Page 11 of Severance

He keeps staring, his hand reaching out to me. The reflection of the colorful marquee lights dancing along with the blue in his eyes hypnotizes me.

“Oh.” I give him my phone.

Get it together, Alana. You’ve been swooning over this guy all night. It’s not the time to be spacing out when he’s finally asking for your number.

Dakota punches his digits into my phone and hits the call button.Very sneaky. “Now you don’t have any excuses,” he says, returning it to me.

“I wasn’t going to look for any,” I respond quietly.

“I didn’t think so.” He smiles, but this time it’s not a dimples-on-display, toothy grin. It’s subtle and tender, meant for me only.

* * *

Jess drops me off at home at one thirty in the morning. I tiptoe through the living room while holding my breath, hoping my parents are fast asleep, but my father catches me in the hallway upstairs.

“Alana?” His voice is stern and annoyed. “I thought we agreed on midnight.” He moves away from the doorway and flicks on the light.

“Jess and I went to Patty’s after the show,” I squeak out from my spot, my heart dropping to my stomach because I feel a little guilty for lying.

“Your mother and I worry.” My father shakes his head, the lines around his eyes deepening.

“I’m not fourteen, Dad,” I counter, expecting another reprimand, but none follows.

There’s a moment of awkward silence that drags on for what seems like forever—something that’s never happened between us before.

“Okay.” He nods, his face calmer and softer. “Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about the show?”

“Did you and Jess have fun?”

“Yes.” I brave a small smile.

“Good.” My father steps closer and kisses the top of my head. “Now get some sleep. Your mother’s going to need some help at the shelter tomorrow.”

After we say our goodnights, I go in my room, wrestle out of my sweaty clothes, and hurry into the shower.

Once I’m in my bed, the temptation to search for Dakota’s band online overrides my desire to sleep, and I twist and turn for a good thirty minutes before giving in. A blend of excitement and panic rushes through me the second I see the band’s name come up at the top of the Google search results. I click on the website and wait for it to upload, my mind reeling as my heart prances.

A large black and white photo fills the screen of my laptop. It’s dark and intimate with the smeared faces effect, which only lessens my interest in the rest of the band members. I ignore them and shamelessly stare at Dakota until my eyes hurt. He’s not-of-this-world mysterious. Black eyeliner, hair slicked back, and every curve of his face is sharp and well-defined as if it’s been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Seeing him when he looks like this makes me feel weird things. It makes me wonder if my father’s right—if the devil truly has many forms and Dakota is one of them.

4. After

The dress is uncomfortable and makes me feel like a plastic doll wrapped in sandpaper. My chest hurts and my head is heavy.

I’ve lost count of how many pills I’ve taken since last night because of my dread for this moment. I’ve been dreading seeing Dakota one last time. I’ve been dreading that the image of him dead will push all the happy images of us out of my memory.

“Are you feeling okay, honey?” my mother asks as we wander through the lobby of the funeral home, directionless. “You look pale.” She sighs, gazing around.

My father’s quiet and seems displeased. He was probably expecting a church setting.

I’m mostly just numb and sleepy from all the sedatives, and there’s a light tremor flowing through me because I can’t seem to find an exit sign. What if something happens? What if someone brings a gun?

We move through the crowd slowly, my mother tossing an occasional smile at the guests. Familiar faces swim around me like fish in a tank. On the opposite side of the room, I see Jess hovering over Luke, who’s in a wheelchair. I see Blaze, the bass player, sipping on a beer near the window, but I don’t see Mikah.

The main area of the inside of the funeral home is nothing like I thought it would be. It’s spacious yet cozy with dome-shaped windows and maroon draperies. The soft chandelier light glitters across the bronze furniture, making the place look like some filthy rich guy’s living room. There are plants, couches, and small tables around the perimeter, and a few rows of chairs are neatly lined up in the center. There are no religious symbols or anything hinting at Dakota’s family favoring any church in particular, which is definitely a minus in my father’s eyes. The only indication of this being a funeral is a casket set up at the front of the room next to a small podium.

I stare at it with my hands clutched into fists, wondering why I came. Wondering why Dakota needs all these flowers? He’s dead. He doesn’t care. He never liked flowers when he was alive. He liked cold beer, The Cure, and hummingbirds.

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