Page 33 of Severance

“Thursday can’t come soon enough,” he utters and then kisses me again, his tongue slipping into my mouth and finding mine. His strokes are slow and gentle and it makes my stomach tingle with pleasure. I don’t believe I’ve experienced anything this carnally delicate before.

Our lips and tongues explore each other leisurely for a very long time and I enjoy every second of it—every lick, every moan, every pull. I’m not ready for it to end when Dakota finally breaks us apart, but we’re both out of breath and it’s late.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says, his fingers moving into my hair, pushing some of it away from my flushed face.

“Okay.” My eyes can’t get enough of him. The fact that I won’t see him for six days is driving me nuts. “Thank you for the movie and the milkshake.” Now I’m blabbering.

“Anytime.”

I step out of the car and rush to the front door, my heart hammering. The purr of the engine behind me tempts me to look back at Dakota one last time. So once I’m on the porch, I spin around and wave at him like crazy. He’s behind the wheel with the passenger window down, and although the space between us is filled with millions of twirling snowflakes, I can still see him smiling. And the things that smile does to me are insane.

12. After

My heart thrashes wildly as I try to absorb my surroundings. The street’s full of guys sporting their lightweight jackets and girls showing off their spring wardrobes. The snow has melted and the sunny, warm weather has taken control of the city. I’m occupying a small table on the patio right next to the trash can, which is considered the worst place to sit, but there was no other spot available when I arrived, except for a booth inside.

My mother insisted on me taking another week off from college, so I missed more tests and deadlines. And while a portion of me feels guilty, the rest of me has already given up on this semester. The truth is, I’m probably going to keep attending classes merely to have an excuse to get out of the house, because being around my parents has become dreadful.

In front of me on the table is a blank notebook that’s supposed to be my diary. My therapist suggested it a couple of sessions ago as a way to “deal with my repressed emotions,” but I haven’t been able to formulate a single thought worth writing down. Most of the time, it’s just one word.Dakota.

And I don’t want his name next to bad things I’m trying to get rid of that are bound to eventually spill out of me, so I never write it down. I just let it stay in my head because that’s where he belongs. With me. Not on paper.

Jess is already thirty minutes late, and her excuse is that Luke’s doctor’s appointment is running behind schedule, which has me wondering if I should just text her and tell her not to come. Glancing at my phone for the tenth time, I flip through the recent messages and pause when my finger reaches Mikah’s name. We haven’t spoken in over a week and I feel like he’s deliberately avoiding me. My message with an offer to help him move still reads “delivered.”

Jess shows up when I’m in the middle of a heated debate with myself over whether or not texting Mikah again is a good idea. I can’t understand my need to hear back from him. It’s not like we were ever the best of friends. Sure, we shared a few moments. We had some drinks and smoked a couple of cigarettes together. That’s hardly any sort of relationship, but there’s this restless part of me that wants to know he’s okay, that he’s eating and sleeping. Because he’s the only living thing that still somehow connects me to Dakota and I worry about him. Being in the dark and not getting responses frustrates me.

It takes Jess some maneuvering to get to our table. “You look really good,” she says, glancing around, probably in search of a better spot.

“You too,” I say, studying her new hair. She’s cut it short and dyed it a wild shade of red, which makes her look like a flaming torch dipped in glitter. It’s a nice change. Bold and radical. Something I could probably use right now, but I’m too chicken.

After a few seconds of examining the crowd and glancing through the window into the coffee shop, Jess settles on the bench across from me. She places her oversized Gucci bag on the table next to my empty notebook and asks, “How are you doing?”

That’s not the question I was expecting from her. And the tone she uses makes it sound more like a manufactured phrase similar to the one you hear when you call technical support and they have no idea how to help you.We understand your frustration.No, they don’t. Just like Jess probably isn’t prepared to hear how I’mreallydoing.

“Your hair is great,” I say.

“Luke loves it.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Anxiety courses through me like an electromagnetic wave. “You can rock anything.” I try to shake off the impending dread of this lunch business going sour.

“Thanks.”

There’s a long pause. I can’t think of anything else to talk about, and it’s weird because we used to talk for hours. There’s something in her gaze that wasn’t there before. Anger maybe. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s not just the hair. She’s different. Everything I loved about my friend has faded, giving way to a new version of Jess.

I choke back my concern and choose to disregard the obvious change. “How’s Luke?”

“He has another surgery next week.”

“What are the doctor’s saying?”

I’m not entirely sure I want to know. The rumors are that Luke might not be able to play drums again because of his spinal cord injuries, but it’s the polite thing to ask. Or at least I think it is. Especially when your best friend is dating the guy.

“We’ll see after the surgery.” Jess gives me a small smile, then changes the subject. “Did you order already?”

“Not yet. Do you know what you want?”

“Not really. To be honest with you, I ate a couple of hours ago.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. Actually, I’m not sure anymore why she wanted to meet for lunch. It was her idea, not mine. And I wasn’t the one who was very unfashionably late. It almost feels like she’s just trying to squeeze me in.

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