WHEN I STEP OUT OF the bar, Dakota is standing on the sidewalk, raising her hand to hail a cab. I run up to her side and push her hand down.
"Don't touch me," she spits, a cloud of smoke puffing out of her mouth from the chilly fall air. I drop my hand and step in front of her. She keeps her arms down, crossing them in front of her chest as if to protect herself.
I immediately begin to explain myself. Or try to.
"It's not what you think," I say in a rushed voice.
Dakota turns away from me. She's not going to let me explain. She never has.
I gently grab her arm, but she wrenches her whole body away as if I've burned her. I ignore the judgmental glances of the people walking by and step in front of her.
"Bullshit!"she shouts. "Are you kidding me, Landon?"
The liquor on her breath and the way her bloodshot eyes are focusing, I can tell she's had more than a few. Since when does she drink like that? Or at all, really?
In my mind, she's sixteen again, her curly hair pulled up into a bun. She's wearing gym shorts and high socks, the kind with the red stripes around the top, sitting cross-legged on her bed. We're flipping through college applications over pizza. Her house is quiet for once. Her dad is gone. Carter is out with Jules. She's talking to me about how she's never been drunk, but wants to be.
Her first experiment didn't work out the way she expected; alcohol doesn't taste as good as the characters in Gossip Girl make it seem. Ten minutes and three swigs of eighty-proof vodka later, she was hugging the toilet and I was holding her hair while she swore to never drink again. Before I put the bottle back into her dad's crowded freezer, I dumped out half and added water, figuring in a naïve way that maybe if the alcohol were diluted, his temper would be, too.
Apparently, vodka doesn't freeze—but water does. And the next morning Carter came to school with a black eye and a sore rib cage because of my mistake.
I never made that mistake again.
"She's Tessa's friend," I say. "I barely know her. I know what it looks like—"
Dakota cuts me off, not even looking at me as she speaks. "She's been talking about you for weeks now!" Her voice is loud, cracking at the end like a whip.
"He's sooo sweet,"she croons, mocking a sultry female voice.
Passersby on the sidewalk stare at us as I try to calm her down. One guy in a beanie gives me an I-would-save-you-if-I-could-bro look as he passes with his girlfriend. His quiet girlfriend, who doesn't seem to hate him. Lucky guy.
I attempt to defend myself, but it comes out as babble. "I don't know what she's been saying, but I didn't—"
Dakota raises her hand in front of my face, waving for me to shut up. Her dress is bunched at her hips, exposing the line of her tights underneath. The more she moves, pacing on the sidewalk, the higher her dress rises. She doesn't even notice as she continues to stew in her rage.
After a few more seconds of pacing, she turns back to me, her eyes alight as she seems to remember something. "Oh my God! She kissed you! She told us!"
She takes a few steps across the sidewalk and bumps shoulders with a man walking a Saint Bernard. "That's who she was talking about! It's been you this entire fucking time."
Jesus, has Nora been giving Dakota a play-by-play of our every encounter?
Dakota raises her hand to hail a cab again. "Get away from me," she warns when I touch her elbow to steady her.
I haven't said anything and I know to be careful about how I approach this. I hadn't expected the two of them to be sharing stories about me. I didn't think Nora liked me enough to even mention me to her friends, and if she did, I would have never imagined that Dakota was one of her roommates. How can the world be so small?
"I'm coming with you. How much did you have to drink?" I ask her.
She shoots fire at me; her eyes are damn near glowing red now. I get no answer. Not that I expected one.
Regular cabs being fairly rare in this part of Brooklyn, I say, "I'll order an Uber. I'll have it drop you off at your place," and reach into my pocket for my phone.
She doesn't stop me, which I take as a good sign.
While we wait for the car, I decide to keep my mouth shut. Dakota's not going to be very reasonable until we can get away from the crowd. This is all one huge misunderstanding and I need time alone with her, and some quiet, in order to be able to explain.
After three minutes of complete silence, Daniel of the blue Prius and five-star rating pulls up to the curb and I put my hands on Dakota's shoulders to guide her to the car. She twists herself away from my touch and stumbles off the sidewalk to get to the other door. A car is passing at the same time and I rush to her, pulling her out of the way and guiding her into the car. She grunts, mumbles something about not touching her, and I walk back around and climb into the other side.
This is going to be a long night. I put my address into the app, not hers, since I'm sure she won't want to see Nora, although I'm pretty positive she will be pissed about this, too.
"How are you guys tonight?" Daniel asks.
Dakota ignores him, presses her cheek into her hand, and leans against the window.
"We're good," I lied.
No need to drag him into the mess; he seems like a nice guy and his car smells like caramel.
"That's good to hear, it's getting chilly out. I have some waters back there if you're thirsty, and chargers, too," he offers.
