When we hit land again, I tell the limo driver to head toward the outskirts of the city, maze-like streets turning to highway, then long stretches of open road. We stop at a diner with one eighteen-wheeler outside, two tumbleweeds blowing by, and three dozen cigarette butts scattered near the entrance.
Inside, the trucker sits at the far end of the bar, sipping coffee. A waitress wipes down a table in slow motion.
“Do you think it’s safe?” Dakota asks, squeezing my hand.
“We’ll soon find out,” I reply.
“Should we stop holding hands?” she murmurs.
“Probably,” I admit. “But we’re not going to.”
She laughs, happy, sounding somehow carefree after everything. I’m learning that Dakota isn’t a big-gestures sort of woman. And she clearly doesn’t like pressure, at least when it comes to relationships. When it comes to her career, her streaming schedule is often high-pressure enough to create diamonds. To create her.
The trucker doesn’t even look at us when we enter. The waitress glances up, frowns like she’s annoyed for customers daring to visit this lonely place, then returns to wiping down the same table.
“We’re nobodies,” Dakota whispers, like it’s the best thing a person can be.
“Completely irrelevant,” I agree with a grin.
We sit in the corner booth, around the edge of the bar, out of view of the main area of the diner. The waitress walks over a minute later, her tired face creased into an even deeper frown than when she first saw us. She looks confused by Dakota’s bright, happy expression. I swallow a laugh as Dakota beams up at her.
“What’s the best item on the menu?” she asks.
“Coffee’s only forty minutes old,” she replies. “And the pancakes won’t kill you.”
“Coffee and pancakes, then,” Dakota says.
“And for you?” the waitress says, turning.
“The same.”
She pours two mugs of coffee, then turns and walks away.
“I love this,” Dakota says, leaning forward. “Do you?”
“I especially love how sticky the seats are,” I tell her sarcastically.
She laughs without abandon. “This isreal, Jack.”
“I could be in line at the DMV with you, Dakota, and I’d count myself lucky. I’m just happy we’re together.”
“Really?” she murmurs, sounding impossibly insecure for a moment.
I touch her hand. “One thousand percent.” I stand. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m just desperate to see if the toilets are as fancy as the rest of this place.”
Her laughter follows me toward the door with the chipped sign. In the filthy urinal, I reflect on the fact that wemusthave something here. I had a fairytale evening ready to go. Then she rejected it without explanation, and now we’re in a cruddy diner, yet we can’t stop smiling.
That means something. Surely. I refuse to believe it doesn’t.
I leave the bathroom, but only open the door halfway when I hear Dakota’s voice raised slightly. “…very kind of you. Thank you so much.”
A drawling man’s voice responds. “My daughter’s thefan, fan, if you get my meaning. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t looked over once or twice. You like them shorts that climballthe way into the ass, don’t you?”
My hands curl into fists, two invisible tennis balls rupturing in my hand. Who does this piece of shit think he is? For a shameful moment, something stops me from racing out there. If this stranger knows her, he might know me. If I go out there guns-blazing?—
“Wouldn’t mind seeing if the real product compares to the screen, you get me?”
I charge out of the bathroom, ready to commit full-blown murder. When I see the skinny, elderly trucker standing next to our table, I walk up to him and stare into his little weaselly eyes.
