CHAPTER 9
The first thing I notice when I wake up is that I’m alone, but before I have a chance to panic, I see Daniel sitting in that chair by the window, a pink doughnut box on the table by his side along with two unmarked paper cups, from which little ribbons of steam curl upward.
He sees that I’m awake and says, “I was up early, so I got us breakfast.”
A happy flush spreads across my face and down my neck as I say, as casually as I can manage, “Please say there’s something chocolate in that box.”
He peers inside it. “One with sprinkles, one with nuts.”
I climb out of bed, trying not to worry too much about my hair or my breath. “You’re a saint.”
He doesn’t respond. Based on his distracted expression, I’d guess that he didn’t even hear me.
As I sit in the chair opposite him, I place the doughnut with nuts on a napkin, then draw my cup of coffee closer. I’ve never even tried coffee, but I know Darcy drinks it black, and that’s what Daniel brought me. I don’t want to be fussy, so I take a quick sip, then chase it with a large bite of doughnut, and wait. I tell myself I’m ready for whatever he’s going to say, but when I hear the words “Look, Nora—” the truth is that they feel like a knife plunging between my ribs, puncturing everything essential. It’s not that I expected him to fall in love with me while we slept, but I hoped he wouldn’t regret what had happened between us so immediately.
He runs a hand through his hair and gets another running start. “I need to apologize for last night.”
I sip my coffee, not because I want it, but because I need something to do with my hands. A few seconds later, I think I do a fairly good job of sounding neutral when I say, “For what?”
He shakes his head. “Because it was a bad idea to—” He shakes his head, closes his eyes. “Because there’s so much at stake here, and I—” He tries again. “Because we’re in a band. Because we’re friends.”
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t really get what you’re saying.”
He rests his forehead on his hands, presumably trying to find the words that will get what he means through my thick skull, then says, “I know you’re hung up on some other guy, and you know I’m hung up on Darcy, but these things”—his eyes drift to our unmade bed—“they can get complicated, even when two people start out on the same page.”
I know that Daniel doesn’t like being alone, but the thing is, I don’t want to be alone, either. I tell myself I can keep my expectations in check. I can handle whatever happens after Sunday, but I don’t want to spend the next few days lying in separate beds, not when I know how good it feels to fall asleep in his arms.
I keep my voice steady as I say, “So, it doesn’t have to happen again. Or”—I pull an elastic band off my wrist and tie up my hair—“we could agree to not let it get complicated.”
He picks up a paper napkin and starts shredding its edges. “You make it sound so simple.”
I finish my doughnut, then take another swig of coffee, even though it tastes like curdled ash. Why anyone drinks it for pleasure is beyond me. I disguise a grimace as I say, “It’s as simple as we want it to be.”
Daniel considers this for a moment. “Either way, Cameron and Flynn shouldn’t know.”
I know he’s right, but it still hurts. I think about his endless PDA with Darcy, the way his arm is always linked around her waist, but remind myself that I’m not her, and this isn’t that. “Yeah, obviously.”
“You really think it’s possible?”
“Sure.”
My parents were friends before they got together. They were in a study group at their law school, and one night the other two people in the group didn’t show, and my parents ended up—cue a blush from my mom—doing a wee bit more than studying. Friends is a good place to start. Granted, I don’t think that once they got together, they tried to pretend that they hadn’t. Still, I try to sound unbothered as I say, “Friends with benefits.”
This makes him smile. “Nora Wakelin, you surprise me. I wouldn’t have thought you were the type.”
As I reach for the other chocolate doughnut, I say, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” This, at least, is true.
Daniel’s relief is evident. He reaches into the box and pulls out a lemon-glazed doughnut, which he dips into his coffee as he leans back against the chair. My appetite, though, is gone. I excuse myself to the bathroom, where I take a longer, steamier shower than usual and try to convince myself that this is just the beginning.
