Bottom Feeder Page 16

  I feel the same way about dancing. It’s such a breath of fresh air to know I’m not the only one who feels this way.

  “Maybe it’s a stupid question, but how are you able to go to school in the army?”

  “The military pays for everything. I go to Campbell University. Most classes are on Fort Bragg, though.”

  “Do you have a major?” I just can’t believe how easy it is to talk to him. These few days tucked away in a hotel room have done some good.

  “Information Technology and Security.”

  “Like FBI and CIA-type stuff?”

  “Kinda. I’m making the army my career. I am getting my degree to eventually become an officer.”

  Dom continues talking. I hang on his every word while packing my suitcases. I leave out the dress and shoes for tonight.

  “You have a date?” Dom inquires, mid-explanation of his Kiowa heritage.

  “Sort of,” I smile to myself. Maybe it was a sad smile.

  He tilts his head, confused. “How do you ‘sort of’ have a date?”

  Back home I never cared about going anywhere alone. But admitting to a stranger—who happens to be hotter than the Georgia asphalt in the middle of July—that I’m going on a date with myself seems pathetic.

  I avoid the question. “Are there any good restaurants here?”

  “The chain restaurants are on Skibo, but the nicer places are downtown.”

  “Thanks.” Downtown, it is.

  “You have a really nice smile,” he grins.

  “Er, th—thanks . . .” I bite the inside of my cheek.

  Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Do. Not. Blush.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I straighten my shoulders. “Yes, I have a date.”

  “With Monroe?” I do not imagine the furrow of his brow.

  “No,” I sigh, defeated. “With myself.”

  “With yourself?”

  “You can take those bags.” I point to the stack of luggage. “Jackson can leave them in the trunk.”

  “Do you go on dates with yourself often?” My goodness, he’s persistent.

  “And this one.” I place a canvas tote on the stack.

  Dom begins stacking the luggage. “Are you avoiding my question?”

  “Yes.”

  Before tossing the two duffel bags over his shoulders, he places the maroon beret on his head.

  I cross the room to open the door. “Let me help.”

  He flashes his radiant smile. “S’okay, I’ve got it.”

  “At least let me get the car open for you,” I insist.

  “The key is in my right pocket,” he says when we approach a candy red, two-door Tiburon.

  Instead of keys, I find his leg. His rock-like, muscular—

  Dom clears his throat. My hand might have been on his leg a little too long. I mutter a quick apology and locate the keys.

  I admire him appreciatively as he arranges my luggage in the tiny car. His raven hair tints dark blue when the light grazes his head. The uniform covers everything else, but if the muscle tone in his leg is any indication what the rest of his body—

  “So,” he says, slamming the trunk closed, his lips curling up at the corners. “What is the occasion that calls for a date with yourself? Anniversary? Birthday? Or a random celebration of you?”

  I roll my eyes, but can’t help giggling. A giggle? I don’t giggle. “Birthday.”

  “Today’s your birthday?” he asks with enthusiasm. I nod. “Happy Birthday!” he exclaims with a beautiful smile.

  “Thank you.” I kick an invisible rock. “It was nice meeting you, Dom.”

  “Wait,” he says as I walk back to the room. “Can I celebrate with you?”

  “Huh?” I ask moronically. His mahogany eyes bore into mine.

  “I’d like to celebrate your birthday, too. Would that be okay?”

  “Um. Okay?”

  “Great,” he beams. “I’ll pick you up at seven.” His face twists into disgust. “Our Staff Sergeant makes us work late every night.”

  “Seven sounds good.”

  Wow.

  What just happened?

  Jackson

  “What is your major?” Vanessa asks. “Are you trying to be an officer? They make a lot of money.”

  “Information Technology and Security,” I answer. I chose this major to coincide with my job. Dominguez and Beraz did, too. They are in their second session. My first session begins next week. A classroom environment that doesn’t involve explosives is going to be an odd change of scenery.

  “I’m doing pre-law,” she says. I nod because this is the thirty-eighth time she’s told me. Next, she will tell me how much mon—

  “And I’m going to be making a lot of money.” I nod again, helping her out of the BMW. “Six figures, at least.”

  Vanessa likes to see and be seen in places with lots of people. By people, I mean soldiers. Which is why she asked to eat dinner at a popular sports bar, The Big Peach. I order shots of Patron—underage be damned—and a burger. I glance around the bar while she talks about herself and her friends.

  More people file in. This is my third night in a row inside a busy restaurant or club. Self-therapy isn't exactly working out. The wall of people feels like it is pushing against every cell of my body.

  “What do you think about that, JB?” Vanessa asks over the growing crowd. I haven’t heard a word for the past twenty minutes.

  I play it smoothly, turning the attention on her. “What has been the worst part of your day?”

  She smiles. Once she begins talking about a pedicure that involves fish eating dead skin off her feet, I zone out. The key is to make grunting noises every now and then to show I’m paying attention. The talking stops. I nod once more.

  “What about the best part of your day?”

  Something about her upcoming semester at Duke. Or something. By the fourth shot of Patron, nothing is clear. The alcohol helps with numbing the senses. Especially now that I’m feeling closed-in with the crowd. I’m beginning to think tonight wasn’t such a good idea.

