While I search the walls for another light, Dakota sits her bag on top of the bed closer to the window and tells me she’s going to shower. I could definitely use a shower, too. I check my phone and read the messages from Tessa: If you need anything, I’m here and Be careful, in every sense of the word.
I reply that I will indeed be careful, and I remind her not to share my little adventure with my mom and Ken. Not that I’m not old enough to make my own travel decisions, but it’s just something I would rather not have them worried about, and worry they will.
It’s a little after ten when Dakota comes out of the shower. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are puffy. The idea of her crying alone in the shower makes me lose my breath. Instinct, the evil little thing, makes me twitch to grab her into my arms and hold her until her eyes turn from veiny red to a milky white.
Instead I say, “I’m going to order some food,” and turn over the booklet on the desk, searching for room service. There doesn’t appear to be any. “No room service,” I mutter.
Dakota tells me she’s not hungry. I look up at her, her small frame wrapped in a white towel and her curly hair soaked, dripping down her exposed shoulders and chest.
“You’re going to eat. I’ll order Cousin Peppy’s,” I tell her, and she almost smiles. “Remember how we used to order it and have the driver come to my bedroom window so my mom wouldn’t wake up?” I pick up my phone from my bed and search for the number.
Dakota stays quiet as she rummages through her bag. I order a pizza, bread sticks, and a two-liter of pop for us to share. Just like old times, I think. Then I look over at Dakota, who’s walking into the bathroom to get dressed away from me, and remember that this is nothing like old times.
When she emerges from the bathroom, she’s wearing an oversized T-shirt that hits right at the middle of her thighs. Her brown skin is shiny, and I can smell her cocoa-butter lotion from here. When I tell her that I’m going to shower, she nods and lies down on the bed. She’s so distant, almost like a zombie, but worse. I would rather her try to eat my flesh than lie how she is, curled up on her side, staring at the window.
With a sigh, I grab a clean pair of briefs and walk to the bathroom. The water is hot but the pressure sucks. I need it to beat down on me to get rid of this aching kink in my shoulders that doesn’t seem to want to go away.
I use Dakota’s lotion. It’s the same kind she’s used since I can remember. I love the smell of it and try to fight my brain’s urge to trip down memory lane. I brush my teeth, twice, even though I’m going to eat soon. I brush my hair. I brush my growing beard. I’m stalling, I know I’m stalling, but I don’t know what to say to her or how to comfort her from a distance. I only know one way, and that’s not the right way for us. Not anymore.
After another few minutes of being a coward, I walk out of the bathroom. Dakota is still lying on the bed, her back turned toward me and her legs curled up to her chest. I move to turn off the light just as a knock sounds at the door.
The pizza! Of course, the pizza. I pay the college kid, who smells like weed, and close the door behind me. I lock it, both locks, and call for Dakota. She immediately rolls over and sits up. Since I didn’t remember to ask for plates and Steve the Stoner didn’t bring any, I grab two slices and set them on top of the bread-stick box.
When I slide the pizza box toward Dakota, she takes it in silence. I’m going to go insane if she doesn’t speak soon. It’s hypocritical of me to think that, since I myself haven’t said much of anything that doesn’t have to do with pizza.
We eat in silence, a silence so deafening that I break it by turning on the TV. I set it to the local news and cringe when they start talking about politics. Enough of that. I flip through the channels until I get to the Food Network. Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives is much less likely to give me a headache than a political debate. I can’t believe I waited twenty years to be able to vote and these are my choices.
After eating only one slice of pizza, Dakota puts the box back on the desk and begins to walk back toward her bed.
“Eat more.”
“I’m tired,” she says in a small voice.
I stand up and grab the pizza box, open it, and hand her another slice. “Eat. Then you can go to bed.”