Cameron’s standing a few feet away, squinting at the open fields around us, which seem reflective in the midday sun, like an enormous golden mirror. “Are you sure this is where our gig is?” he says. “It looks like a farming town.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Flynn asks. He doesn’t trust the mechanisms that hold gas pumps into cars, so he’s standing at the rear of the van, manually compressing the lever. “Farmers don’t like music?”
Cameron swats at a fly that has landed on his shirt. “No. I’m just surprised there’s somewhere for us to play.”
“It’s not going to be the Rowdy, if that’s what you mean,” I say. “We’re going to have to play a semiacoustic set.” It’s not like I haven’t warned them, but it’s worth repeating: “The venue is definitely small.” I still haven’t told them that our only compensation for playing is whatever we collect in our tip jar; that’s not going to go over well. But I have some time before I need to worry about Flynn’s inner accountant. First, Teresa Johnson.
I have a good feeling about this Teresa. She seems to be the right age, and I know from an article I found that she did give up a child for adoption. How many Teresas could have given up children in California? She’s got to be it.
I step away from the van, toward the hot, golden fields. I’ve been so focused on finding my birth mother that I haven’t really stopped to consider how it would feel to meet her, to learn about her life. In all the times that I imagined her living somewhere, I never imagined her in a place like this. I wonder what she does here. As I turn around and face the street that bisects the town, I wonder what anyone does here. Though, maybe the people who live here would think our Orange County suburb is crowded and overpriced. They might drive through and wonder, Why would anyone choose this place?
It’s less than a mile to our motel, but we drive past it twice before we realize it’s the place we’re looking for. The building looks like it used to be red, though now it’s more of a brownish green, like the paint they used wasn’t really meant for outdoor use. There are two rows of rooms ballooning out of the main office, but the walls are dotted only by thin windows positioned right under the roof, prison-style.
When we go into the office, we find out from the office manager that this building was indeed once the county jail. “Now everyone just gets sent to that big facility in Salinas or the women’s center near Fresno,” he says, digging through a drawer. “So the county didn’t need this building anymore.” He pulls out our keys, which are old-school brass things, tied to a room number by a piece of twine. “We don’t get many reservations here. You’ve got rooms 12 and 13.”
“Thanks,” Flynn says, taking both keys.
Once we’re out of the office, Flynn turns to Cameron and says, “How did you find this place? I’m pretty sure its primary function is as a brothel.”
“You are such a snob,” Daniel says, but he says it more like a joke than a jab. Ever since our conversation this morning, he’s seemed unusually chipper. I’ve decided to take this as a good sign.
“It’s not about snobbery,” Flynn says. “It’s about—” We reach room 13, and he takes out the key. “It’s about bedbugs. And sexually transmitted infections.”
“You can’t get STIs from dirty hotel rooms,” Daniel says.
“Are you positive about that?”
“Just open the door.”
Flynn puts the key into the doorknob and twists. The door swings open with an actual creak, and the four of us stand there in the full noon sun, staring into the dark room, which smells distinctly of must and spilled beer, like a moldier version of the Rowdy greenroom.
“Oh, hell no,” Flynn says. “No way. I’ll sleep in the van.”
“Maybe the other room isn’t as bad,” Daniel says. He takes the keys out of Flynn’s hand and opens room 12, which smells a little better than room 13, but is otherwise the same. He walks in and turns on the floor lamp. Cameron and I look at each other, then follow him in. There are two double beds, separated by a sticky-looking nightstand. The blankets are tucked in tightly around the edges of the lumpy mattresses. At the head of each bed are limp yellow pillows. The narrow window behind Daniel is thick with cobwebs and dirt.
“It’s really not bad,” he says.
Flynn points to a spot on the carpet. “Is that blood?” A woman in a short skirt and low-cut blouse walks behind him. He points after her and whispers, “Was that a hooker?”
“Why?” Daniel says. “Because she’s wearing a short skirt? You are such an ass, Flynn.”
