Nothing More

by Anna Todd

Tessa’s phone rings and Nora jumps. Her cheeks flare, and I want to reach for her again, but I can’t.

  “It’s my boss. I’m going to take this,” Tessa says.

  She pauses for a moment and glances at both of us, silently asking if we’re okay to be left alone alone.

  Nora gives her a small smile, her eyes saying what her mouth—and mine—can’t.

  With every step that Tessa takes down the hall, the air in the kitchen grows thicker. Nora keeps herself occupied by pulling a pan from the counter and tossing it into the sink. She turns on the water, grabs the bottle of dishwashing liquid, and gets to scrubbing. I don’t know if I should just stand here awkwardly while she washes the pan, or if I should just go in my room and spend the night alone, again.

  I pull out my phone and scroll through the last few text messages I received. I have a text from Posey, a meme about baristas. A quiet laugh rocks through me and Nora’s shoulders tilt toward me.

  She seems to stop herself before she completely turns around. She grabs the bottle of soap and squeezes again. Little angry bubbles float around her and I notice that she’s still scrubbing the same pan.

  I take a silent step toward her and look into the sink. The pan is clean, no cake residue left, its surface all shiny despite a thick and completely unnecessary coat of bubbly soap. Her hands work at the already-clean pan and I take another step closer to her. My foot catches one of the legs of the wooden kitchen chairs and she jumps at the noise.

  “So, how have you been? Anything new?” I ask, like I’ve never spoken to her before and like I didn’t just trip over a chair.

  Nora’s shoulders lift with a deep breath and she shakes her head, her dark ponytail waving back and forth with her movements.

  “Not really” is all she says, and her hands go back to scrubbing the pan. Finally, she rinses it and lays it to dry on the wire rack next to the sink.

  Where is Tessa? I wish she would come back and break the awkwardness in this kitchen.

  “How’s work going? Do you still like it there?” I just can’t shut the hell up.

  Nora shrugs again and I think I hear her say, “It’s okay.”

  “Are you mad at me or something?” my mouth says for me.

  Mad at me? Am I five, asking Carter if he’s mad that my mom accidentally ran over his toy in the driveway?

  Before I can stumble further and make things even more awkward between the two of us, Nora turns around to face me. The curve of her throat seems to be pulsing, her chest rising and falling in a slow throb. My own chest is on fire, a hollow feeling that doesn’t belong here, not because of someone who’s practically a stranger.

  “Mad at you? For what?” There’s sincerity in her eyes when she speaks to me; her lips are pouty and she’s waiting for an answer that’s somehow harder for me to give than it should be.

  I rub my hand over the back of my neck, thinking, thinking, thinking, always thinking.

  “Everything? The Dakota thing, the kiss, the—”

  When Nora opens her mouth to speak, I stop midsentence to let her. She leans her elbow against the counter and her eyes focus on me. She’s staring hard, and in this moment I wish I knew her well enough to know what she’s thinking, how she’s feeling. I can’t read her, no matter how badly I want to.

  I’m usually good at figuring out people and their behaviors. I can usually tell when someone is feeling something, even when they’re trying their best to hide it. The quick movement of their eyes to the opposite side of the room or the subtle shift of their body weight . . . there are a million ways to read someone.

  “I’m not mad at you at all. It’s all been a little messy, yes,” she says, and something about the way her voice catches at the end of her sentence makes me uneasy.

  I have never wanted anything more than to know about the parts of herself that she keeps hidden.

  Her whole being reminds me of some sort of secret, the closest thing to discovering a true-life mystery, one that’s difficult to solve but that tantalizes you with the prospect of a solution.

  “Landon, the reason why—”

  But her voice is interrupted by the creak of sneakers on the clean tile floor.

  I turn. The white sneakers touching the floor belong to a pair of tightly covered legs. The body is thin, wearing a sparkling tutu and black body suit.

