Page 124 of No Greater Oblivion

The kitchen is submerged in near total darkness, save the light above the stove. My hand skates the wall in search of the light switch and when I find it, I wait a few seconds before flipping it on. Sitting on a stool at the kitchen island is Dahlia, nurturing a half-finished glass of liquor and a plate of gingerbread men whose heads have been bitten off.

“I gave you as much space as I could. They’re starting to ask for you.”

“Tell them I drowned myself in the sink.”

“No one would believe that. You just got your hair dyed.”

The huff of laughter that leaves her lips surprises me but it’s short-lived. One of the smaller photo albums rests on the counter beside her and judging by the now depleted rum bottle tossed in the recycling bin, I take it she’s had a little too much to drink. Considering Dahlia has never so much as finished a bottle of wine by herself, the sight of her sitting alone in a dark kitchen makes my stomach twist with unease. I walk over and remove the cup from her grasp and she doesn’t object.

A beat passes before she finds her voice again. “My father was supposed to be an architect. Did I ever tell you that?”

I slide a hand behind her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as she leans forward. I brush my lips against her temple. “No. You don’t talk about him much.”

“No…I suppose I don’t.” The album is open to an old sepia photo whose yellowed edges betray its age. “Remember the book I told you about, the one that made me want to be an architect? It was his. He gave it to me for show and tell at school because he knew the textbooks in religion class were my favorite. They were the ones with all the cathedrals and ancient buildings in them.”

She sighs as she flips through the photo album and eventually slams it shut. Dahlia rises from the stool as if to stand but loses her footing on the way down. I catch her just in time but the chair tilts over, its fall impeded by a decorative side table tucked into the corner.

“Alex—”

“You’re okay, I got you.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need help. I don’t need anyone’s.”

Her words lack vehemence but they sting nonetheless. I feel her push against my chest and I release her, unsure of whether or not holding on would do more harm than good. Dahlia’s never been inebriated before, at least not in my presence. I can sense her awareness because her vision is focused when she looks at something and she’s able to lean against the counter for support. But there’s something else weighing on her, something intangible and without name.

“I want to be left alone,” she whispers.

“I don’t think you should be.”

She tilts her head at me. Her gaze travels the length of my body, studying me from head to toe, the look chilling me to the bone. “When are you going to break my heart…hm? I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“I’m not. I won’t.”

“Yes you will. They always do.” She relieves me of the burden of her gaze and returns her attention to the album on the counter. “My life is littered with disappointments. I don’t see why you’d be any different.”

“Dahlia—”

“Please go. I’m upset and I drank too much. I’ll be fine in a little while.”

She grabs the album and a sweater from a hook near the patio door. She disappears into the night and this time, I don’t follow.

Dahlia doesn’t speak for the rest of the night or on the drive back into the city. She took the album with her.

When we get back to the hotel, Diego and Lettie disappear into their rooms, and Dahlia pretends to go to sleep. About an hour later, she crawls out of bed and slips into a robe, taking the album with her.

Time passes. Two hours, three, then four. Evening gives way to midnight and midnight to the early hours of the morning. Staring at the ceiling has lost its appeal so I get out of bed and shower, hoping to wash away both the exhaustion and the ache in my bones. Steam fills the room and I extend my open palms, healed and scarred and burning under the scorching water. All my muscles and tendons work and it no longer hurts to close and extend my fingers. I could easily forget the injury if not for the raised skin and discoloration.

Another hour passes and I decide to go looking for Dahlia. I grab my room key and think of all the places she can be—down at the bar, in the lobby, maybe one of the hotel’s sitting rooms—when I find her in the living room seated at the windowsill with her head resting against the glass. She has the album balanced on her knees and her arms crossed over her chest.

I sit on the other end of the windowsill and neither of us speaks. Her nose and eyes are red, cheeks marred with deep lines, a memory of every tear shed tonight.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Okay…so long as you know I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”