We watch her sprint up to her door, the lights all on.
“What about you?” Josh asks, turning to look at me in the backseat, with Dominique’s head on my lap. “How do you want to work this?”
“Um . . . Can you try and get her in the back door while I distract my mom up front?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I gently shake Dom awake. “Come on, hon, we need to go inside now.”
“Then bed?” she yawns.
“Yup. Well, my floor,” I correct myself. “But it’s comfy — I promise. You just need to help us get you inside.”
Josh opens the back door. “You go ahead. I’ve got this.”
“Are you sure?” I glance toward the house. It’s dark except for the lights in my mom’s study. With any luck she’ll be deep in project work still, or even sleeping in her chair like she does sometimes after a long day. “The stairs are right next to the kitchen, then my room is first down the hall.”
Josh nods. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, Dom?”
“Meugh.”
“See?” Josh grins. “We’ll launch evasive maneuvers while you get on with phase one: distraction.”
“Yes, sir!” I salute. “Go in T minus five?”
“T?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “They just always say it in the movies.”
“Then T minus five it is.” Josh salutes back. “Over and out.”
I leave him to hustle Dominique into a standing position while I let myself in the front door.
“Hey, Mom!” I yell loudly. “I’m home!”
I go to the kitchen and unlock the back door, then hurry straight to her office before she can come out to see me for herself. She’s working at her desk, the radio playing on low. “See?” I present myself in the doorway. “Right on time, like I promised.”
She smiles. “Did you have a good time?”
“Yup.” I nod quickly. “It was fun.” I sneak a look back toward the kitchen. Josh is in the hallway, guiding Dominique toward the stairs. There’s a thump, and a faint “Ow” as she stumbles against the wall. I leap forward. “Ooh, I like this song.” I turn it up loud.
“You like the Bee Gees?”
“Sure!” I grin, frantic. “Seventies stuff is totally in right now. They’re so uncool, they’re cool again.”
“I remember when they were just plain cool.”
“Five million years ago,” I add. “So what have you been doing?”
“Just some accounting stuff.” Mom makes a face. “I always put it off until the last minute.”
“What?” I act shocked. “Ms. Organization lets things slide?”
She laughs. “I’m still human, honey.”
“So you claim.” I check the hall again. Josh is creeping back out. He gives me a thumbs-up, then slips out the back door. All clear. I exhale, relieved.
Mom moves her papers to one side. “There was actually something I wanted to talk about. . . .”
“Tomorrow!” I tell her, already backing away. Lord knows if Dominique is busy vomiting all over my bedroom floor right this instant. “I’m super tired. I just need to crash.”
“All right, then. ’Night, sweetie.” Mom smiles. “I’m glad you had fun.”
I scoot upstairs, praying to the Gods of Trusting Motherhood and Obedient Drunk Girls that Dominique keeps quiet. Having to explain why there’s a wasted girl — well, woman — in my room would take powers of persuasion way above my level and probably get me grounded for life with a side helping of lectures about bad influence and peer pressure.
I crack open my door. Dominique is sitting on the bed, sipping a glass of water.
“Hey,” I whisper. “You’re awake.”
She grimaces. “Barely. My head hurts.”
“Just keep hydrating. I’ll get you some blankets.” I cross to the closet. “The floor is actually pretty comfy once you’re down there.”
She stays quiet while I arrange pillows and my sleeping bag into a cozy little nest, but when I look up, I find she’s kicked off her shoes and snuggled up under my comforter.
I guess I’m the one on the floor.
I turn out the lights and try to get comfortable, shifting around on the pile of quilts, but just when I find a halfway decent position and prepare to slip into blissful unconsciousness, Dominique’s voice comes, quiet from the other side of the room.
“I’m sorry. I . . . I know I wrecked everything.”
“No, it’s fine.” I sigh, rolling over. “Are you going to be OK? There’s a wastebasket there, if you need to . . . you know.”
“Thanks.” She’s silent for a moment. “Listen, about Carlos . . .”
“I haven’t said anything,” I reassure her quickly. “I mean, I don’t really know what’s going on. It’s none of my business.”
“Thanks.” Then her voice twists. “It’s not serious or anything.”
I don’t know what she wants me to say, so I don’t say anything at all.
“I mean, what am I supposed to do — stay in this town with him and serve coffee for the rest of my life?” She sounds wrung out, miserable. “I didn’t work this hard just to give it all up. I have a plan!”
There’s another long silence. Slowly, her breathing gets even, and I roll back over, ready to sleep. Then she whispers again.
“But I love him.”
The plaintive note in her voice haunts me even as I listen to the sound of my mom’s footsteps on the stairs. My heart stops for a moment as they pause outside my door, but then they head onward to her room, and I slowly exhale.
But even though the immediate danger has passed, I find I can’t sleep. My head is whirling with thoughts about Kayla and Blake, LuAnn and her ex, Dominique and Carlos, and, yes, even my wretched history with Garrett. Now that everything’s quiet — except for Dominique’s gentle snores from across the room — I keep coming back to it all. But no matter which way I look at everything, I can’t get past this strange contradiction that seems to lurk behind everything we do. Because no matter what, or who, we end up choosing, all of us feel like we’ve failed somehow.
Kayla feels guilty for planning for a future with Blake; Dominique feels guilty that she won’t with Carlos. LuAnn dropped everything to make it work with her guy, and I’m filled with shame every time I think about how I did the same thing, building my life around Garrett without even realizing it and then working just as hard to take that version of my life apart, piece by piece.