  Dakota’s eyes scan Nora, standing only inches away from me, and she seems to morph into something bigger, something darker and stronger.

  Dakota squares her shoulders and pushes out her chest, demanding attention.

  “Dakota . . .” I instinctively step toward her and away from Nora.

  “So this is where you went?” she says.

  I’m confused for a moment before I realize that she’s not talking to me. She’s facing Nora now.

  Nora’s eyes meet mine. “No, I was just here with Tessa—”

  Dakota cuts her off midsentence. “I told you to leave, not to come running to him.”

  And I’m so confused by what’s going on. Dakota’s voice is rising like an angry tide, ready to swallow my tiny Brooklyn apartment.

  “I told you to stay away from him,” Dakota says. “He’s off-limits. We agreed.”

  Dakota’s eyes are narrow slits and Nora’s are wide saucers; she still seems shocked at seeing Dakota in the kitchen.

  “I better go.” Nora reaches for the dishcloth on the counter to dry off her hands. She does so quickly, and Dakota and I stand in silence as she leaves the kitchen without looking at either of us. The front door opens and closes in less than twenty seconds and she’s gone without so much as a goodbye to Tessa.

  She’s so quick, and I’m so much in shock that I didn’t even have a chance to follow her.

  I briefly wonder if I would have, and how Dakota would react if I did.

  chapter

  Twenty

  DAKOTA IS STANDING IN THE kitchen, her eyes on me and her mouth set in an angry frown. Her hair is down, wild ringlets running loose over her shoulders. She’s picking at her fingernails, and I really don’t like the way she’s behaving, acting like we’re in high school.

  Scratch that, she’s acting full-on elementary, and the tutu she’s wearing isn’t helping make her look like an adult.

  “What was that all about? What’s up with you?” I ask.

  Well, it came out more like a demand, but I need some answers. None of this makes sense.

  And of course she’s immediately on the defensive, glaring at me as though I’m the one acting like a jealous child. Dakota doesn’t say anything, she just stares at me, and suddenly her gaze softens. Her lips pout out and she leans casually against the kitchen counter as if nothing just happened.

  I decide not to let this one go. “Why did you just chase Tessa’s friend from our apartment?”

  Dakota looks me over. I assume that she’s using her silence to buy herself time to decide what to say.

  Finally, after a few more seconds, she sighs and begins to speak.

  “She’s not just Tessa’s friend to me, Landon. She’s my roommate, and I don’t want her hanging around you. She’s not good for you. And I’m not going to let her attach herself to you.”

  She pauses a beat, then adds, “I refuse to let that happen.”

  I don’t know what’s worse: the tone of her voice or the jealousy and possessiveness that thread through her words, but my skin prickles and adrenaline builds in my chest.

  “Okay, first of all, I had no idea you two were roommates—so I’m still processing that. And second, you don’t get to decide who’s good for me, Dakota,” I say.

  She blanches like I’ve smacked her across her face.

  “So you actually do like her!” Dakota’s mouth twists into a grimace as she hurls these words at me.

  I’m getting angrier at her by the second and I can feel the tension between us building with every rise and fall of her chest.

  “No. Well, I don’t know what I feel about her, honestly.” My answer sounds like
I’m avoiding the truth, but I truly don’t know.

  I’ve always been honest with Dakota, save for those rare moments when the truth was better left unsaid.

  What I do know is that Dakota doesn’t get to be the one who decides who gets to “attach herself” to me.

  Dakota walks across the kitchen to me, her glittery tutu swaying with every step. “Well, try to figure it out, because I don’t want you to be confused about how you feel about me either.” She rolls her eyes.

  I recognize this tone, this guardedness.

  “Cut it out. Turn it on,” I tell her.

  She knows exactly what I mean.

  Dakota is good at turning her emotions off and completely detaching herself from any danger of pain, and throughout the years I’ve been good at reminding her to turn them on and lower the guard. Only when it’s safe to do so, though . . . I’ve always wanted to keep her safe.

