Bottom Feeder (24 page)

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 casual 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 any
thing
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 82
^nd
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.

He chuckles. “I’m not undressing in
front of you, Maddy. I have a bathroom.”

“
You do?” I spin around.
“There aren’t communal showers?”

“
No, ma’am.” He takes off
his shirt, revealing more artwork.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am
officially gawking—possibly drooling—over his chiseled body. He is
covered in symbols I vaguely recognize and quotes I memorize to
research later.

“
Communal showers are in
the really old barracks,” Dom continues. He doesn’t seem to notice
my obvious adoration. Perhaps he is used to girls blatantly
staring. I should look away.

I don’t.

In record time Dom is out of the
bathroom, clad in a black t-shirt and dark-washed jeans. He drops
the suit in a hamper and glides across the room to stand beside
me.