2. Elora
2
ELORA
45.8918° N, 123.9615° W
W ith my housekeeping cart loaded down with fresh towels, sheets, and cleaning supplies, I open the door and walk backward as I pull the cart into the breezeway. Shoving one earbud in, I press Play on the podcast I’ve been listening to for the past few days and head down the walkway toward the first room I need to clean this morning. As I’m about to take my keys out of my pocket, I see Ernest, the owner of The View, step out of the hotel office with his cane in hand and a box tucked under his arm.
“Elora, I was just coming to find you,” he says, walking toward me with a kind smile that accentuates his wrinkles.
“Is everything okay?” I take out my phone and press Pause on my show.
“A package just arrived for you.” He takes the box out from under his arm, where he was holding it as easily—and as carelessly—as a rolled-up newspaper, transferring the insignificant weight of the package to me.
“Is that it?”
It can’t be. How can all I’ve ever known of love fit into one little box that weighs nothing?
Grabbing my bottom lip between my teeth, I look at the mailing label taped to the box and try to force my heart to slow while the ground under my feet seems to waver.
“Yes.” I lift my gaze to his.
“When are you leaving?” The question is soft.
“I… I don’t know.” I swallow over the tightness in my throat. “Next week, maybe Monday,” I whisper, and his expression gentles.
“Colleen says you’ve been doing a great job. If you decide to stick around or want to come back after, you always have a place here.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want me to hold the box in the office for you while?—”
“No.” I shake my head, then soften my tone when he looks startled. “Sorry.” I press the box against my chest over my heart that is still beating wildly. “It’s okay. I’ll run it up to my room really quick.”
“All right.” He eyes the box before meeting my gaze once more. “I’ve gotten a couple of applications, so I’ll start making some phone calls to find your replacement.”
Dread. That’s the emotion that rushes through me as reality kicks in. I like it here; I like this town and the people I’ve met. This has been my home for five months, and I hate that I have to leave, but I know I can’t stick around. I’m just not sure what scares me more—the idea of being on my own again or the thought of being done with what I set out to do because I have no idea what will come after.
I force a smile. “Sounds good.”
“Good, and if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“I do.” I keep my smile in place until he has wandered off. With a heavy weight on my shoulders, I move the housekeeping cart up against the wall so it doesn’t block the walkway.
After jogging upstairs to the second floor, I slow halfway across the covered breezeway when a pair of bright eyes that look an odd shade of blue under the cloud-covered sky land on me.
If he’s Roman, the brother mentioned in the obituary, his name fits him perfectly. Leaning against the railing with a paper cup in his hand that is steaming in the early morning air, he looks like a man lording over the commoners below. Even obviously hungover, he appears as if he could conquer a kingdom and rule an empire. Dragging my gaze off his, I walk to my door and open it, leaving it ajar after I enter my room.
I carefully place the box on top of the dresser, not ready to open it yet and turn to leave. But I come to a stop when I turn to find him standing in my doorway.
After last night, I don’t know how to interact with him. He was a dick, but knowing what I do—or at least assuming I know what he’s dealing with—I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to tell him that I know acutely just how painful the loss of someone you love is. I understand it’s easier to deal with the pain when you’re not dealing with it at all but instead coping, using whatever means necessary.
“Do you need something?” I ask when he doesn’t speak, just stares at me, making my skin prickle and itch.
“You were in my room last night.”
“I was.” There is no point in lying. He obviously remembers me being there, even in his drunken state. I shift on my feet when I see his jaw clench. “Are you feeling better this morning?” He jerks up his chin in the affirmative. “Good.”
I let out a breath and straighten my shoulders as I walk toward him, leaving him no choice but to back up when I don’t stop at the door. When we’re both in the breezeway, I lock my door and tuck my key into my pocket.
“Thank you.”
My teeth dig into my bottom lip, and I turn to look at him. That’s the last thing I ever expected to hear him say, and from his expression, it looks like the words taste foreign to him.
“It wasn’t a big deal. Have a good day.” I turn and jog back toward the stairs, then down them. When I get to my cleaning cart, I take out my cell phone, start the podcast back to where it left off, and shove everything else out of my head while I get to work.
