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a drunk Dakota in my bed and Nora in my living room probably listening to every embarrassing word Dakota and I say in here. The hallway is short and the walls are thin.
Even worse, I feel guilty for leaving her at the lounge. I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve known Dakota half of my life. I’ve already gone through those terrible early stages of love with her. Together we made it through the awkward adolescent sex stage, where you can’t find where to put it and come almost instantly when you do. We worked out most of our kinks and already know each other’s backstory. We have no secrets, tell no lies. We’ve shared tragedy. I’ve already confessed my love for Dakota, and to start again would be daunting. Especially if she really has missed me as much as she says.
Just as I think Dakota is asleep, she jerks her hand from mine and brings it to her face. That’s when I notice the sounds of crying.
I sit up. My hands gently shake her shoulders and I ask her over and over what’s wrong. She shakes her head and catches her breath. I wait to turn on the light, knowing that the truth is easiest told in the dark.
“I . . .” she cries, “I slept with two people.”
Her words slice through me like her cries slice through the darkness, and as if I’ve been burned, I suddenly don’t want to be near her.
My instinct is to run. To get far, far away.
My stomach aches and she cries again, trying to cover her mouth. She reaches for a pillow and presses it to her face to keep herself quiet. Regardless of my pain, I can’t stand to see her like this. And so I do what I always do. I put my feelings on hold. I pack the anger down. I tell my desire to run off without me. I reach for the pillow and remove it from her face. I toss it to the floor and lift her into my arms and lay us both down, an intertwined pair.
“I’m so sorry,” she chokes.
Her cheeks are soaked with tears and I thumb at them, catching them before they roll down her face. Her shoulders are shaking, and I can feel her pain, or guilt maybe, or our lost history, and it’s throbbing inside of me, too. I gently push at her shoulders to keep her still and raise my hand to her forehead. I brush back her hair and gently caress the strands, rubbing her scalp.
“Shhh,” I say.
“Today is over,” I say.
“We’ll deal with this tomorrow,” I say. “Get some rest.”
I continue to massage her head until she falls asleep.
If she wants to work this out, I’m willing to listen to her. There has to be some explanation that makes sense, and now that she’s told me the truth, she’s going to be okay with telling me what happened. As soon as she wakes up, she will explain everything.
Except she didn’t.
When she woke up, she snuck out of my apartment without a word.
