14. Serena
Serena
Iwake up to a pounding in my head and a sticky, persistent nausea in my throat that makes it hard to swallow.
Eyelids fluttering, I grit my teeth and push my body up into a sitting position, desperately trying to maintain control over the sick feeling sloshing around in my stomach.
Okay, so apparently, I had a little too much champagne last night.
Just like last time, I reach over to feel for Travis, but he’s not there. Except this time, when I open one eye and look at the other pillow, it’s completely undisturbed.
The memories come back to me. Catching and holding Travis’s gaze from across the crowd all night. Waiting for the moment he might want to go back up to the room, but each time finding him deep in discussion with one executive or another.
So, when my work for the evening was finished, I listened to the event planner and took advantage of the refreshments.
I tried lobster puffs and drank the expensive champagne.
I wished I’d had more than just my camera bag, so I could have snuck some food home to my roommates.
Lillie, in particular, would have loved all the food they served.
By the time Travis finally gave me a little nod and we headed off for our rendezvous, it was hard for me to walk. I’d stopped in the hallway just outside the ballroom, hand on the wall as I tried to slip my heels off.
“Serena.” Travis was there instantly, his hand at my elbow, steadying me.
“Shh,” I’d whispered, turning around and tugging him in close to me. “This is a secret, remember?”
And he had smiled and shuffled me into the elevator. I’d crowded against him, kissing his neck, tugging at his hair, excited for the moment we’d walk through the hotel room door and start stripping each other down.
Which we did. Or, rather, Travis did.
He slid my dress and shapewear down off my body, shaking his head at the tight shorts I’d worn beneath the dress. Then, he’d walked me backward toward the bed.
Only to tuck me in, kiss me on the cheek, and leave me here as I plunged into a deep, sticky sleep.
“What the fuck?” I mutter out loud now, dropping my face into my hands and trying to breathe through the pounding in my head. So, Travis is a gentleman. Who would have guessed?
Except this is the second time he left me alone in a hotel room.
I really shouldn’t have drunk so much champagne. Shit…
When I finally manage to open my eyes again—against the waves of dizziness and nausea—I see a bottle of water and a note on the bedside table. When I pick the note up, two Ibuprofen pills spin out on the surface.
Before reading it, I grab the bottle of water, down half of it, and take the pills. Then, I hold the note up in front of my face and wait for the neat handwriting to unscramble itself.
S, hope you’re not feeling too bad. Charge anything you’d like to the room. Stay hydrated. T.
I sit in bed, body rocking slightly from the force of my heartbeat, and stare at his neat handwriting, emotions warring inside me.
This is almost like last time, but not. This time, Travis didn’t even sleep with me before leaving.
This time, he left a note. Albeit a note that doesn’t really say anything, but a note nonetheless.
And this time, I don’t have the energy or anger to fuel me into chasing him down. It’s stupid and childish, and we agreed that this wasn’t anything serious. But even if we weren’t going to sleep together, even if he thought I was too drunk for it, I wanted him to stay.
As I peel myself out of bed and walk to the bathroom, I curse myself for being so stupid. For drinking that champagne when I know I’m a lightweight, and alcohol courses straight into my veins.
The shower makes me feel a little more human, and when I get out, it occurs to me that I just swallowed the pills he left on the nightstand without question. What Georgia said about human trafficking scrolls through my head. I could be out cold and getting loaded onto the back of a truck right now.
Then again, I passed out instantly last night, so if Travis was going to sell me off to the black market, he could have easily done it then.
By the time I’m dressed and ready, camera on one hip and duffel on the other, my head has stopped pounding so fiercely. I take the elevator to the lobby and step outside, finding it’s a beautiful June morning. And, serendipitously, there’s a cafe right across the street with mouth-watering scones.
Feeling better by the second, I wait at the crosswalk, then push through the heavy glass door, shivering when the air conditioning hits me. I find a table, plop down the water bottle Travis left for me to hold my place, and find a spot in line.
This cafe is always busy and famous for its scones. Everything else on the menu is Scottish, as reflected in the interior, all blue and white, with walls covered with pictures of the Scottish countryside and drawings of oxen, sheep, and thistles.
And, of course, when I get to the front of the line and try to order the blueberry mocha scone, it’s sold out.
“Sorry,” the attendant says, wincing, “it’s our most popular one. Are you interested in cranberry orange? Or, we have an authentic Scottish recipe with barley?—”
“That’s okay.” I wave my hand at her, smiling. “I’ll just take a coffee.”
When I return to my table, coffee in hand, my water bottle is gone. There are two thin, greasy-looking boys sitting at my table, both staring at a phone on the table between them, not noticing me glaring at them.
Scone-less and table-less.
“Just great,” I mutter, turning and looking for another table. Of course, they’re all full, and I’d have to give up my firstborn to get one with access to an electrical outlet.
For a moment, I just stand in the middle of the busy cafe, heart racing, a ghost of a headache haunting me, as emotion wells up inside me. Travis leaving me in the hotel room… The pressure to edit and deliver the photos from last night… And no breakfast.
My head swims, and I bite my tongue for a long moment. I just need to let this rage pass, then I’ll be on my way with my coffee. I’ll just go back to the house and try to get some editing done there, though I know it’ll be difficult with everyone asking me about last night.
I’m just about to take a step toward the exit when I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“I’ve got an open table, if you’re willing to share.”