Sitting in the middle of my bed with a stack of cash at my hip and a map of the United States laid out in front of me, I look at all the places circled in red marker. Eleven places in total, and I now have enough money to make it to at least four more of them, maybe even five, before I’ll have to stop somewhere and work for a few months.
I glance at my phone on my nightstand when it begins to buzz, a pit instantly forming in my stomach when I see it’s Tyler, my ex-fiancé, calling. My finger hovers over the green button for a long moment before I press the red one and send the call to voicemail. We haven’t spoken in weeks, not since he called me drunk to explain in detail all the ways I ruined his life and broke his heart.
I gave him time to get it off his chest, to accept the brunt of his pain, and when he was done, all I could do was apologize because he was right.
Looking back, I realize I should never have accepted his proposal when he asked me to marry him. I think I knew that when he got down on one knee with my mom and his family all there. But I couldn’t say no, not after looking over at my mom and seeing the happy and relieved smile on her face. A smile that said saying yes to him would mean I wouldn’t be alone when her time finally came, that I would have something to live for and look forward to. Selfishly, I desperately wanted her to have that, to have that peace, that weight off her shoulders.
And for a while, I was able to lie to myself.
Part of me wanted to believe that the life Tyler offered me might be enough to keep me from drowning. We had been together since high school, so he knew me better than almost anyone. Life with him would be easy. We’d have a couple of kids, live on his family’s farm that was right next to the land my mom left me, and one day, we’d be buried next to each other in his family plot.
But that lie I told myself crumbled to pieces after my mom died. Like everyone else in my life, Tyler was absolutely against me taking the journey I’m on now. He declined to join me, made it clear he was unwilling to compromise, and told me that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—support me.
To him, me leaving Wyoming for any length of time was me giving up on us. He failed to see my leaving had nothing to do with him.
Dropping my gaze to the map, I circle the red line around Glacier National Park with my finger. It was the first place my mom circled when I gave the map to her and the only place we were able to visit together before she passed. Her heart gave up on her way before I was ready to let her go.
Logically, I know it was better that way, better that she didn’t suffer or have to deal with the pain becoming so unbearable she’d have to medicate herself to the point of not being able to get out of bed. But selfishly, I wanted the time she promised me.
Looking across the room at the box I placed on the dresser this afternoon, I swallow. It took me forever to pay the funeral home for my mom’s cremation, the division of her ashes, and the gravestone I picked out to be placed in her family’s plot next to her parents, with the majority of her ashes in an urn there.
I still remember the sick feeling that hit me in my gut when I called them to schedule a time to pick up the small portion of her ashes they hadn’t placed at her gravesite. They told me over the phone that they wouldn't be handing them over until I settled my bill.
I knew right then that my mom’s side of the family had used their influence in town to make things harder for me like they weren’t already difficult enough. I’m sure they believed doing that would force me to stay, but I was done trying to make everyone happy by that point. So I gave Tyler his ring back, traded in my car for a van, and started driving without a clue of how I would make it. I just knew I needed out.
Dropping my gaze to the map once more, I wonder what my mom would think about my choices over the past few months.
She’d probably be disappointed about some of them and worried about me traveling alone, but I also like to think she would be proud of me for taking a risk and stepping outside my comfort zone. Like her, I assumed I would live and die in the small town in Wyoming I grew up in, never seeing more than a few hundred miles around it. Now, I’ve seen a slice of Montana, a little of Washington state, and a whole lot of the Oregon coast, including Cannon Beach, where I’ve been living and working for the past five months.
I lucked out when I stopped at The View and met Ernest. I needed a place to rest my head without the worry of something happening to me since I’d been driving in my van for five days at that point, sleeping in parking lots and showering at rest stops along the way. I asked him on a whim if he needed any help, and he told me all he had open was a housekeeping position. He offered me the job that day, along with a room to stay in for free—a kindness I’m still not sure I deserved but will forever be grateful for.
When my stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the Pop-Tarts I had this morning, I glance at my phone to check the time. I have a little over an hour before my shift at the bar, enough time to go eat and still make it back. After folding up the map, I tuck my money away and slip on my shoes before I grab my coat and keys.