The woman walks past us again, going the other way. This time she’s carrying a kid on her hip and walking alongside an older woman, who’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. As they pass us, the older woman says, “How did you even find this place?”
The woman with the kid on her hip says, “I thought something off the beaten path would be interesting. Road less traveled and whatnot.”
“Well, you can keep your off-brand interesting,” the older woman says. “I’ll be staying at the Motel 6.”
Flynn looks back at us and says, “Okay, I’m an ass. But this place—it’s—”
“It’s rock ’n’ roll,” Daniel says. “It’s Hotel California.”
Flynn steps gingerly inside, glancing at the ceiling. “Hotel California isn’t supposed to be a dump.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure this is what the Eagles had in mind,” Cameron says.
Flynn disappears around the corner, then comes back and says, “This room is definitely better than the other one.”
I catch Daniel’s eye and give a little shrug, which I hope he interprets as, There’ll be other nights, then say, “So, let’s all sleep in here.”
I can almost see Flynn’s objection balancing on the edge of his tongue, but he swallows it and says, “Fine.”
We all look at Cameron, who hesitates, then says, “I’ll return the other key.”
Daniel steps back outside and says, “I’m going to see if they have a vending machine. Does anyone else want something to drink?”
I ask for whatever he’s getting. Flynn says he’s okay. Then Daniel and Cameron are gone. I pull back the comforter of the bed closest to the bathroom. The sheets look clean, at least.
Flynn scratches at a spot on the duvet, then seems to determine that it’s just part of the design. Still, he says, “This place is objectively disgusting.”
“At least it has character?” I say, though I can’t help phrasing it as a question.
After a moment of comfortable silence, Flynn says, “Hey, Nora—” He crosses his arms over his chest, taps the edge of the bed with his heel, and stares at the ceiling. He’s not usually the fidgety type, and it’s making me nervous. Finally, he asks, “Do you think I’m a snob?”
I hesitate, surprised by the question. Eventually, I say, “Snob is a strong word.”
“Is it accurate, though?” He sits on the edge of a bed. “I mean, as a description of me?”
“You want the truth?”
He nods, so I sit next to him. “You do—” How can I say this without being hurtful, or saying more than I mean? “You can sometimes come across as kind of judgey.” He tenses, so I put my hand on the back of his wrist and say, “Don’t get me wrong. You’re a good friend. You’re”—I look for the right word—“steady. You’re dependable. And that’s such an important quality.”
“But?” He’s looking at my hand, which makes it hard for me to know how he’s going to react to the things I’m saying. Then again, he asked for it.
“But maybe because you’re so steady, it’s hard for you to understand people who don’t make decisions the way you do. People might feel like they can’t fully relax around you, or be themselves, because they know, or at least believe, that you’ll judge them for it.” I’m thinking about Cameron and his two sticks of gum.
Flynn takes a deep breath and brings his other hand around to rest on top of mine as he says, “Do you feel like you can’t be yourself around me?”
“Honestly?”
He nods.
I think about how I felt when I first met him. While Daniel was busy charming me into joining their mission to make nonsucky music, Flynn mostly stood apart and glared at his feet. For the longest time, I thought he didn’t like me. Later, I realized that he’s like that with everyone at first. Once you’re in his circle he’s different, but getting into that circle is a bit of a process.
I know exactly when he started to let me in. Daniel was meeting Darcy after rehearsal, so Flynn offered to drive me home from Cameron’s house. At that point, I still thought he hadn’t warmed to me, so I dreaded being alone with him for the fifteen-minute drive. But when we reached his van, he helped me load my bass into the back, then walked around to the passenger side to help me with my door.
“The handle’s iffy sometimes,” he told me. But that didn’t explain why he held the door for me, then closed it once I was in my seat.
We drove in silence for several minutes before I asked if we could turn on some music.
Of course, he said, “The stereo doesn’t work.” I thought that was all he was going to say, but then he added, “This van is twice as old as we are. Hardly anything works anymore.”
“But it’s perfect for carting band equipment around,” I said.
