by Anna Todd
“Your house.”
“Technically, yes.”
“How else is there to be? Technically you’re married and have an entire part of your life that you kept from me until someone else forced the truth to come out. Why didn’t you just tell me any of this? I would have been able to deal with it, with you. But now everything about you seems fake and dishonest, and I don’t really know what to think.”
I swallow. “I know. I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”
Landon turns his body to me in a swift move. His eyes are harsh. “No. You didn’t drag me into anything. You kept me on the outside until you couldn’t anymore. God knows how long you would have kept me in the dark.”
I shrug. I don’t have an answer to that.
“Did you not think you could trust me with this? I really don’t get it.”
“It’s not that I didn’t trust you, but this is heavy shit. You’re in college, Landon.” I look down to his shaking hands in his lap and back up to his eyes. “You have exams to worry about and a life to live. You’re young, you shouldn’t be worrying about this kind of shit.”
He stands and his arm swings across, knocking into the wooden headboard. “You don’t tell me what I should be worrying about!”
I join him on my feet. “You aren’t even supposed to be this involved in my life!” I shout back at him.
“Okay, Nora. You go ahead and try to flip this around and make this my fault. Make up your mind: either you want me and we can figure this out together, or you don’t.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“What?” he repeats, his hands in the air.
I feel the tear drip down my face before I can stop it. “I can’t believe after all this, you’re still trying to be accepting . . . and want to give me another chance.” I could live a thousand lives and never deserve him.
He shakes his head and stops pacing around the room. “Well, what’s it going to be? You decide.”
“What about Dakota?”
His eyes spit fire at me. “What about her?”
“You’re going to Michigan with her. You two will be alone . . .”
“Are you kidding me? That is what you’re worried about?” He sits down on the bed and drops his face into his hands.
I had expected this to go a different way. I thought we would go into his room and decide this was just too messy to continue, and he would be sad when I left, but he would be fine tomorrow. My head aches.
Maybe I can compete with Dakota? Maybe he would choose me?
The story of her brother haunts me, haunts them. The way Dakota went into the convenience store after Landon while I just stood there on the sidewalk. I watched her take his hands in hers, and I watched him not pull away. When she finally walked away, she sobbed into her hands. The reality of it is, my first love is long over, but theirs isn’t.
“Touch me,” I tell him. I walk over and stand right in front of him and beg him to touch me. I need one last night with him. His hand hovers over my face and I close my eyes as he brushes his thumbs over my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I say when his finger glides over my lips. I don’t tell him what I’m sorry for, but soon enough, he will get it. He will thank me for backing away from him now. Better late than never.
I know how to end this, how to overpower and distract him while I end this.
My hands move to his stomach, to the hard muscles, and I pull at his shirt, to bring him closer to me. His mouth is soft when it touches mine. I could kiss him and kiss him and kiss him and never get my fill. I push him back to the bed. I push at his shoulders and climb on top of his body. I take all of him, circling my hips over his. My hair falls down my back, wet and cold, and Landon’s hands move up to fondle my breasts. I take my time with him, slowly scratching my nails down his taut stomach as I move over him. He sighs, he pants, he says my name. I tell him that I can’t get enough of him and he agrees, pulling my body to his chest as he comes. I feel him shuddering in pleasure and I try not to cry.
What happened to me? Who is this weak woman crying over the body of a boy she’s too complicated to be loved by?
I lay my head on his chest and close my eyes before the tears can fall. I breathe in and out, hoping he doesn’t recognize my emotions.
When he falls asleep, I gather my clothes and leave him in the quiet of Brooklyn.
• • •
When I get to the gate of the house, my eyes are swollen and raw. My chest is heavy and my body is weak. It was a long drive here, and it was too late to call a driver. The entire ride on the train, I stared at the seat across from me, remembering the night Landon followed me. The more I try to push the memories back, the heavier they force themselves on me.
I push in the code for the big metal gate, and the cab drives away. The gate creaks open, and I walk slowly up the expansive driveway. Manicured trees and flowers line the way, as if there were life in this estate. I look up to the dark house perched on top of the hill. There’s no life here.
The house is silent except for the quiet running of the fish tank and the beeping of the machines as I get closer to the master bedroom. The nurse’s car is parked out front, so I know she’s here somewhere. Each of my steps echoes from the walls, and I wonder if I would have loved this massive house if things were different.