As soon as I step out of my room, the door next to mine opens. I don’t bother saying hi or even turning to look at the man I know is there. I head for the stairs and down, hearing him behind me as I tuck my hands into my coat pockets to fight the chill in the evening air.
Stopping at the edge of the street, I wait for the traffic to clear so I can cross.
“Is there anywhere to eat around here?”
I look at him over my shoulder and find him scrolling on his phone as he walks toward me. “Are you talking to me?”
His startling colored eyes meet mine. “Yeah,” he replies, tucking his cell away in his pocket.
“There’s a small café not far from here. I’m going there now if you want to come with.” The offer is out before I have a chance to overthink it. Or maybe I only offer because I expect him to turn me down.
Catching up to me in two long strides, he falls into step with me when I start across the street. Neither of us speaks on the short walk down Main Street—something I’m thankful for. I hate when people fill silence with meaningless words about the weather or whatever is happening in the world.
When we reach the café, he opens the door, and I enter before him.
“You’re not working tonight, El?” Martin, one of the owners of The Coasts, asks when he comes out of the back and spots me. His eyes briefly go to the man with me, filling with surprise and maybe even a little appreciation.
Not a surprise.
“I am, but not for another hour.” I walk up to the counter.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks, and I look up at the man at my side and wait for him to answer. I might have a guess what his name is, but I haven’t asked him myself.
“Roman,” he tells him, and the confirmation he’s Valentino’s brother sinks to the pit of my stomach like a lead weight.
“How do you know El?”
“He’s staying at The View,” I cut in, then change the subject. “What are the specials today?”
“Tomato soup and turkey pesto grilled cheese.”
“Did Jeff make the soup?”
“What if he didn’t?” His eyes narrow slightly.
My smile is genuine. “Martin, I like you, but?—”
“Don’t upset him, El.” Jeff, Martin’s husband, comes out from the back and joins him at the register. “He’s still sensitive.”
“I’m not sensitive. I’m offended.” He looks at the man standing at my side. “Whatever she told you, it’s a lie.”
“I haven’t told him anything.” I look up, and eyes that now seem more green than blue under the fluorescent lights meet mine. “He tried to kill me.” That gets me a brow raise.
“You did not just tell him that,” Martin whispers, horrified.
“Is it not true?” I ask, looking back at him and trying not to smile.
“How was I to know you have a peanut allergy?”
“Who puts peanuts in vegetable soup?”
“They’re a vegetable.”
“They are not. I don’t care what Google says.” I laugh when he rolls his eyes. “If Jeff made the soup, I’ll take the special and a fountain drink.”
“You just love pissing him off, don’t you?” Jeff laughs, and Martin lets out a huff, then looks at Roman.
“What about you? What are you having?”
“I’ll have the same as her.”
“Sounds good. Find a seat, and we’ll bring your food out.” Jeff passes two reusable cups over to us, and we walk to the fountain machine.
“Elora.”
“Pardon?”
I look up at Roman as I fill my cup with Diet Coke. “My name’s Elora. Everyone calls me Elora except for Martin and Jeff. I don’t know why they call me El.”
Faltering under his blank stare, I turn and walk to a small table and take a seat. He folds into the chair across from mine while I take off my coat and look out the window. The town is quiet today. Then again, it’s a weekday, so things are usually slow until Friday, when everyone shows up to spend time at the beach, no matter if it’s freezing or even pouring rain.
“Did you grow up here?” he asks, and I turn to him.
“No, I grew up in a small town in Wyoming.” I pick up my drink to take a sip. “You?” After confirming he's Roman, I already know the answer, so I’m not surprised when he responds.
“Manhattan.”
“It must have been interesting to grow up there.”
“You could say that,” he mutters, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Why are you here in Oregon?”
“I work here.”
“But you don’t live here. You live at the hotel like a guest just passing through town.”
“Why are you here?” I shoot back. The way he’s positioned with his arms crossed lets me know he might be willing to ask me things about myself, but he probably won’t be open to responding truthfully if I return the favor.
Glancing out the window, he shakes his head, then answers with an honesty that surprises me. “I don’t fucking know.”