“That’s why I got it.” He patted the steering wheel affectionately. “My parents thought I was crazy, but Dan and I had been talking about starting a band, and it made sense for one of us to own something like this.”
“You bought it yourself?” This idea baffled me. My parents didn’t give me an allowance beyond some birthday money every year, which they used to teach me about wise investing and the importance of charitable donations, and they weren’t showing signs of buying me a car anytime soon. Still, it had never occurred to me that I could get a job and buy one myself.
“Yeah,” he said. “I worked at Quiznos all summer to afford it. It didn’t even run, but my dad and I rebuilt the engine together. It’ll cost another summer’s worth of sandwich making just to repay him for the parts.” He shook his head. “I’m hoping we start making money playing gigs soon, so I don’t have to ever dice an onion again. Stings the eyes.”
“That makes me feel so—” As usual, I couldn’t find the right word.
“What?”
I said, “—inadequate,” but that wasn’t exactly what I meant.
His eyebrows pinched together, in the way they do when he’s confused. Though, at the time, I thought he looked annoyed. “How so?”
“You’ve already given so much. If I’m going to be an equal member of the band, I should offer a blood sacrifice or something.”
“You’re doing plenty.” He looked at me, and our eyes met, but it didn’t feel as weird as it sounds. I felt something inside me settle. That’s when I realized he didn’t dislike me; he just took everything more seriously than Daniel and Cameron seemed to. “Don’t worry about any of that. I was glad to do it, and I’m glad to have you in the band.”
I knew he meant it, because even then I understood that Flynn always means what he says. Which is why a few months later, when we were all at Daniel’s house and Darcy convinced everyone (except Flynn) to go out and Saran wrap her neighbor’s car, and Flynn later said, “I’m disappointed in you, Nora. I thought you were smarter than that,” I felt so bad, even though I’d mostly stayed to the side and watched. And that’s why a few months after that, when Flynn had to leave early from rehearsal, and Cameron, Daniel, Darcy, and I ate pot brownies together, no one told Flynn that it had happened. Because we all knew what he’d say, and we also knew he’d mean it.
So, do I feel like I can’t be myself around him? I look over at him and say, “Sometimes.”
His eyebrows pinch together. “Like when?”
“I don’t know,” I lie, mostly because there’s no point in rehashing ancient history. “I can’t give you an example. It’s more of a—” If I had a piano in front of me, I’d play a D-minor chord with a suspended G mixed in; I’d let the sound of the chord just resonate until the air became still. “It’s more of a tension. Like, you never seem to fully relax, so how can anyone else really relax around you?” He looks so sad. It’s breaking my heart. “You know we all love you, though. Right? Daniel just likes giving you a hard time.”
“I know,” he says. “I appreciate your honesty.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to work on it—on not being so uptight. I don’t want to drive people away.”
“Hey.” I squeeze his hand. “We’re not going anywhere.”
He squeezes me back. “You’re a good friend, Nora.”
But am I? I have to force my smile as I say, “I try.”
An hour later, Cameron has gone out for a walk and Flynn has fallen asleep facedown on the bed nearest the window. I’ve been sitting at the sticky desk trying to make my way through some physics notes, but now I gladly put them away and get Daniel’s attention with a whispered, “Ready?”
He looks up from his phone and nods, then slides off the bed and follows me out into the hot sunshine. It’s a little after 2:00 p.m., which should give us plenty of time to walk to both of the addresses I have for Teresa Johnson before we need to think about making our way to our gig. As I study a map of the neighborhood on my phone, I say to Daniel, “You can stay here, if you want. It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a huge deal, and of course I’m coming with you.”
To hide my relief, I study the map again. “The address for the house is closer than the one for the apartment, so I figure we’ll go there first. We should be gone about an hour.”
“Lead the way.”
I try not to notice the little thrill that passes through me as we fall in step together, try not to notice that our strides match perfectly, like we’re moving forward to the same imperceptible, yet incessant, beat.