  She sighs in defeat. “I’ve been thinking about you so much lately.”

  “What about me?” I ask her.

  Dakota swallows and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “Just that I love you, Landon.”

  She says the words so casually, as if they wouldn’t unwind something inside of me, a knot pulled so tight, stuck underneath my rib cage, waiting for her to untie it, to ease the pain.

  I haven’t heard those words from her mouth since before I moved to New York. Those three words used to be as natural-sounding to my ears as hearing my own name . . . but not anymore.

  Now they cut at me, lashing at the progress I’ve made in recovering from the pain and the loneliness that came with her leaving me.

  These three words threaten to break the already fragile fort I’ve been working on constructing since she decided she didn’t want me.

  These three words are much more significant to me than she can even fathom, and I feel like my heart is going to rip angrily from my chest at any moment.

  I wasn’t expecting a declaration of love. I was prepared for her to throw angry words at me, not this.

  I don’t know which would have hurt worse, to be honest.

  “I do, Landon.” Dakota’s voice cuts through my silence, and I close my eyes. “I’ve loved you ever since I can remember, and I’m sorry that I keep causing trouble in your life. I hurt you, I know I did, and I’m so sorry—”

  Her voice breaks at the end and her eyes gloss with tears. She’s standing closer now, close enough for me to hear her breathing. “I was selfish, I still am, and as fucked up as it is, I can’t bear to see you with anyone else. I’m not ready to share you. I remember the first time I saw you . . .”

  I open my eyes and try to catch my breath.

  I should stop her from digging up old memories, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I want to hear her say them.

  I need to hear them.

  “You were riding your bike up and down the street. I could see you from the window in my room. Carter had just gotten home from some camping trip, and one of the parents called my dad with some rumor, something about Carter trying to kiss another boy.”

  My heart sinks as her words gnaw at me. She never talks about Carter, not in this much detail, not anymore.

  “My dad came barreling down the hallway, belt in hand.” She shudders at the memory.

  I do, too.

  “Everything was so loud. I remember thinking the house was going to fall down if he didn’t stop.”

  Dakota is staring past me. She’s no longer in New York, she’s back in Saginaw. And I’m there with her.

  “You were riding your bike in the street and your mom was out there with you, taking pictures . . . or videos maybe, and when Carter started to scream with every lash of that leather belt, I watched you and your mom. She fell somehow, like she tripped over her own feet or something, and you ran over to her like you were the parent and she was the child. I remember wishing I could be strong, like you, and help Carter. But I knew I couldn’t.”

  Her lip begins to quiver and my chest is aching, pain shooting through me like a burning star.

  “You know how it was. How bad it was when I tried to help.”

  I did know. I witnessed her father’s abuse of Carter a few times. My mom called the cops twice before we learned that the system was flawed, so very flawed, and much more complicated than two kids could imagine.

  My feet shuffle and bring me closer to Dakota without my mind’s permission. She holds up a small hand and I stop in my tracks.

  “Just listen, don’t try to fix anything,” she urges.

  I do everything I can to abide by her wishes. I stare at the green numbers on the stove and tuck my hands behind my back. It’s almost nine, the day having flown by without me.

  I continue to focus on the numbers as she goes on.

  “I remember the first time you talked to me, the first time you told me you loved me. Do you remember the first time you told me you loved me?”

  I do remember . . . how could I possibly forgot that day?

  Dakota had run away; Carter told me she had been missing for hours. Her dad, drunk and seemingly unfazed that his fifteen-year-old daughter was nowhere to be found, sat in his stained recliner, a cold beer can sweating in his hand. His stomach had grown fuller—all the liquor and beer had to go somewhere. His face hadn’t been shaved in weeks, the hair on his chin was unruly, growing thick and rough in patches on his face.

