4. Cal
CAL
I ’m unshaven, underslept, and three hours into this rental car journey from O’Hare when the map app chimes that I’m just minutes from the Key every window glows like it’s been lit just for the occasion.
There’s a man playing a fiddle outside a wine bar, a couple walking hand-in-hand with hot cider, and a trio of kids chasing leaves down the sidewalk.
Church bells ring in the distance. Flags ripple from balconies. There’s even a candy shop with striped awnings and a carved wooden sign that says Penny Whistle Sweets .
I’m not built for places like this.
But I can’t stop looking.
The GPS tells me to turn off Main Street, and I do. The hum of town life fades as the road twists into quieter terrain. Here, everything slows down. We’re talking quilted hills, wide open skies, and farmhouses that look like they’ve been there since Lincoln.
There’s a white barn-turned-event-space with fairy lights strung from its roofline.
A gravel path disappears into a thicket of trees.
I pass a small vineyard, a porch swing swaying lazily in the wind, and a homemade sign that says Pumpkins they can have the money. They probably need it.
But two days ago, when a group of paparazzi cornered me outside a diner—just to get a better shot of me chewing—I knew I had no choice. I nearly lost it. I’m talking bang-around-somebody’s-camera levels of rage. That’s when I decided.
Get out. Or get arrested.
So I did both the dramatic and the practical. Got a haircut. Left the beard. Changed up the vibe. Packed a single suitcase. When I looked in the mirror, I thought—maybe. Maybe I looked different enough.
But people don’t see haircuts. They see faces. Names. Bank accounts. Stories they think they already know. I have a feeling that if someone already knew Calvin Hale, they still would be able to tell it’s me, even with my disguise.
If anyone recognizes me, I’m leaving. I’ve already made that deal with myself.
I grip the steering wheel once more. Flex my fingers. My reflection stares back at me in the rearview mirror—then I get out.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I close the car door behind me. The air is cooler than I expected. Clean. Woodsmoke, wildflowers, maybe even cinnamon.
This is it.
I grab my luggage from the trunk and turn to the porch again.
One porch, one inn, one last-ditch effort to remember who I am when no one’s watching. I hope I find the peace I’m looking for.
I square my shoulders and walk toward the door.
The bell above the door jingles when I step in, but the woman behind the front desk doesn’t even glance up.
She’s pacing, phone pressed to her ear, voice sharp and no-nonsense.
“No, I said Room Three’s plumbing was checked last month, and if there’s an issue now, it’s because someone did not fix it properly.
And that someone isn’t us, you know? Yes.
Yes. Please tell maintenance to come over immediately.
I need it done before the end of the day.
What do you mean I should have called in the morning?
I’ve been trying to reach your office since this morning. ”
Her tone is crisp, authoritative. Not angry, just done. I’ve heard that tone in boardrooms. I’ve used that tone in boardrooms.
She ends the call with a sigh and a muttered, “Lord, give me strength,” then drops her phone onto the desk and pulls up something on the computer, still talking to herself. Doesn’t even realize I’m here.
Then, from the side hallway, a golden blur barrels toward me like a heat-seeking missile.
“What the—” I jump back as a golden retriever skids into my legs, barking once before sniffing my shoe like he’s TSA.
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Oh. So you’re the dog everyone on the website keeps talking about.”
The retriever—Waffles, if I remember correctly—wags his entire body and stares up at me with the kind of devotion that makes me momentarily forget I hate everything today.
Behind the desk, she finally looks up.
I lock eyes with her. And for the first time in a long time, I exhale. No flash of recognition. No squinting like she’s trying to place me. No oh my god, are you…?
She just sees me .
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I say, stepping toward the counter.
“Good afternoon.” She smiles at me. “My name is Margot, welcome to the Key & Kettle Inn.”
Oh. This is the superhero Margot. I’ve met Waffles and Margot just a few seconds in. They really do run the place.
“What’s your name, sir?” she asks efficiently. “And how may I help you?”
My heart soars.
What’s your name, sir?
“The name’s Cal. I’m here about a room.”
I’m in a better mood now. If I’m going to stay somewhere for the next three weeks, I’m glad it’s a place where no one knows who I am.
No one knows how good it feels for me to introduce myself.
It’s been so long since I said, “My name is Cal,” to anyone.
My name is usually shouted before I walk into a room.
I mean, I love it. It’s a testament to my success and hard work. But it gets to a point…
Her fingers hover over the keyboard. “Oh… I’m so sorry. We’re at maximum capacity right now—we can’t take any more guests.”
And yes, she looks really sorry.
I blink. The words hit harder than they should.
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come.
I run a hand over my jaw, still not used to the beard, but it’s the least of my worries right now. “Right. But I should already have a room, yes?”
Something tightens in my chest. This place—this exact place—is the only reason I flew across the country and drove three hours in a rental car. It’s the only plan I’ve had in days that didn’t involve boardrooms, microphones, or people pretending to like me for the sake of a photo op.
I want this place. I need it. I paid for it.
My good mood flies out the window, replaced by temper and irritation. I try to feign a fake smile, which I’m surprisingly good at, but right now, it doesn’t come. I don’t exactly have the bandwidth to smile right now.
“How come the room is no longer available?” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “That’s not a great look. I’ll probably need a refund.”
Waffles whines and nudges my knee, and I sigh, trying to rein it in.
I’m not angry at her. I’m just… bone-deep tired. And if this place turns me away, I honestly don’t know where else to go.
She looks startled, and maybe I’m being a jerk, but this was supposed to be the first quiet moment I’ve had in a year. And now I might have to spend it fighting for a room I already paid for.
She takes a deep breath and then flashes the fakest smile I’ve seen in years.