Now I see why he has a perfect five-star rating.
I look at Dakota, thinking she might want some water, but she doesn't seem interested in much of anything at the moment.
"We're good . . . thank you, though," I responded.
Our driver looks into the rearview mirror and seems to take the hint. He turns his music up slightly and drives in silence the rest of the way. He'll be getting a five from me.
"Where do you have him taking us?" Dakota finally decides to talk to me a few minutes into the drive. I stare out the window. We're about halfway to my apartment, having just passed Grind.
"To my apartment. I don't even know where yours is," I remind her.
The reason I don't know is because she has barely kept in contact with me since she moved here, and certainly has never invited me over. Does she really have the right to be this mad over my seeing Nora—if you could call what I've been doing "seeing her"? Even though it seems to me that Dakota's being completely irrational, I wonder if I actually deserve the cold silence.
She huffs but doesn't fight me on it. I assume that's because I was right and she doesn't want to deal with Nora or the other roommates who witnessed the entire awkward exchange at the bar. I get the feeling that their living situation is one of those weird frenemy types of relationships Tessa explained to me once while we binge-watched Pretty Little Liars.
Tessa. Ugh, I just left her there. I pull out my phone and send her a text, apologizing. When Dakota gives me the side-eye, no doubt wondering if I'm texting Nora, I sheepishly say, "Just wanted to let Tessa know I left . . ."
Five-star Daniel pulls up to my apartment building and gives me one last sympathetic glance before I step out. I quickly pull out my wallet and hand him a five-dollar bill. Dakota is quick to climb out of the car and slams her door as I step onto the sidewalk.
"Let me help you." I hold my hand out for the big purse she's wrestling with.
The straps are wrapped around Dakota's shoulder in a tangled mess of brown leather. She shrugs and stands still, allowing me to help her. I quickly untangle the straps, trying not to actually touch her, and when it's free, I carry it for her. I don't think she wants to, but she leans into me as we walk toward the door of my building. The moss growing on the brick walls of my building seems thicker tonight, more strangling.
Dakota lets go and stumbles to the front entrance. I pull it open for her and she sighs in relief when we step into the warm hallway. My apartment doesn't have a doorman or any fancy security, but it's always clean and the hallways usually smell like chemicals. I'm not sure if it's a good thing, but it's better than some of the alternatives.
As we walk in silence down the hall, I realize that she's never been here before. When I first moved to Brooklyn, we were supposed to get together for dinner at my house, just to catch up, but she canceled an hour before our meeting. I had made a full meal, four courses—with Tessa's help, of course. It felt like I had searched nearly every corner store in Brooklyn for Dakota's favorite drink, blue cream soda in a glass bottle, finally finding it after an hour. I even stopped myself from drinking any of the six-pack before she arrived. Well, I had two, but I left four for her.
Dakota's flat shoes squeak against the floor, and I can't remember it ever taking so long to walk to my apartment. The elevator seems to be taking forever.
When we finally reach my door and I unlock it, Dakota pushes past me and enters. I lay her purse on the table and kick off my shoes. She takes a few more steps until she's in the center of the room.
The living room feels much smaller with her in it. She's a beautiful storm, all waves and anger as her lungs fill with air. Her chest rises up, then down, in a ragged pattern.
I step toward her, right into the eye of it all. I shouldn't know how to approach her. I shouldn't remember the exact way to talk to her, to cool her temper.
But I do.
I remember how to slowly step to her and wrap my arms around her waist. When I do, they fall into their protective place, trying to shield her from anything and everything. In this case, from myself.
My fingers should have forgotten how to gently raise her stubborn chin and let me look into her eyes. But they haven't, they couldn't.
"We have to talk about this," I whisper through the heavy air between us.
Dakota takes a breath and tries to look away from me. I bend at the knees, leaning down to her height. She looks away again and I refuse to give in before she listens to me.
"I met Nora a while ago, back in Washington," I began to explain.
"In Washington? You've been seeing her that long?" She hiccups at the end of her question and pulls away from my embrace.
I wonder if I should offer her something to drink. I don't think this is the best time, but when an inebriated person hiccups, it sometimes means they're going to get sick, doesn't it?
Where did I even hear that?
This is one of those times when I wish I knew more about drinking and the effects it has on your body. Dakota's toe catches on a pile of textbooks on the floor and she stumbles, taking a few unsteady steps toward the couch. Better safe than sorry, I'll get her that water after all.
I shake my head. "No, no, no. She came over a few times because her parents live close to my mom and Ken."
I know it sounds like a lie, but it's not.
"I barely know her. She helped my mom with baking and now she's Tessa's friend—"
"Your mom? She met your mom?" Dakota shrieks.
