Chapter Nine
Chapter
Nine
I never considered coming to Alabama. Really, none of the southern states hold much appeal for me. I’m a cold-weather person. I want sweaters, hot drinks, and stormy skies that randomly expel torrential downpours that give me endless excuses for not leaving my home.
But Josh’s envelope said Alabama, so here I am at an airport in Birmingham.
Step one: pick up my rental car.
Step two: stop at the first drugstore I spy and buy a bottle of sunscreen too large to have been allowed in my carry-on.
Step three: find the hotel address Dom emailed me last week.
Yes, I still refuse to give him my number.
Partly because I don’t like the idea that his name could pop up on my phone screen whenever he feels like it.
But mostly because I know not having it gives Mr.Must Maintain Control At All Times a hefty dose of heartburn.
After I complete step two, slathering my upper body in SPF 75—you can get burned through the car window, FYI—I pull up my email and find a message waiting for me.
Sender: Dominic Perry
Subject: Alabama Trip
Maddie,
Let me know when you’ve landed and you’re on your way. Text me using the number I gave you.
Sincerely,
Dom
I smirk, imagining him popping antacids to deal with me.
Sender: Maddie Sanderson
Subject: RE: Alabama Trip
Dear Control Freak,
On my way.
Sincerely,
I Don’t Use Phones Because That’s How The Aliens Find You
Somewhere in the world, he’s angrily growling my name, and that brings me an immense amount of satisfaction.
Flipping back through our email exchange, I find the address he sent me. The vindictive goblin that lives in my soul wanted to wrestle all control of these trips away from Dom. But I found myself letting him take the lead on booking our stay for this first excursion. An oppressive weight bore down on my brain whenever I tried to think about the logistics of each of these trips.
Planning another goodbye to my brother.
So when Dom pressed for me to let him handle reserving rooms for our stay, I folded. But I booked my own flight, refusing to allow him that much control over my movements.
Turns out, not taking control was a mistake. I discover this the moment my GPS announces I have arrived at my destination.
There was supposed to be a hotel.
Instead, I pull up to a cabin.
Like, in the woods. Outside of civilization.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, parking on the gravel drive.
When I pull out my phone and double-check everything, it’s clear I have the right place. I even google the address, and this cabin comes up on a rental website.
I swipe over to my email and realize I overlooked a sentence when reading Dom’s message.
Code is the last four digits of my number.
Hotels don’t need codes. Houses with automatic locks do.
It’s not outlandish that I missed the directive. My eyes took in the address and dismissed all other words he wrote, avoiding as much of Dom as I could.
With a frustrated huff, I shove out of my car and stomp to the front door. As instructed, I type in the four-digit code from the phone number I refuse to use in any other context.
The lock clicks, and I storm into the cabin.
It’s empty.
And damn him…
The place is incredible.
Everything is wood, and dark metal fixtures, and warm lighting, and soft furniture. Fuzzy blankets lay draped over the backs of the sofas, and a massive stone fireplace begs to be set aflame. The open floor plan shows a kitchen and small dining table in addition to the cozy sitting area.
Trying to ignore the lumberjack wet dream, I sulk across the thick, woven rug toward a hallway that—thank the universe—reveals doors to two bedrooms and a bathroom.
“What is this nonsense?” I hiss to the beautiful, empty hideaway.
“What’s wrong?”
I guess not so empty after all.
Dom looms in the entrance, taking up the whole doorway with his broad shoulders.
My eyes wander over those shoulders that are covered in soft flannel, as if he dressed to match our accommodations. My traitorous gaze takes in the rest of him, searching for some flaw. But there’s nothing—other than the man as a whole.
Because he hurt me, and my body still wants him.
“What’s wrong,” I grit, reminding myself of my fury, “is you booking us a teeny tiny house to stay in. Together. What the hell?”
Dom closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath that sounds a lot like I’m on the verge of strangling this ungrateful brat .
