Dakota’s dad, Dale, leaning against the wall of the crowded bar. In one hand he held a beer and, in the other, the waist of a short blonde. The woman’s body was stubby, compact. Her hair was curled around her face, and she had clearly lived her better years in the eighties, as she still tried to force the style.
When Dakota pushed through the crowd, I followed closely behind her. She found her dad, intoxicated by booze and this woman. Before he noticed Dakota, she snatched the beer from his hand and tossed it into the trash can near his feet.
“What the fuck?” He looked up to see his daughter.
She straightened her back, took a deep breath, and prepared for battle. “Let’s go,” Dakota said through clenched teeth.
He looked at her and had the nerve to laugh, to actually laugh in the face of his only daughter.
The pouf-haired woman looked from Dakota to her shitty excuse for a dad and then to me. I stared at her, warning her off, but she didn’t move. Instead, she took a swig of her drink and squared her shoulders.
Dakota tugged at Dale’s shirt. “Let’s go.”
He furrowed his brows and looked down at his empty hands. “What the hell are you doing herrrrr-e?” he slurred.
My stomach churned.
The strange wannabe Farrah Fawcett stepped forward and wrapped her slimy hand around the back of Dale’s neck. Dakota’s brown eyes seemed to turn red under the dimly lit bar lights. She hated the idea of her dad with another woman, even though she knew her own mother wasn’t coming back from Chicago.
Dakota’s eyes set on the woman, and I reached for Dakota’s shirt, pulling her back to my side. “Come on, Dale, it’s late. You have work in the morning,” I said.
“Why are you kids in a bar, anyway? Take your asses home and leave us be.” Dale’s lips moved to the woman’s ear, and Dakota lurched forward. All day she had been surprisingly stoic for a fifteen-year-old girl who had buried her brother that same morning. But not now—now she was feverish and savage, pushing past me to shove at his shoulders, her small hands pounding against his chest.
I lunged for her, grabbing her by the waist, and I pulled her to me. “If he doesn’t want to leave, that’s his problem. Let’s go.”
She shook her head furiously, but obliged. “I hate you!” she shouted as I pulled her back—
“I’m glad that fucking place burned to ash. It’s more than it deserved.” Dakota’s voice brings me back to the present.
“Me, too.”
We drive on through our hometown. It feels like ages since I left this place, and the gnawing pang of discomfort in my stomach makes me feel guilty as I turn left onto Colonel Glen Highway. When we get to our hotel, a woman is in the parking lot, barely clothed, with sores on her face. She’s swaying back and forth on her feet.
“Welcome to Saginaw, Land of Heroin-Addicted Prostitutes.” Dakota’s voice is meant to be flat, but I can sense the slight tremor of fear at the ends.
I turn off the ignition and stare past her, into the lot. “I doubt she’s on heroin.” I’m not sure if I really mean the words, though.
When we check in to our room, I ask the woman behind the desk for two beds. Dakota tries to hide the sting, but I saw her flinch when I asked. She knows that we are here as friends, lifelong friends—nothing more, nothing less.
The hotel employee, Sharon, hands me two keys, and after a short walk we find our small room, which smells like mothballs and looks like jaundice in the light of the desk lamp. It’s not like there are a ton of hotels to choose from here, and since we waited until the last minute to come, I had to take what I could get. I didn’t exactly tell my mom that I was coming, so I couldn’t use her member reward points at the only nice hotel in this town.