’t wait for an upcoming audition. She was always the first person I went to with anything. That began to change after I met Tessa and started getting closer to my stepbrother, Hardin, but still, I missed her. I don’t know a lot about dating, but I did know that this wasn’t it.

  Suddenly I realize the bathroom is filling with steam from the shower while I’m just standing here staring at myself in the mirror and reliving the failure of my only relationship. I finally step into the shower—and the water is scalding, like it’s lashing out against my skin. I jump back out and adjust the water. I connect my phone to the iDock and turn on my sports podcast before I get back into the shower. The announcers’ voices are deep and loud as they bicker over the unnecessary politics surrounding hockey. I try to pay attention to who they are complaining about, but the sound keeps cutting in and out, so I reach out and shut it off. My phone falls from the dock and lands in the sink. I reach over and get it out before my usual luck kicks in and an invisible house elf turns on the water. Having a house elf, preferably Dobby or his clone, would be ideal. Harry Potter was one lucky kid.

  This bathroom is way too small for another body, elf or not. It’s tiny—microscopic, really—with one low sink with a wonky faucet planted next to a small toilet that I can barely fit on. Whoever designed this apartment didn’t do it with a six-foot-tall guy in mind. Unless said six-foot-tall guy liked to bend his knees to get his head under the shower stream. The warm water works at my back as I continue to torture myself and think about Dakota. She takes up prime real estate in my head, and I can’t seem to get her to move out. She looked so good today, so damn sexy in those shorts and sports bra.

  Did she notice that my body has changed since she’s seen it last? Did she see that my arms have grown thicker and my stomach finally has the lines of muscle that I’ve been working toward?

  Growing up, I was the chubby kid. My hefty build was often the topic of conversation in the crowded hallways of my high school. “Lardy Landon,” they called me. “Don’t let Landon land on you,” they would joke. Maybe it sounds so damn stupid and childish now, but it bothered the crap out of me when the meatheads would walk behind me chanting it. That was only one of the many flames of the hell that was high school. It was nothing compared to what happened with Carter, but I’m not going there tonight.

  The more I try to remember about our encounter at Grind, the more my brain screws with the memorie
s and jumbles them. I couldn’t tell what Dakota was thinking. I never could. Even when we were young, she always had secrets. It was appealing then, mysterious and exciting. Now that we’re older and she broke up with me with little real explanation, it’s not so fun.

  I stare at the seaweed-green shower tiles and think about all of the things that I should have said and done during those five minutes. It’s a vicious cycle, going over what I could have said and then reminding myself that it’s not a big deal, then back to freaking out. I stare at the wall, remembering her standing in front of me earlier today. I wish I could have read the pages behind her almond eyes, or found some words hidden beneath her full lips.

  Those lips . . .

  Dakota’s lips are something else. They are plump, and the perfect shade of soft petal pink. Their rosy color has always driven me crazy, and she’s mastered the art of using them perfectly. We were only sixteen when we messed around for the first time. It was our two-month anniversary, and she had just adopted a puppy for me. I knew my mom wouldn’t let me keep it, and she had to know it, too, but we tried to hide it in my closet. Dakota often did things that she knew she shouldn’t, but her intentions were always good. We would feed the little gray fur ball the best food from the little pet shop down the street. He didn’t bark much, and when he did, I would cough to try to hide the sound. It worked for a while, until he grew too big for my small bedroom.

  After two months of captivity, I had to tell my mom about the dog. She wasn’t nearly as upset as I thought she would be. However, she did explain the cost of upkeep of a puppy, and when I compared that to my measly check from the car wash I worked at sporadically, it didn’t add up. Even with the tips added in, I couldn’t cover a vet bill. After some tears and protestations, Dakota finally agreed. To ease the pain, we geeked out and watched all of the Lord of the Rings movies. We binge-drank Starbucks Frappuccinos and complained about paying five dollars a cup. We ate Twizzlers and peanut butter cups until our stomachs hurt, and I drew circles on her cheeks with my fingertips, the way she always liked, until she fell asleep on my lap.