  “What about you? Worst part?”

  “Being away from you, of course,” I smile.

  She giggles. “And the best?”

  I lean over to whisper what the best part of my day could be.

  Maddy

  I have a date. A date!

  My anticipation feels foolish and naïve.

  I pull on a little black dress that Dixon encouraged me to buy from a vintage store in Atlanta. The deep-V of the bodice accentuates my body in all the right places. The dress is simple and I feel pretty wearing it.

  My hair is strategically curled in loose waves that fall where I want. I do this to cover the scars where the dress dips a little in the back. Instead of subtle makeup, I go with a classic smoky eye and sheer lips. Lincoln Park After Dark goes on my toes and fingers.

  After sliding into black peep-toes, I give myself a complete onceover in the full-length mirror.

  You know what? I like what I see. There is no shame in feeling this way. Not anymore.

  My phone rings at six. “I’m going out tonight,” Jackson says. “I’ve got some things to do before I pick you up and head back to the barracks.” By the girl’s voice in the background, I can only assume what he has to do.

  Let’s have a pity party, shall we?

  Much to my chagrin, I’m hurt because Jackson didn’t bother to wish me a “Happy Birthday.” This must be what Sam felt like in Sixteen Candles. Being rejected by someone you knew you never stood a chance with is like pouring salt on a wound that already has salt in it. It preserves the hurt.

  These feelings are stupid and irrational. Pathetic.

  So in closing of my pity party speech, I’d like to add that I never thought Jackson and I would be together. That’s crazy. I thought we could at least be fr—

  A light knock breaks me from my thoughts. My heart thrums as I open the door for Dom.

  He is wearing a fitted c
asual suit with faint pinstripes and a deck-gray striped shirt underneath the jacket. His gorgeously bronzed skin is a beautiful contrast to the taupe colors in the jacket.

  “Damn.” His voice is just above a whisper. Lamont had the same reaction at Emil’s party. I gnaw on my lip, waiting for him to call my bluff on trying to look cute. “You’re beautiful.”

  Oh. Well okay.

  “Thank you.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “You, sir, look very debonair.” I almost said delicious. “I almost said delicious.”

  Really, Carrington? This is how tonight’s going to play out?

  Dom laughs. “I can take that as a compliment, right?”

  “Oh, sure,” I shrug.

  “For you.” Dom hands me a picture frame. “I worked on it during downtime.”

  The main attraction on the sketch is a lonely rose sprouting from a crack in the sidewalk in front of Savannah’s Forsyth Park Fountain. Vibrant red petals are the only thing of color in the image; the rest is drawn in contrasts of black and white. The details of the fountain are immaculate, down to the robed lady holding a rod with four swans and four half-serpent, half-human tritons surrounding her. He even captured the long cattails surrounding the basin. Draped around the fountain are the massive oak trees, swathed in Spanish moss.

  “You . . . did this for me?”

  The look on his face is a mixture of embarrassment and pride. “Earlier you were saying how much you miss Savannah already. You also mentioned A Rose That Grew from Concrete is one of your favorite poems. I thought I would combine them.”

  “Thank you so much!” I exclaim, wrapping my arms around him. He hesitates for a moment before returning the hug. What can I say? I’m a hugger. “You are unbelievably talented. I can’t wait to hang it in my apartment.”

  “If I would have known I was going to get this reaction, I would have made it bigger.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “I don’t want to be creepy or anything, but I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I left. It’s weird. And slightly unnerving.”

  I fight the urge to pick the polish off my fingernails. “Can I be creepy for a minute, too?”

  He laughs. “I guess I can allow that.”

  “I like that you thought about me. You’re very easy to talk to . . . and, you know, delicious.” I laugh like my tongue’s previous deception is no big deal. “That was definitely corny.”

  “I like corny,” he responds, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

  The drive to the restaurant is filled with random conversation. I don’t normally talk so much. Being deprived of outside contact all week has me acting unlike my usual self. Or maybe it’s the independence.

  Dom didn’t seem to mind. He liked answering questions, especially about the Army, which he spoke of like the greatest thing on earth.

  “There were lots of things that factored into my decision,” he says. “But I wanted to join for service to country, not for the benefits. Although those aren’t bad.”

  “Can I ask a question without being offensive?” I inquire.

  “Sure.”

  “The military has always caught a lot of crap for fighting wars that no one really believes in. Why would you, you know, give your life for something you might not believe in?”

  “Do you believe in war?”

  “I would be naïve not to believe in something that exists. That doesn’t mean I like it. However subjective evil might be, war has become a necessary evil that is part of our everyday lives whether we like the cause or not.”

  Dom turns to me. “Wow.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Definitely a compliment,” he nods. “To answer your question, I grew up dirt poor. I don’t have money or material things or anything for that matter. So I am willing to dedicate my life because it’s all I have to give.”

  Dom parks in front of a beautiful off-white, colonial home. Tiffany bay windows anchor each side of a vermilion door.

  “Elegant, right?”

  “This is a restaurant?”

  “House of Aces. I’m told it’s a secret treasure for the locals.”

