Chapter 15
Chapter
The rain turns torrential almost immediately. The downpour is so heavy, even driving is hazardous. Luckily, our waitress informs us there’s a motel just down the road.
I’m tempted to ask George if he knows what a motel even is, but I decide not to pick at the guy who is my flight home, even if that flight has to happen tomorrow morning. And I really hope it doesn’t get pushed further back than that because I can’t miss my shift at Cornfield’s.
George drives us, five miles under the speed limit with the wipers going at the highest speed. Hopefully we’re not in a flood zone.
The neon-bright sign of the motel appears suddenly through the deluge, and George expertly maneuvers around a few eighteen-wheelers into the surprisingly full lot for such an unappealing-looking place.
At least dingy means it’ll be cheap, I remind myself.
A strip mall across the street has an auto parts shop and a liquor store. I may need a stiff drink to get through a night in a place like this.
We climb out of the car and sprint for the front office, although I feel like George pauses at the hood to let me maneuver in front of him.
Maybe he thinks I’ll get swept away by the rain and he’ll have to explain to Shawn how he lost his sister.
But I make it, and as we stand dripping on the yellow tiles in front of the check-in desk, a guy with a lip full of dip tells us we’re lucky.
“One room left for ya.”
No. No, thank you.
Please, no.
“Rest are full. Or the roof’s leaking. Gonna get it fixed next week.” He grins wide, showing off tobacco-stained teeth.
I wonder how many weeks he’s said that.
“You sure there aren’t two?” I ask, my voice shaking from the cold seeping into my soaked clothes. “No one is checking out?”
He lifts a cup to his lips, spits some brown goo into it, then gives me another wide smile. “Got the one room and that couch right there.” He tilts his head toward a plaid monstrosity beside the desk that I’m sure has seen too much of life. “You could keep me company, little lady.”
“We’ll both sleep in the room.” George sets his credit card on the counter and stares the man down.
“If you change your mind,” the motel worker keeps up his pitch while he swipes George’s card through an ancient-looking machine, “I’m here all night.”
George signs a receipt with an aggressive flick of his wrist. “She won’t.” He collects his card and our room key before pressing a hand against my lower back to guide me outside.
There’s no overhang to protect us from the rain, so in the short stretch it takes us to jog to the room and unlock the door, my shoulders get another dousing.
Once inside I let out a sigh of relief. The place isn’t as bad as it could be.
But it’s also not great.
Worn carpet. Bedspreads on the two doubles that look like they were made before my mom was born. A TV with an antenna. And a general air of just go to sleep so you can forget where you are and leave as soon as you wake up.
“I don’t even know what to do,” I murmur, absorbing the physical representation of giving up.
How did my day go from flying with a puppy to this?
“Dry off.” George nods to the bathroom. “Any interest in a beer? I can grab a six-pack from that liquor store across the way if they’re open.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you get is fine.” If he’s paying, then I won’t be picky.
George reaches for the doorknob only to pause and turn hard eyes on me. “Deadbolt the door after I leave.”
“But then you can’t get back in until I let you,” I argue. “You’ll be stuck in the rain.”
George stares at me, waiting.
“Fine!” I throw up my hands. “But make sure to knock loudly.”
He nods and slips out into the storm as lightning flashes. I slide the bolt in place, then hurry to the bathroom.
And it’s once again not great. Lots of things that used to be white are now shades of yellow and brown. The mirror is cracked in the corner, and the overhead light buzzes like a mosquito is watching me pee. At least the toilet flushes.
My long-sleeved shirt sticks to my skin in a way that makes me itch. I want to take it off so badly, but all I have on underneath is a bra. And not even a cute one. It’s blue and cheap. But it holds the girls in place, so that’s all I need.
Not that I want to wear a cute bra and show it to George. No matter how interesting his forearms were when he was steering us through the downpour. There is absolutely no connection between his thick fingers gripping the wheel and me considering my underwear choices.
I pick up a threadbare towel, the thing so thin I’m not sure it can absorb water anymore.
While I wait for George’s knock, I text Mom and Marge to let them know I’m stuck for the night, then I perch on one of the beds and try to pat my hair and shirt dry.
My phone chimes with their responses telling me to stay safe and check in in the morning.
My fingers hover over the screen, wanting to type out another message asking how Mom is doing.