Would I have learned to love my husband and raised a family in this house? I look up to the chandeliers suspended above me and at the expensive art hanging on the walls. One-of-a-kind paintings and chandeliers for a man who will never see them.
The bedroom door is unlocked, of course it is, and I push it open.
Amir is sitting in his chair.
His eyes are closed.
His face is freshly shaven and his white cotton shirt is unbuttoned at the top.
He was such a beautiful man.
He is such a beautiful man.
In the morning, I will yell at his nurse, Jennifer, for leaving him in his wheelchair all night, but for now, I drop my bag and sit at his feet. I lift his heavy arm and lay my head on his lap. The breathing machine hisses, and I move the hose away from my feet and drop his arm over my head.
I don’t cry, and for the first time in a long time, I can imagine myself living here, in this room, with my silent husband, for the rest of my life.
chapter
Thirty-two
Landon
THE FLIGHT FEELS SO MUCH longer than three hours. I was lucky to even get on the flight on such short notice, but nothing felt charmed this morning. The sun wasn’t up when I woke up with a text from Dakota and an empty bed. Nora left in the middle of the night, sending me reeling again.
I feel so much older than twenty, and Dakota seems so much darker than the ballerina I once loved. Her eyes are heavy when we land, still swollen from last night’s tears.
I don’t look at her long enough to feel guilty. Those tears weren’t for me. They were for herself.
While Nora was in my bed, Dakota was sobbing in hers.
When we get to the baggage claim, Dakota stares blankly at the circling luggage belt, so I tell her to go grab a seat, and she nods. I point to the empty row of chairs next to her and she sits down.
Next to me a woman holds her baby, and I think of Nora holding her sister’s baby. When I see another woman with long, dark hair, I think of Nora; even a Game of Thrones ad on my flight’s TV screen made me think of her. Everything reminds me of her, and a small part of me hopes that she can’t look at anything around her without thinking of me.
The luggage comes quickly, and I gather it and walk to Dakota, who looks as if she’s going to fall asleep any moment.
“You okay?”
She looks up at me with hollow brown eyes and nods. “I’ll be fine.”
Working toward breaking the habit of pushing for more, I nod instead of telling her that I don’t think she’s okay after all.
The Kia I rented is nice, but it smells like cigarette smoke despite the NO SMOKING warnings plastered a
ll over the interior. Dakota remains silent most of the drive, and I’m so focused on her state that it takes a few minutes for me to start recognizing my old town when it appears on the other side of my windshield. I drive in silence, my hands clutching the steering wheel, as we pass the old building that housed the Blockbuster my mom used to take me to on Friday nights. Every single Friday we would order from Pizza Hut and rent a movie. Now the building looks as abandoned as the dusty old VCR on my mom’s mantel in Washington. I glance over at Dakota, wondering if she remembers the time she stole a Baby Bottle Pop from in front of the counter at Blockbuster. We ran with wild abandon down the street while Carl, the short manager with blond hair, chased us. The rumor around the town was that Carl had just gotten out of prison, and maybe he had, but he never caught us. From then on, I told my mom I was more into watching TV than renting movies, and fortunately she bought it.
The farther I drive into Saginaw, the more the roots of the town take hold of me. I feel like a stranger here, an intruder. At twenty, I’ve seen more of the country than most of the people in this town.
When we stop at a red light at the intersection between Woodman and Airway, I look at Dakota again. “They tore down the McDonald’s.” We used to have one of those classic McDonald’s right there on the corner, but now there’s nothing but a plot of concrete.
Dakota doesn’t look at me, but she glances out the window. “There’s a new one.” She points to a box-shaped building with yellow arches down the road, then drops her hand back down to her lap.
I nod toward another patch of concrete where a locally famous bar used to be. “What happened to Dizzy’s?” Memories of dragging Dakota’s dad through the doors flood me, but I stay passive, neither a smile nor a frown on my face.
Dakota shrugs. “I heard it burned to the ground. I’m not surprised.”
A distant memory pushes through my brain, splaying itself in front of me.
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.
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.
&
nbsp; 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.”
She sighs, but doesn’t meet my eyes or argue with me. Dakota eats quickly and gulps down a glass of pop and goes back to her bed. She turns over on her side and doesn’t make a sound.