“It has good ratings,” he responds after his meditative breathing. “And it’s close to the coordinates.”
“I’m sure hotels are around here, too. You know, places where we don’t share a bathroom.” I throw a thumb toward the only toilet I see in this place.
I can’t poop for the next twenty-four hours. The irrational thought blares in my head. No matter that everybody poops, and I’ve done so plenty of times in Dom’s parents’ house when I was growing up.
Suddenly, as if my intestines heard my vow to give up normal digestive practices, I need to use the facilities.
Urgently.
Unaware of the turmoil in my mind and abdomen, Dom fully enters the cabin and shuts the door behind him.
“You don’t like hotels,” he says.
The comment, quiet as it was, reverberates in the air between us. Bringing up that night.
The night we will never, ever discuss.
We were both sloppy drunk. He wasn’t supposed to remember anything. Not me lamenting my distaste for hotels. And certainly not me kissing his candy-coated lips.
My stomach roils again, and I realize that I’m going to break my silent vow within a minute of making it. Without a word to Dom, I charge into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, latching it tight, and whimpering in relief when I see a bottle of air freshener on the shelf and a small window that slides open easily.
A few minutes later, I exit the bathroom, pretending like it wasn’t weird for me to have turned on the shower yet have my hair completely dry.
“Well, come on then.” I stroll past where Dom’s leaning his too-tall body against the kitchen counter. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet. We have a reservation.”
My feet slow. “What do you mean? How could we have a reservation? Josh didn’t know when we were going to places.”
“I made it.”
Fury threatens to freeze the blood in my veins. Or turn it to lava. “You opened the letter without me?”
Dom gives me a look like I spoke to him in a foreign language.
“Of course not. I searched the coordinates. When I found the destination, I looked up the website and saw you needed to make a reservation. It’s the Dismals Canyon. You’re supposed to go at night. I figured we’d eat, then go.”
I swallow my anger and pause my plan to fill Dom’s socks with shaving cream.
“Fine. We’ll get dinner. But only because you’re entirely unbearable to be around when I’m hungry. And especially when you’re hungry.”
Dom frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know. You’re infamous for getting hangry.” Giving Dom shit for potentially being in a bad mood is hypocritical, seeing as how I am a perpetual bitch around him now. But there’s this deep-seated craving in me to get a rise out of him. To rattle his calm demeanor the way he does mine by just existing in my vicinity.
“I don’t get hangry.”
“Yeah, you do. Why do you think Josh, and the twins,”—and Rosaline—“and I always had snacks on hand for you?”
Now he’s the one rolling his eyes. “I don’t think chucking bags of Cheez-Its at my head and telling me to stop being ‘Dom the Dick’ qualified as having snacks on hand for me .”
I shrug. “You secretly love Cheez-Its. And you always ate them.”
He grumbles something I can’t hear. Probably some irresponsible words, which I count as a success.
“Look at that,” I taunt. “You’re already pissy. Time to eat dinner.” I stride past him and out the door, breathing easier in the late afternoon air that doesn’t hint at his cedar cologne.
The idea of carpooling is too much for me, so we drive separately to a nearby diner. When we sit down at a booth, I fish Josh out of my bag and place him next to me, on the tabletop.
“He’s eating with us?” Dom’s eyes flick from the Rubbermaid of ashes to me.
“Do you have a problem with that?”
Dom opens his mouth to answer, but I cut him off with a raised finger.
“What’s that, Josh?” I tilt my head toward the remains. “You think Dominic Perry should keep his opinions on his side of the booth? What a good point. I agree.”
Dom frowns.
“Oh, sorry.” I bend even closer, until my ear is pressed against the airtight lid. “Could you say that again? I’m having trouble hearing you over the pulsating vein in Dominic’s forehead.” I barely suppress a smile when the man smooths his fingers over his temple. “Ah, you were saying that Dom must keep buying underwear a size too small to give him that constantly pinched expression? Well, I wouldn’t know, but it’s a good theory.”
