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Chapter Thirty-four
THE ROOM IS QUIET. Dakota is asleep, and my laptop burns bright through the dark hotel room. Today we signed the paperwork to cremate Dale’s body. Dakota didn’t want a funeral, and I didn’t blame her.
It’s four in the morning. I check my phone again. Nothing from Nora.
I should have known that she was making her mind up to walk away from me. I should have been able to tell by the slow movements of her hips and the soft kisses to my forehead as I finished inside her. I miss her body, her laugh. It feels like months, not days, since I said goodbye to her.
I pull up Facebook again. I know this isn’t healthy and that I won’t find anything new this time, but I type in her sister’s name again. I scroll to the beach picture, where Nora looks like the sun in her yellow suit and the man next to her is holding on to her waist. If he were able, would he choose her?
I’m able, but am I capable of choosing her?
Why does everything come down to a choice, this or that? What if I want it all? What if I want to spend my days holding her and my nights loving her? I look over at Dakota. Does she think about me the way I think about Nora?
Is it fair of me to think about Nora while Dakota is grieving and I’m supposed to be here for her?
I look back at the screen and put the cursor over Nora’s face. A name pops up. Her name. I click on it and it takes me to a profile that I didn’t see before. She must have had it hidden from me. I don’t know if it makes me happy or sad to know that she doesn’t feel the need to hide from me anymore.
She doesn’t have a lot of posts here, mostly just random horoscope posts and people tagging her in random chain things and recipes.
“She has an Instagram.”
Dakota’s voice makes me jump. “Huh?” My cheeks are hot with embarrassment and guilt.
“She has an Instagram page.” Dakota shuffles in the dark and, after a few seconds, hands me her cell phone over the space between our two beds. The screen is full of little square pictures. It’s a profile. Nora’s name is in the corner with an X next to it.
I look up at Dakota, but she rolls back over. She’s either wanting to give me privacy or she’s hurt that I’m doing this in front of her. I turn the TV on, on mute, so it maybe appears like I’m doing something else as I scroll through the images.
Food, and lots of it, fills the screen. Beautiful pastel macaroons and sprinkled cookies galore. A picture of a cake with purple flowers makes my chest throb. The next picture is Nora and Tessa, a dollop of pink icing on each of their noses and their arms wrapped around each other’s back. Tessa’s arm is outstretched as she takes the picture, and I laugh at the idea of my best friend, who is so behind on technology, trying to take a selfie with any kind of grace. I scroll on.
My face is there, more than once. There’s a picture of us in front of Juliette and another of my scrunched expression as I try to read the menu. There are candids of me in my kitchen, even one of me with Hardin, captioned Light & Dark. Hardin’s dark clothing and bowed head contrast with my appearance; we walk side by side, my face turned toward him with a goofy smile plastered across it. It’s strange to look at, but the picture itself is actually really, really cool. They all are. Each caption is abstract and poetic. Sometimes they’re as simple as just a hashtag symbol with no letters, and other pictures have longer captions, such as a paragraph about the beauty of seeing a child laugh for the first time. There’s a picture of Nora with lighter hair and darker makeup sitting in a tight dress that looks like it’s been painted onto her skin, specifically designed for the full curves of her voluptuous body. In front of her sits a cocktail, and she’s holding a little piece of paper up to her painted lips. It reads: I see light coming toward me and I’ll do my best to keep you on.
There are pictures of her sister, round with a pregnant belly, and others of her before the belly, looking beautiful and regal with full makeup. I see my face a few more times, and my heart rattles inside me; I feel both baffled and remorseful at the same time. I miss her, but I’m angry at