  I couldn’t get a response from him, I couldn’t even get him to glance away from the damn television screen. I remember he was watching CSI, and the small living room was full of smoke and cluttered with junk. Empty beer cans covered the table and unread magazines were piled on the floor.

  “Where is she?” I asked him for the fifth time.

  My voice was so loud that I was scared he was going to react and hit me like he did his son.

  He didn’t, though; he just sat there lazily staring at the screen, and I gave up quickly, knowing he was too intoxicated to do anything useful.

  He moved and I jumped back a little, my fear soothed when he reached for his pack of Basic cigarettes. When he grabbed the ashtray, cigarette butts and ashes fell onto the brown carpet. He didn’t seem to notice, just the way he didn’t seem to notice me standing there, asking where his only daughter was.

  I got on my bike and rode around the neighborhood, stopping everyone who passed. I began to panic after Buddy, one of the drunks who lived by the woods, said he saw her run into the woods. We called the rows of trees and trash the Patch, and it was full of people whose lives were empty. Drugs and liquor was all they had and they littered the woods with it.

  The Patch wasn’t safe, and she wasn’t safe in it.

  I dropped my bike at the edge of the spruce trees and ran into the darkness like my life depended on it. In a way, it did.

  I ignored the drunken voices and the ache of my muscles as I ran toward the center. The Patch wasn’t very big. You could run from one side to the other in about five minutes. I found her near the middle, alone, unharmed, her back against a tree.

  When I found her, my lungs burned and I could barely breathe, but she was safe, and that’s all that mattered. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground of the woods, dirt and sticks and leaves surrounding her, and at the sight of her, I had never been more relieved in my life.

  She looked up at me and saw me standing in front of her, my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

  “Landon?” She sounded confused. “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to find you! Why are you out here? You know what this place is like!” I was shouting, which spurred her to look around, her dark eyes taking in the surroundings.

  A blanket hung on broken branches, ripped and dirty, being used as a makeshift tent. Beer bottles lay scattered on the ground; it had recently rained, and the rain hadn’t dried in some places, leaving wet trash and mud puddles all around us.

  I stood up straight and reached out my hand to her. “You shouldn’t ever, ever come out
here again. It’s not safe.”

  She seemed like she was in a trance when she ignored my hand and spoke.

  “I could kill him. You know? I would get away with it, I think.”

  My heart sank with my body and I leaned against the tree and wrapped my fingers through hers.

  “I’ve been watching a lot of crime shows, and with the way he drinks and the trouble he causes . . . I could get away with it. I could take whatever money the house is worth and get out of this shitty town. Me, you, Carter. We can go, Landon. We can.”

  Her voice was full of a painful urgency and it killed me to realize she was borderline-serious about this plan.

  “No one would miss him . . .”

  A small part of me wished I could go along with it, to ease her pain, even for a few moments, but I knew if I did, reality would sink in for both of us sooner or later anyway, and life would be harder than it already was.

  I decided to distract her instead of outright telling her that of course she couldn’t murder somebody. But she did need to get away from here, even if only by distraction.

  “Where would we go?” I asked, knowing how much she loved to daydream.

  “We could go to New York City. I could dance there and you could teach. We would be far away from here, but still have the snow.”

  Throughout our adolescence, each time I asked Dakota this question, she always had a different answer. Sometimes she would even suggest that we leave the country. Of all the cities in the world, Paris was her favorite; she had fantasies of dancing at the famous opera house there. But living in Saginaw was reality and anywhere else just a silly dream.

  “We could live in a high-rise above the city even. Anywhere but here, Landon, anywhere but here.” Her voice was distant, as if she was already living in a place far, far away.

  When I looked over at her, her eyes were closed. She had a streak of dirt on her cheek and her knee was scuffed up. She must have fallen, I thought to myself.

  “I would go anywhere with you. You know that, don’t you?” I asked her.

  She opened her eyes and the corner of her lips turned into a smile. “Anywhere?” she asked.