Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Life is funny.
And I don’t mean just ha-ha funny; I also mean cunning, curious, capricious, and, “The joke’s on you, Batman!” funny.
Sleep gradually receded and I blinked against unforgiving brightness.
The first thing I saw was the staunchly, almost glowingly white pillow and empty sheets next to me.
To my still drowsy eyes, the sheets did not look familiar and the room was too bright.
I frowned, closed my eyes, and opened them again, and then I remembered.
Naked.
On a bed.
In a hotel.
In Las Vegas.
Having just spent the better part of the early morning engaging in insouciantly indulgent lovemaking with Quinn Sullivan.
I sat up abruptly and unthinkingly. My eyes were no longer drowsy.
I was shocked awake as though an electric current had just been passed through my spine.
My gaze tried to absorb everything at once: the room, the window, the door, the clock, the bed, my nakedness, the discarded piles of clothes peppering the floor like anthills, and the equally discarded pile of cards next to the ottoman.
Rigidly, I listened intently for sounds—footsteps, breathing, shower, faucet—and spent several seconds holding my breath until I was convinced that I was alone.
I released the breath I’d been holding slowly, and allowed my muscles to relax just a little.
I allowed my brain to turn its attention to thoughts and feelings other than alarm and battle readiness as my eyes slowly took in my surroundings.
I looked at the details rather than ascertain whether or not I was in immediate danger of encountering Quinn.
Because, impulsively, on first recognizing and realizing where I was and what I’d done, that’s what it felt like: danger.
Since I spent much of my childhood being left behind and ignored, one might think that, as an adult, moments of perceived abandonment would feel old hat.
The truth is, as an adult, I am always waiting to be left behind.
I’m always ready to be discarded and, therefore, I spend a significant amount of time preparing for this eventuality.
I lower my expectations, I don’t seek out meaningful relationships, and I don’t engage in any sort of real intimacy, physical or otherwise.
Engage is the key word here.
Except, when I do engage, when it happens, when I’m left behind it doesn’t feel old hat. It feels like it did the first time, and it takes me by surprise.
So I don’t let it happen.
I swallowed, then licked my lips, absentmindedly pulled the bottom one through my teeth with worry. I glanced around the room and noted with cool detachment that the clock read 9:31 a.m. The only clothes strewn about belonged to me. I was alone.
There was, however, a note.
A white piece of paper lay on the bed next to me. I recognized the hotel logo at the top and Quinn’s efficient script beneath. The note was illegible from where I sat, so I stared at it.
I stared at it.
And, I stared at it.
Then, I stared at it.
After that, I stared at it.
Dragging my attention elsewhere, I pushed my heavy, long hair away from my eyes and behind my shoulder then rested my forehead in my hand; my thumb and index fingers rubbed my temples.
Tangible memories, not just initial scattered fragments, of what occurred before I fell asleep, of what I’d done and said, of what we did together, flooded into focus, and a faintly familiar small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly difficult to breathe.
Impaired judgment.
It wasn’t anxiety or fear. It was something like wishing, or longing—or hope. The sensation reminded me of when my mother would actually be present for one of my birthdays when I was a child, or when my parents would sit us down, the three girls, and tell us that my mom would be staying this time.
I was uncomfortable with the sensation, and it made me feel despondent and weary.
So I pushed it away as I’d done last night after we made love the first time, and I walked to the bathroom to take my shower.
I encouraged my mind to wander, to think about something other than what Quinn’s note said and what, if anything, had changed because of last night; whether, in the light of day, my decisions had been good ones; where Quinn was; or when I would see Quinn again.
However, to my disappointment, despite my desire to daydream about anything and everything else, all I could think about was the what, whether, where, and when of Quinn. This might have had something to do with the fact that signs of him were everywhere; and, by everywhere, I mean all over my body.
I was sore from… exertion, as evidenced by nail marks, bite marks, and scruff marks. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for an indeterminate amount of time and, gritting my teeth, I turned on the shower.
It wasn’t just that I’d never experienced anything like the connection, the intimacy, or the sensations of the previous night. Rather, it was that I’d never realized the desire existed.
I felt wholly disconcerted by the fact that what had been a previously unidentified want now felt more like a need, like water and breathing and comic books and shoes.
I didn’t like it that something had been awakened in me.
I preferred to be in control of my cravings.
Furthermore, I preferred only to have cravings I could satisfy without the requirement or assistance of another person.
This was, after all, the definition of self-reliance.
I tried to remind myself that I had been drunk, so nothing that happened last night really counted or mattered.
Impaired judgment.
Surely, he would realize that I’d been exhibiting impaired judgment.
After the shower, I towel-dried and applied hair product to my curls. My cheeks were flushed, and it had more to do with the memory of the previous night than with the steam of the shower.
I walked into the main room and, still avoiding the note, scaled the perimeter of the bed, picked up my discarded clothes and folded them into a neat pile next to my suitcase. I picked out another business suit from the closet and started to dress, on autopilot.
It was now 9:47 a.m., and the plane was due to leave at 3:00 p.m.
I was facing five hours alone with the note. I eyed it despairingly.
The other disconcerting realization originating from last night was the moment of what I thought was shared trust. I gave him something in that moment, when our eyes met and I became fearless; it was a part of myself.
And now, in the very bright light of day, I wasn’t so sure that I’d made an especially wise decision.
He hadn’t earned that trust. I gave it to him based on weakness called faith, and the faith had been based on wine-pickled-brain-impaired-judgment.
I didn’t want to read the note. I felt certain I knew what it said. He was, after all, a Wendell at heart, and I’d just become one of his slamps. I swallowed thickly at the thought.
But I wasn’t. I wasn’t a slamp.
Instead of being controlled by the girly-drama-hysterical Janie, the more logical Janie endeavored to make her presence known: Having the hot sex over the course of several hours does not a slamp make.
These thoughts didn’t help either.
With a huff, I crossed to the bed and picked up the note; girly-drama-hysterical Janie was certain it was a blow-off. Logical Janie decided to reserve judgment until the note was read.
Janie,
I’ll be right back with breakfast and coffee. Call me as soon as you wake up.
-Quinn
I stared at the note.
I stared at it.
And, I stared at it.
Then, I stared at it.
After that, I stared at it.
The longing was back, along with the hope. It spread like a wildfire through my heart and brain and body so fast I nearly lost my breath. Therefore, I did the only thing that made sense.
I panicked.