  After drooling over Dom, giving me the evil eye and a particularly haughty screw-face (also known simply as bitter: poke your lips out and twist them like a screw), the hostess ushers us to a private room.

  While waiting for the meal, I contemplate if Jackson has set this up. Maybe this is his way of getting out of his promise to spend time with me on my birthday. Maybe he thinks I will ask too many questions about his disregard for me this week. He should know by now that I don’t ask questions. I don’t call. I don’t keep him on the phone when he calls.

  So what is with him?

  I hope I’m not dishing out the old screw-face myself.

  Stop overreacting. Enjoy yourself.

  “What has been the worst part of your day?” I ask, nibbling a piece of French bread.

  “Listening to Sergeant Wotley’s high-pitched crying all day.” A grimace spreads across his face. “Then again, that’s the worst part of every day.”

  “Is he that bad?”

  “He can be a nice guy, but I don’t think his home life is happy. We stay later than everyone else, even when the work is done and everything is cleaned up. Usually we sit around until he calls a formation to tell us we can leave.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  He shrugs. “You get used to the nonsense stuff eventually. On days like today, though, I just wanted to get away from there.”

  “Days like today?” I ask, picking apart the bread.

  He looks down at his plate, sad that there is no food left. Did I mention he just consumed enough food to feed a small village? I push my plate of fried okra to the center of the table. He smiles sheepishly.

  “I wanted more time to get to know you.”

  I cannot stop the smile that spreads across my face. “What has been the best part of your day?”

  “You.”

  Dom is either a really good liar, or his answer is genuine. I believe him. I want to believe him.

  There is no awkward silence as discussions of hobbies, jobs, school, and family—

  his, not mine—finish out the rest of the meal. With much animation, I recount stories of Dixon and me, which Dom finds hilarious. Like the time I jumped off a bridge only because Laney said I would never do it. No one tells me I won’t or can’t. I will prove them wrong out of spite.

  The way I can to talk to him reminds me of Dixon—a six-five, dark-haired, Grecian statue-like version of my best friend.

  I even admit that I like to sing, just never in public.

  Much to the dismay of our hostess, Dom interlaces his fingers through mine as we walk to the car. When he is looking in the opposite direction, I turn back to the hostess and stick my tongue out. Childish, yes.

  Whatever. I will never see her again—or Dom, for that matter—after tonight.

  This is a new, bold Maddy. Or something like that.

  Dom removes his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. A tattoo that reads, Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this is inked in typewriter font on his right forearm. Homer’s The Iliad.

  My eyes shift to the left arm where a small fig tree with Choosing One Meant Losing All The Rest is written above its branches in elegant script.

  “The Bell Jar?”

  Dom glances nervously to his arm and nods.

  I am fascinated. I want to ask if he has more tattoos. I chicken out. So much for a new, bold Maddy.

  “Where to next?” he asks.

  “I thought about a movie, but there is nothing playing that I’m interested in. I haven’t really thought of anything else.”

  He taps his chin. “How about a club? You’re eighteen now.”

  “Like, a nightclub?” I hope not.

  “You dance, right?”

  “I’ve never been to a club before. I don’t really know what to expect. Or wear. Or do
.”

  He laughs. “You think too much. I’ll stay with you. Promise.”

  “Okay,” I mumble.

  Dom laughs again. “It’s a club, Maddy, not a firing squad. Do you mind if I change first?”

  “Wait. I can’t. Jackson is picking me up when he’s finished doing whatever . . .” Or whoever.

  “We’ll take the rest of your things to my room. I live a few doors down from Monroe.”

  I text Jackson to let him know the plan.

  Between shifting gears, Dom holds my hand.

  A thought occurs to me: I will kiss him.

  What if he doesn’t want to kiss you?

  Sometimes I wish the rational part of my brain would sit in the corner for a while.

  While Dom turns in the room key, I run through a quick hair/face/dress assessment. Should I change clothes? Shoes? Am I over thinking? Ugh. One crucial moment when I need Dixon’s advice and he’s on another continent.

  After passing through a Fort Bragg checkpoint and parking outside an apartment-like building, Dom signs me in at a desk manned by two bored-looking soldiers. They grumble about not being able to play Xbox on duty anymore and stretching out a rope of profanities about army stuff that makes no sense to me.

  Let’s just say infinite acronyms are involved.

  The walls are adorned with various 82nd Airborne Division memorabilia. So much history lies behind every memento, every painting. Thousands of men and women have given their lives and most of what is shown for their sacrifice is celebrated only a few holidays out of the year. The traditions hardly seem adequate.

  Dom’s third floor room is adorned on one side by random clothing strewn on the bed, posters of half-naked women and a Puerto Rican flag tacked below an American flag. Dom’s side, partially separated by a large laminate wall locker, is immaculate. Pictures of his family are tacked on a cork board. Numerous sketchbooks are stacked neatly on his small desk.

  “Your brothers look just like you,” I note, studying the pictures. His family is filled with beautiful people. It almost seems unnatural.

  “No one would be brave enough to tell them that,” he teases, pulling out his tucked-in shirt.

  I politely turn around.