Page 92 of Chasing Stardust

“Forget it. I’d need to disinfect my entire soul. And that’s if we survived the night. I’ve seen this movie. I know how it ends.”

As if proving my point, a bloodcurdling scream dissolves into loud cackles, and a rowdy group of drunken twentysomethings bursts out of the shadows.

A shudder cuts through me. “Walmart’s looking better every minute.”

“We’d spend all our money getting an Uber to the closest store.”

My chest tightens as I consider bailing on the photo at Heidelberg. “Let’s just go to Chicago tonight. It can’t be more than four hours away, how much could a pair of bus tickets cost?”

“Zoey, no.” Dash’s eyes search mine. “You wouldn’t get your picture.”

“Really. It’s fine.” The lie catches in my throat, but I force a smile and swallow it down. “Mom would forgive me for skipping this one, given the circumstances.”

“You’ve re-created her picture at every other stop.”

“What does one picture matter in the grand scheme?” Fighting the urge to cry, I drop my gaze to the sticky garage floor.

“It matters to me.” Dash hooks a finger under my chin, lifting my face until our eyes meet. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if you missed a single moment because of me.”

My stomach flips at the intensity of his gaze. “What about the all-night laundromat we passed on the way here? We could go there.”

A smile tugs at his lips, and he pulls me to my feet. “I guess that’s as good a place as any at this point. We can at least bleach the funk out of our clothes.”

With my tote tucked under my arm, I squeeze Dash’s hand and lead him out of the dark parking garage and down the block to the blissfully well-lit laundromat.

A far cry from the Saint Regis, but other than the burned-out light in the back corner, it’s bright. And aside from an old woman with her nose buried in a book, the place is empty and relatively clean.

“See?” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Isn’t this much better than some nasty hotel room?”

His dark eyebrows peek over the top of his black frames, sizing me up like a snack. “If you don’t count the lack of a bed . . . or a shower . . . or—”

“I’m willing to make the sacrifice just this once.” I spread out across a row of blue hard-plastic chairs attached to a single frame. “Besides, who needs a bed when we have these?”

After digging up enough quarters to wash and dry a giant load, Dash and I use what’s left of my loose change to split a nasty potted-meat sandwich from the vending machine and settle into a quiet corner to eat.

I do a sniff test before taking a tentative bite, chewing and swallowing before I change my mind. Who the hell decided putting meat in a blender would make for a good sandwich spread? “Jeanie would totally lose it if she saw me eating this.”

Dash devours his half in just a few bites. “It’s better than starving.”

“If you say so.” I snicker. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if, after all the wild shit I’ve done on this trip, I die from a vending machine sandwich?”

Dash laughs and reaches for Mom’s diary. “May I?”

I nod.

He flips through the pages, studying the photos in each section until he comes to the picture of Mom in front of the Dotty Wotty House. “Were you really considering skipping this photo?”

I shrug, unwilling to admit how close I’d been to bailing on Detroit.

“I can really see the resemblance here,” he says.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I still think Jeanie looks more like her than I do.”

“I didn’t mean you.” Dash lifts his head. “I see a resemblance between your mom and Bowie.”

I rest my chin on his shoulder and squint down at the photo. With her head tilted to the side, and her wet hair plastered to her face, Mom doesn’t look like herself, much less a famous rock star. “You can’t even see her face.”

“But look at that smile.”