Page 104 of Worthy

Becoming Light

Riley Nash

Chapter one

Dakota

“Dad, meet my roommate, Dakota. She’s majoring in elementary education. Dakota, this is my deadbeat, absentee dad. He doesn’t even remember my name.” My best friend, Mallory, nudges me further into the upscale condo decorated with leather furniture and huge abstract paintings.

The man who just opened the door and ushered us into his home rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Nice to see you too.” It’s too dimly lit for me to make out many details besides curly, brown hair, a stubbled jaw, and a cashmere sweater with perfectly fitted jeans. Mallory didn’t warn me that her father was an absolute DILF. He raises one hand in a vague wave. “Welcome. Don’t mind me; I’ll be working upstairs.” Like an afterthought, he steps closer and pulls his daughter into a quick hug, pecking her on the cheek. “Love you.”

“You too, Dad. Don’t worry, Dakota knows I’m kidding.” My spunky, blonde friend grins at me. She was the result of a drunk one-night stand between two high school seniors, and it’s true that her father gave up custody so that her mother could move across the state and raise her alone because that’s what they agreed was best. He’s far from a deadbeat, though—he’d do anything for her, and he comes to all her birthdays and graduations. He also pays for her sports, trips, and college tuition. It’s hard not to be jealous of having a hot dad who funds your dreams and supports you unquestioningly, when your own dad can’t even get the last part right.

I’ve never met him before; every school break, Mallory and I visit her mom’s cozy bungalow in Spokane, where she grew up. We’re only invading her dad’s place tonight because he lives a few miles from the University of Washington campus. The school kicked us out overnight with no warning while our dorm has a plumbing catastrophe repaired.

Mallory’s dad steps back and puts his hand on the banister, like he can’t wait to escape upstairs. “Goodnight, girls. Make yourselves at home.”

Just like every time, the wordgirlsstabs me in the gut, leaving me breathless and queasy. He has no idea how much it hurts to be reminded that when someone looks at me, they only see an awkward woman in an oversized hoodie to hide my figure and the horrible Karen haircut the salon gave me when I asked for a masculine style. His intense hazel eyes catch mine for a second as he turns to climb the polished teak wood stairs, but I drop my gaze to my sneakers as tears burn in my throat. I’m so pathetic.

Not noticing my sudden change in mood, Mal gives me a whirlwind tour of the living room, kitchen, and back deck, then drags me to the second floor guest rooms. This whole place is so clean and minimal it’s hard to believe someone actually lives here. The stairs continue up to her father’s work space on the third floor, but we camp out for our impromptu sleepover in one of the spare beds, with a pile of snacks and beer from his kitchen and a laptop for streaming movies. I can hear him walking around occasionally over our heads, and I wonder what he’s doing.

“Dad’s an architect,” Mallory explains, snuggling closer and nodding toward the ceiling. “He and his best friend own their own firm. They must be amazing, because his office is covered in awards.”

“He’s very—” I cut myself off and focus on the steaming bag of popcorn in my lap.

Mallory just giggles. “Very sexy? Everyone says so. Women hang all over him, even though he’s gay. He’s never publicly dated someone, but rumors are that he’s banging his business partner.”

“Aaand I don’t need to know any more about your dad’s sex life,” I deflect, scrambling out of bed and heading for the attached bath. “I’ll be right back. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Instead of using the toilet, I lean against the wall and meet my wide dark brown eyes in the mirror. Sometimes I can find my true self in the pale, heavily-freckled skin and tousle of ginger hair. Other days, I only see the body I’m trapped in.

Tonight, I see a terrified nineteen-year-old kid who doesn’t know how to tell my best friend the truth. I thought this sleepover would be the perfect chance, the one time Mallory’s not busy with her nursing degree. But when I imagine saying the words I can’t take back, the fear of losing her love leaves me completely paralyzed. “Come on,” I whisper at my reflection, my voice shaking.

My phone buzzes, making me jump guiltily even though I haven’t done anything wrong. When I pull it out, my stomach lurches and the room starts to spin. My mother just commented on a photo of Mallory and I on a night out last weekend with my new haircut, a button-down, and slacks. I know she’ll have an opinion.

My numb fingers tremble as I tap the notification, then I almost drop the phone when I see the photo she posted in her comment—me at junior prom, with waist-length hair and a blue gown. I wanted to die that night. My lip quivers as I scroll down so I don’t have to look at it anymore.You should grow out your hair again,she wrote underneath.This is my favorite photo of you—so pretty.Forty people have liked the comment, including Mallory. I know she means well; she doesn’t know any better. But it hurts so much.

Biting my lip hard, I slide down the wall and put my head in my arms for what feels like an hour. “Dakota!” Mallory hollers eventually. The word drips down my spine like cold water. My name is as familiar as my skin, my body, but all of them feel wrong now. “You alive in there?”

Holding back tears, I splash cold water on my face and prance back into the bedroom with a forced grin. “Let’s watchSpirited Awayfirst.”

“Didn’t you want to talk about something?”

Before she can stop me, I snatch the laptop away and hitplay. “No, I was just goofing around.”

By the end of the movie, Mallory’s a snoring pile of blankets. I sit propped up on the pillow next to her, staring at the shadows the lamp casts on the far wall and listening to rain beating endlessly against the window. Everything’s closing in on me—the walls, Mallory’s breathing, the humid air, the tight ache of a heart that doesn’t belong in my chest.

Desperate for fresh air, I pull on my hoodie and tiptoe down the dark stairs. The liquor cabinet Mallory raided earlier provides me with a full bottle of vodka, which I hug to my chest as I approach the huge glass door that leads out onto the deck. When Mal showed me around earlier, it offered a distant view of Lake Washington that must cost a fortune. Now it’s no different from any cheap patio in the suburbs—darkness, puddles, and dripping patio furniture.

I hold my breath and ease open the door as silently as I can, then slip out and shut it behind me. My drenched feet slap the wood planks as I pick the nearest canvas chair and collapse into it, trying to keep the open bottle dry with my body. I thought my hoodie would hold the rain off, but it soaks through in seconds.

When I swig the vodka to warm myself up, I double over coughing and retching. I don’t know what I thought would happen—unlike the movies, depression and self-loathing don’t magically grant me the ability to chug alcohol like a pro. Setting the vodka under the chair to keep it from getting wet, I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them.

I’ve been holding back tears for months, but what finally breaks me is the sight of the ginger hair dusted along my unshaved legs, my one small moment of masculine euphoria that no one noticed or cared about. I start sobbing so hard my stomach aches and I can’t pull in a proper breath.

The yellow glow of an outdoor lamp suddenly illuminates the night, and I jerk my head up, forcing a strained smile so Mallory won’t notice me crying. But it’s not Mallory. Her dad steps out into the downpour, water darkening his cream sweater and turning his soft curls into a damp tangle. I stare in confusion as he pushes the door shut behind him and crosses the deck to stand in front of me. My cheeks are drenched with tears and rain, and I have no idea if he can tell the difference.

He frowns at the vodka bottle I stole from him, then at my huddled form. “What are you doing out here, Dakota?”

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