But they’ve given me no reason to think she’s anything other than as healthy as she was this morning, so I wrestle down my worry and close the text thread.
I set my phone aside and pop up the moment I hear a pound.
After unlocking the door, I whip it open.
George glares at me as water drips down the angles of his face. “Did you even look through the peephole to see if it was me?”
“Why does it matter now?” I fist his shirt and drag him inside out of the rain. “It is you.”
He grunts and runs a hand over his buzzed head. At least he won’t have to worry about wet hair tonight. I move toward the bathroom, intent on grabbing him a towel, when I feel a sticky chill.
On my butt.
“Oh no,” I whisper, horrified.
“What?” George sets the damp brown paper bag he’s carrying on a rickety desk and steps into my space, his eyes scanning me. “What’s wrong?”
“My butt is wet,” I groan.
He blinks. And blinks again.
I leave him to digest my words as I check the bed I was just sitting on. When I press my hands into the cover, I can feel the sogginess.
And that’s when I notice a droplet of water fall from the ceiling onto the bed. Glancing up, I find a brownish stain on the ceiling tiles.
Turns out, this is one of the rooms with a leak, too.
“Shit.” George is at my side, seeing the same thing I am. He reaches out to check the bed closer to the door and sighs. “This one is dry.”
That one. One.
There is only one bed.
And two of us.
And my jeans are wet.
Suddenly, I feel a lot like crying. It’s not that this is the worst situation I’ve ever been in in my life. It’s just that it seems so much worse because the day started off so great.
“Hey. It’s okay.” George is in front of me, his hands gripping my upper arms. “We’ll make it work. I can sleep on the floor.”
“This floor?” I point at the gray green carpet beneath my feet. I haven’t even taken off my shoes because I think dirt would be cleaner than what I’m standing on.
“Yeah.” There’s not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. No grimace. No trepidation. No fear of all the diseases he’ll contract by breathing in the years of gross at our feet. The guy will likely wake up with a raging case of rabies.
“No. We’ll”—just say it—“share the bed.”
George’s fingers tighten slightly, but at least he doesn’t cringe in horror at the idea. I’m not sure how I would’ve taken him preferring the motel carpet of disgust over close proximity to me.
“Only if you’re okay with that,” he says after a prolonged pause.
The problem isn’t me being not okay. The problem is me being too okay with the fantasy of him and me in a bed together, our bodies likely touching on a mattress that suddenly appears smaller than a Cessna cockpit.
What if my horny urges take over while I’m asleep, and I lustfully maul him?
But that’s my issue to deal with, and not a fair reason to make George sleep on a floor that’s probably starred in a few crime scene photos.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds choked. He closes his eyes as if in pain.
“You’re not. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“I don’t mind sharing.” Boy, do I not mind. It’s George I’m looking out for. He does not know the secretly randy bedmate he’s about to share the sheets with. “But my clothes are wet. And I hate wet clothes. The way they cling.” I shudder in discomfort.
George stares at me, and I realize he’s still holding on to my arms. He lets his hands drop like he’s just noticed, too, and I try not to be disappointed. But then, all I can think about is the itchy fabric plastered to me.
Gross. So gross.
“My shirt is dry.” George unzips his jacket, revealing a T-shirt underneath that has managed to escape the rain. “I usually don’t sleep in one. You can have it. We’ll hang your clothes over the heater.”
He nods toward the rusted metal device under the window.
“I…are you sure?” I should say no for a plethora of reasons. The shirt belongs to a guy who doesn’t like me and who I can’t stop imagining making out with. I can’t sleep in the same bed as him in only a shirt.
But my butt is wet, and I’d rather stand naked in the bathroom all night than try to sleep in these soaked jeans.
Side note: I would never last on a camping trip. Don’t invite me. I’m a wimp who needs basic creature comforts, and I’ll be miserable.
Instead of trying to convince me, George hangs his dripping jacket on the back of a wobbly chair, and in one brain-melting move, he pulls the shirt off simply by grabbing the collar and tugging it over his head.
A shirtless George Bunsen stands in front of me, and just like the airplane engine sputtered out that first day we were in the air together, so, too, does my brain in this moment.
Chest. Naked chest with a dusting of brown hair.
That chest wants me to touch it.