Page 63 of Severance

We settle on the couch in the living room, our bodies close but not touching. It’s weird being next to him and doing something so normal, although the images on the screen soon turn into colorful blobs and the noises around me become muffled.

My eyes close and my brain shuts down. My head dropping onto his shoulder is the last thing I remember before falling asleep.

18. Before

My phone pings in my pocket when I’m pouring a bowl of soup for the woman on the opposite side of the catering table. She’s small and wears an old, tattered coat that has so many holes it would hardly protect from the cold anymore. A twisted expression on her cracked lips vaguely resembles a smile, but her eyes are vacant, void of all emotion.

Whenever my parents brought me along to help with their volunteer work when I was a child, I asked myself several questions quite often. Why do some people choose to live under a bridge and starve to death? What makes them stop trying? Why do they give up on life? Life is a precious gift we only get to live once. There are no rewind and erase buttons. There’s just play.

When I was fourteen, I witnessed a homeless man stab himself in the chest with a fork at one of the volunteer functions my parents had helped organize.

I stopped asking myself those questions on that day.

The same way I recently stopped asking myself why my father believes some guy with a cross who we’ve never seen is going to give him a permanent spot in Paradise in exchange for following some absurd rules from an ancient book that hasn’t been edited or revised in over two thousand years.

My mother’s standing next to me, fumbling with the dishes and talking to one of her friends from church. The hum of the dining room drowns out their hushed voices and I can only hear bits and pieces of the conversation. Not that it matters. I find it odd that they choose to discuss which nail salon offers a better pedicure while serving the homeless. It seems somewhat inappropriate in front of the people who can’t afford basic things like food or clothes.

The air inside is stale, and the unmistakable stench of body odor mixed with the smell of mashed potatoes and beans makes my stomach queasy. There’s a small Christmas tree set up in the corner near the entrance, and long strings of Christmas lights and ornaments are hanging from the ceiling. This place has a weird vibe. It’s like a glass jar filled with water and oil that’s forced together—a sight that’s disturbingly striking.

I hand the bowl to the woman and smile at her since that’s what I’ve been taught all my life. To smile at the less fortunate because even a minor gesture makes a difference.

The woman grabs the bowl and gives me a curt nod instead of a thank you, which is pretty common. Some of these people have lost the ability to express their gratitude in the same way most of us do.

As soon as she steps aside, I retrieve my phone from my pocket and skim through the messages Jess has been bombarding me with all day. She and her family are spending the holidays at some fancy ski resort in Colorado.

Truth be told, it’s not her texts I’ve been wanting to read, though. It’s Dakota’s since we’ve only seen each other twice over the course of the last two weeks. The first time was when he showed up on campus, unannounced, after my English final with flowers and a cake, which I’m sure was all Jess’s doing. The second was the day before Midnight Rust got flown to San Francisco for a last-minute private gig their new manager set the band up with.

That night, we went to Patty’s to grab some hot dogs and milkshakes and Dakota picked me up and dropped me off at home instead of Jess’s. I expected my parents to question me about it, but they were out until very late and didn’t see me coming and going in a strange and, as my dad would say, “devious-looking” car.

I’m still flipping through the countless photos of mountains Jess has sent me when a faint shuffling off to the side lets me know someone is near. I lift my gaze and evaluate the young man standing on the other side of the table. He moves closer when he sees me looking. The hood of his sweatshirt is pulled up and hangs low on his forehead, hiding his face. His hands are shoved into the pockets of worn-out jeans that look to be at least five sizes too big, and I wonder whether this is all the weight he’s lost since he became homeless or if these clothes even belong to him.

Hiding my phone away, I smile at him.

“Hey, Moonchild,” he rasps, pushing the hood off his face slightly.

My heart jumps into my throat. “Dakota?” I whisper, looking over my shoulder. Thankfully, my mother isn’t around. “Are you crazy? My parents are here.” God forbid my father sees us talking.

“I know. I’m sorry, but I had to give you your Christmas present.” A teasing smirk tilts the corner of his mouth.

“I thought you were at Blaze’s party.”

“I’ll go check it out later.” He rocks back on his heels, his gaze holding mine. “Meet me behind the building in ten minutes?”

“Okay. Sure.” Sudden heat spreads through me like a raging wildfire. My cheeks burn at the mere idea of sneaking out to see my boyfriend right under my parents’ noses. I despise it yet love it so much, it’s almost disturbing. As much as I want to keep Dakota a secret to shield him from the inevitable family drama, I desperately want my father and mother to accept him for all that he is, for all the stained-with-dark beauty he carries inside him.

“Are the mashed potatoes any good?” Dakota asks, glancing at the table.

“Are you hungry? I’ll bring you a serving,” I say quietly. “Just go before you get me in trouble. Okay?”

“See you in ten minutes, Moonchild,” he mouths at me, pulling his face back under the hood. His eyes dart impatiently from me to the empty space between us as if he’s wondering what it’s going to take for him to erase the distance.

I hurry to make him a plate before my mother returns, and then I leave through the kitchen.

Outside, the air is crisp and fresh, and my lungs are desperate for a much-needed cleanse. The sky’s heavy with clouds that threaten to unleash yet another snowfall. Come to think of it, Portland hasn’t seen a winter with this much attitude in a while.

“Hey.” Dakota’s soft voice drifts from around the corner. He’s waiting for me in the alley. The bottoms of his jeans are buried in the snow beneath his boots.

I rush over to him with a plate full of food, my coat undone and my knitted pom pom beanie forgotten inside.

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