Dom stops massaging his brow, dropping his hand to the table and tapping out an annoying rhythm.
“Is this going to be a regular thing?” he asks, voice dry.
Me talking to my brother and pretending he responds? Probably. I’ve found myself conversing with Josh a lot when I’m alone in my apartment these past few months. I don’t know why I do it. Florence didn’t impart any kind of religion on Josh and me, and I’ve never put much stock in an afterlife. The idea of ghosts mildly intrigues me, but I can’t definitively say I believe they exist.
Still, there’s something about talking to my brother—or ranting at him, which I’m more likely to do—that does something for me. The act doesn’t make me happy, exactly.
But it briefly distracts me from the fact that he’s dead. That moment before a response is required, I can imagine one will come.
Maybe this is a creative and healthy coping mechanism.
Or maybe I’m losing my mind because I can’t cry, and I’m not grieving properly.
To avoid answering Dom, I snap open my menu, glad the list of food items is tall enough to block out his face.
We make it through the meal without further insults, mainly because we don’t speak. A few times Dom opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, and I tense for him to bring up the way I drunkenly mauled him after our first ash-spreading adventure. But then he closes his lips and refocuses on his food.
When the bill is paid—I insist on a split check—I break the silence.
“When’s the reservation? Can we go now?”
“Yes,” Dom says on a sigh. “We can go.”
The drive takes us on winding roads through rural areas, but we eventually come upon a large stone-supported sign announcing we’ve found ourselves at the Dismals Canyon. I follow Dom’s taillights up a short drive to a small parking lot. Nothing about the place reveals why we’d need a reservation.
“Now what?” I ask once I meet Dom outside of his car.
He nods toward a sign that points the way to registration. Gritting my teeth, I continue to follow him down an incline where we come upon an outdoor sitting area and a souvenir shop.
“We’re here for the night tour,” Dom tells the woman behind the counter. “Dominic Perry and Madeline Sanderson.”
My shoulders go up to my ears at the sound of my full name in his voice. My mom, Florence, and workers at the DMV are the only ones who call me Madeline. Even though Dom is on my bad side, too, I don’t want him Madeline-ing me.
The woman checks our names on a list, then directs us to wait in the shop or in the outside sitting area until the tour—whatever that is—begins.
Without the need for discussion, we head outside, where there’s a semblance of privacy.
The evening is cool, and I hug Josh’s remains close to my chest while glaring over the railing toward the sound of falling water. I have to use sound because in the dying light it’s impossible to see much past the deck we’re on.
“I don’t see why we needed to make a reservation for a night hike. And why would we hike at night? You can’t see anything.”
Dom doesn’t respond, which only infuriates me more. Maybe I can push him off the trail and he’ll get lost in the woods and I’ll never have to see his annoying, handsome face again.
But then he distracts me from aggressive thoughts by pulling out an envelope and holding it up so I can read the handwriting.
Alabama
34°19’38.00” N
87°46’57.00” W
Josh. He’s in that envelope. He’s also in my arms. Just like on the beach in Delaware, I can feel my brother beside me in this moment. Can pretend that he’s alive for a little while longer.
“Do you want to read this one?” Dom asks.
“Yes.” I thrust out my hand. But Dom doesn’t immediately pass the letter over. Instead, he holds out his empty palm as well.
A trade.
For a second, I clutch Josh closer, loath to let go of even this small portion.
“I’ll give him back.” Dom’s voice is surprisingly gentle, and I jerk my gaze up in time to catch some unreadable emotion flicker across his face. “You need two hands to open the letter.”
Damn his logic.
With gritted teeth, I loosen my white-knuckle grip on the Rubbermaid container, passing off one eighth of my brother. Then I clutch the stiff envelope, and despite my greed for his words, I’m careful when I tear the flap.
A thought comes to me then, one I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask before. “What did you do with the Delaware letter?” Panic pinches my gut. “You didn’t throw it away, did you?”