Everything I say seems to add another shovelful of dirt to the hole I'm digging myself in.
"No . . . well, yes." I sigh. "Like I said, her parents live near mine. I didn't have her over for family dinner or anything like that."
I hope something clicks within her and she sees that this isn't what she thinks it is.
Dakota turns away and her eyes scan the living room. I watch her as she walks over to the couch and sits down on the side closer to the door. I pull my jacket off and drape it over the chair. I hold a hand out for Dakota's jacket, but she isn't wearing one. How did I not notice? I remember looking at the line of her tights, the outline of her bra through the thin cotton of her dress. I'm not used to seeing her dressed like this, in such tight clothing.
That's my excuse for being a pervert who didn't even notice that she wasn't wearing a jacket? It didn't even cross my mind to offer her mine—what's happening to me?
While I wait for her response, I walk over to the thermostat and turn up the heat. If we're lucky, it'll make her drowsy. I pop into the kitchen and pour each of us a glass of water.
When I return, she shakes her head and looks past me; I can see that she's struggling within herself. "For some reason, I believe you, but should I? I mean, this fast? Just like that?"
She rests her chin on her elbow and stares across the room. "I didn't think I would care this much if you dated someone," she admits.
Her words take me by surprise, and as I mull them over, something shifts in my reasoning. I guess I saw that from the beginning of the small almost-catfight that she was annoyed I was with Nora, but for some reason I thought she was more upset because I'd lied to her about what I was doing tonight. That she would feel weird at seeing me with someone—even though I'm really not with anyone—wasn't the first thing on my mind, given everything. She broke up with me over six months ago and has barely given me the time of day since.
Part of me wants to shout at her, Where's the logic in that!? but another part reminds me that she must feel that she's justified in some way. I do my best to try to see it from her side before I say anything or react because I know that if I do speak right now, my words will do more damage than good. Especially if I'm only thinking of my point of view. Of myself. Still, I'm mad, too. She thinks after six months that she can yell at me for dating someone who I'm not even dating? I want to tell her that, tell her that she's wrong—and I'm right—and I'm pissed, too! But that's the problem with this type of quick anger: discharging it would make me feel better for a few moments, but then I'll feel like crap after. Anger doesn't often offer a solution, it only creates more problems.
Still, part of me wants to say something. I take a big drink of water instead.
I know anger.
The type of anger that I know isn't some small thing that pops up when you see your ex of six months hanging out with someone else. My experience with anger isn't getting pissed off because your neighbor drove his car into yours. The anger that I know cuts at you when you're watching your best friend get his eye split open because his dad heard someone down at the bar whispering about him looking at another boy just a beat too long.
The anger that I know seeps inside of you and turns you into lava, burning slowly as it rolls down the hills and covers the town. It's when your friend's bruises are in the shape of knuckles and you can't do shit about it without causing more destruction.
When you've been host to that type of anger, it's very, very hard to fly off the handle over small things. I've never been one to add fuel to a fire. I've been the water, extinguishing the flames, the salve to heal the burns.
Little problems come and go, and I have always avoided confrontation at all costs, but sometimes things become too much to bear or too big to ignore. I'm terrible at fighting, I can't keep an argument going to save my life. My mom always said I was born with a gift: an enormous amount of empathy. And that it could quickly become a fault instead of a virtue.
I can't help it . . . I can't stand to see other people suffer, even if holding back causes suffering to me.
I'm struggling to understand Dakota's anger when she finally breaks the silence.
"I'm not saying you can't date," she says.
I sit down on the arm of the couch farther away from her.
"Just not so soon. I'm not ready for you to date," she adds, and takes a long drink of water.
Soon?It's been six months.
I can tell by her expression that Dakota's completely serious, and I don't know if I should call her out on it, or just let it blow over. She's pretty drunk, and I know how stressed she's been lately with her academy and all. I'm smart enough to pick and choose my battles, and I don't feel strongly enough about this one to let it snowball into a full-fledged war.
What she's asking of me isn't remotely fair, and I'm frustrated by how easily I've let myself slide into this passive role again. I'm enabling her . . . but is it really that bad? We are communicating. No one is yelling. No one is losing their cool. I want to keep this going. If she's handing out secrets, I'll take a few.
"And when will you be ready for me to date?" I ask softly.
She sits up straight, immediately defensive. I knew she would be. I stare at her, my eyes telling her that there's nothing to be upset about, we're only talking. No judging here.
Her shoulders relax.
"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it." She shrugs. "I assumed it would take you longer to get over me."
"Get over you?" I ask, worried for this woman's sanity. What would have given her the assumption that I could get over her? My kiss with Nora? It's not like this girl before me even gave me a choice about getting over her.