Dom frowns. “No. I’d never do that. I put it back with the rest. And they’re all in a fireproof safe in my town house.”
“Oh.” Still, I hesitate. “What’s the combination?”
Dom glares down at me. “Why? Are you planning on sneaking in and taking them?”
I scowl. “Are you planning on holding them hostage from me?”
“Maddie—”
“Dominic,” I snap back. “What if something happens to you? They’re all I have—” My breath stutters and my anger heats, and I’m so furious at this man for witnessing my vulnerability over and over again. And I’m pissed at my brother for being the puppet master behind it all. “They’re all I have left of him,” I grind out. The letters and the ashes.
Dom stands utterly still in front of me, the hand that’s not holding my brother braced on his hip, head bowed enough that I can’t see his expression. Not that I could interpret it. I’ve officially lost my ability to decipher the hidden thoughts of Dominic Perry.
But I refuse to mourn the loss. Maybe I never had the ability. Believing I understood Dom only led me to heartache.
“I’ll change it when I get home,” he says. “And text you the new combination.”
What kind of bullshit offer is that? “No. You’ll tell me the current combination now . And anytime you change it from this day forward, you’ll email the new combo to me,” I counter, confused why he’s making this harder than it has to be.
Though one could argue me hoarding my phone number contributes to the difficulty, but I refuse to linger on that thought.
The muscle in Dom’s jaw clenches so hard it stands out in perfect definition. Finally, he grits out a “Fine.” Then he stares toward the sound of falling water. “The combination is—”
“Don’t even think about lying to me,” I cut him off, suspecting the eye contact avoidance is his deception tell. “I’ll call Adam and ask him to check for me. I bet he’d love to snoop through your stuff.”
Dom hits me with a glare. “I’m not about to give you his number when you haven’t even given me yours.”
“I don’t need you to,” I taunt. “I have it. We text. He’s got good GIF game. He keeps me up to date on the hip lingo.” Never thought twenty-six was old, but when it comes to social media jargon, I’m practically ancient.
“Adam has your number?” Dom’s voice is so cold the nearby stream threatens to freeze over.
“Yep. Carter does, too.” And I don’t worry in the slightest that they’ll give it to Dom. I’ve got a friendship with the twins that supersedes their brother. Still, I make a mental note to text them a warning not to share my digits under pain of death. “We’re buddies. And as my buddy, Adam will let me know if you’re lying. So, give me the combo. The real one.”
Dom reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, attention focused on the wooden boards at our feet. Then he mutters a curse and meets my eyes.
“Zero, seven, one, eight.”
“That’s…” My brain trips over the familiar numbers. It can’t be. “You’re fucking with me.”
He shrugs and waves toward the envelope in my hand. “I thought you wanted to read it. Or I can.” Dom reaches for the letter.
Quickly, I turn, blocking him with my shoulder.
“I’ll read it.” And then I’ll text Adam and get him to prove Dom’s a liar.
I slip the piece of paper out and step closer to a hanging lantern to read, swatting away the small bugs that also congregate around the light.
Dear Maddie & Dom,
Welcome to Alabama!
Never thought you’d explore the south, huh, Maddie? But there’s beauty everywhere, and I’m determined for you to find it. Even in the darkest of places.
You should be in Dismals Canyon right about now. Book yourself a night tour—
Dom huffs a noise that I interpret as “Told you so.”
—and get ready for something that’s fucking cool. Got to see a similar sight in New Zealand, and I always thought I’d get another chance to admire them closer to home. Now it’s your turn.
Buy a souvenir I would have liked and take a picture—when you’re not in the dark—for my sake.
Then leave a piece of me in the glow.
Love,
Josh
Before I can ask Dom what Josh means, the door to the shop opens and a white man with an impressive gray mustache and welcoming grin strides onto the deck, eyes sparking with excitement when he spots us.
“Who wants to see some glow worms?”