Chapter 7
Celia
I wake to pale morning light filtering through my bedroom curtains and the immediate awareness that I’m alone.
The space beside me in bed is cold, the pillow still bearing the indent of Aleks’s head but no other trace of his presence.
I sit up slowly, running my fingers through tangled hair and trying to process the hollow feeling in my chest.
The house feels different. Not just quiet in the normal way of early morning, but genuinely empty, like all the air has been sucked out of it. I pull on my robe and pad downstairs, half-expecting to find him in the kitchen making coffee with that careful attention to detail I noticed yesterday.
Instead, I find a note propped against the coffee maker in handwriting I don’t recognize. “Thank you for everything. Had to leave early for business. Will be in touch.—A.”
Beside the note sits a stack of cash. More cash than his room cost, and he already paid for it through the app.
It’s also way more than any reasonable tip would justify.
I count it twice, my stomach sinking with each bill.
Each counting confirms it’s four hundred dollars, which is enough to cover nearly two weeks of groceries or a significant chunk of my mortgage payment.
It also feels like payment for services rendered in my bed rather than just as his host.
The practical part of my brain recognizes I need this money, that every dollar helps when I’m scrambling to make ends meet between job interviews and the occasional QwikRent booking. Yet my pride rebels against accepting what feels like compensation for sleeping with him.
I sit at my kitchen table with the cash in my hands, torn between throwing it back at him and tucking it away for emergencies.
The note tells me nothing useful about where he went or whether I’ll actually hear from him again.
“Will be in touch” could mean anything or nothing, the kind of vague promise people make when they want to avoid awkward goodbyes.
The coffee maker gurgles to life on its timer, and I remember I programmed it last night, expecting to share breakfast with him this morning. The assumption now seems laughably na?ve. Of course he left early. What did I expect from a one-night encounter with a virtual stranger?
I pour coffee into a single mug, the routine feeling strange after yesterday’s easy conversation over shared breakfast. The kitchen seems too quiet without his voice asking thoughtful questions about my life, and too empty without his presence filling the space between refrigerator and counter.
Knock it off, Celia. You had a lovely evening with an attractive man who was always going to leave this morning. Nothing about that has changed except your own unrealistic expectations.
I fold the cash and slide it into the emergency envelope I keep in my kitchen drawer, the one labeled “Last Resort” in my own careful handwriting. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now, and four hundred dollars represents a significant buffer against financial disaster.
The house feels too quiet as I shower and dress, so I turn on music to fill the silence. Even with upbeat songs playing, I catch myself listening for footsteps on the stairs or the sound of someone moving around in the guest room.
By ten o’clock, I can’t stand the emptiness anymore. I grab a casserole dish from the freezer and walk across the street to Mrs. Patterson’s house, using meal preparation as an excuse to get out of my own head.
“Celia, dear.” Mrs. Patterson opens her front door with the enthusiasm of someone genuinely delighted by unexpected company. “What a lovely surprise.”
“I came to make you some meals.”
“That’s so thoughtful.”
She ushers me into her cozy living room, where Sariah immediately abandons her favorite squeaky toy to demand attention from her second-favorite human. I scratch behind her ridiculous ears while Mrs. Patterson settles carefully into her recliner.
“How’s the hip feeling?” I ask, genuinely concerned about her recovery.
“Much better, thank you. Physical therapy is helping, though I swear that woman they assigned me is part drill sergeant.” She studies my face with the keen observation of someone who raised four children and taught elementary school for thirty years. “You look tired, dear. Everything all right?”
“Just busy with the hosting business. I had my first guest check out this morning.”
“How exciting! How did it go?”
I should give her a simple, positive summary that doesn’t reveal how complicated the experience became. Instead, I hesitate, probably betraying more than I intend with my expression. “It went well,” I say finally. “He was very polite and respectful.”
“But?”
Mrs. Patterson has always been able to read me like a book, a skill that makes her both an excellent teacher and an occasionally inconvenient neighbor.
“But nothing. It was exactly what it was supposed to be, a professional transaction.” The words taste like ash in my mouth.
“Mmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “I’m sure you’ll have many more guests soon. Word of mouth is powerful in the hospitality business.”
After preparing a casserole for her, along with some easier stovetop meals and freezing them into individual servings, I spend another hour helping her organize medications and discussing her physical therapy routine, grateful for the distraction of focusing on someone else’s needs.
Sariah provides additional entertainment by demonstrating her ability to carry two tiny tennis balls at once, a skill she’s apparently been perfecting during my absence.
“I should take this one for a proper walk,” I say, clipping Sariah’s leash to her collar. “She’s got energy to burn.”
“Wonderful. She’s been moping since yesterday, probably missing her hiking adventure.
She came home absolutely exhausted and covered in pine needles.
Slept for hours, which never happens after our usual neighborhood walks.
” Mrs. Patterson’s eyes twinkle with curiosity.
“I assumed you’d taken her somewhere special? ”
“Oh. Yes, we went up to the ridge trail.” I focus on adjusting Sariah’s leash to avoid meeting her knowing gaze.
“With your guest?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “He didn’t have firm plans for the morning, so I invited him along.”
“How nice. It’s always good to show visitors the natural beauty of our area.” Her tone is perfectly innocent, but I catch the undertone of matchmaking satisfaction that makes me want to disappear into the floor.
“It was just a hike, Mrs. Patterson.”
“Of course, dear. Just a hike with a handsome stranger, who made you glow like a woman who’s remembered what it feels like to be appreciated.”
I stare at her, caught between embarrassment and amazement at her perceptiveness. “How do you?—?”
“Thirty years of teaching gives you an eye for these things. Plus, you’re humming.” She gestures toward me with obvious amusement. “You only hum when you’re processing strong emotions, usually happy ones mixed with uncertainty.”
I realize she’s right. I’ve been unconsciously humming the same melody all morning. “It’s complicated.”
“The best ones usually are.”
Sariah and I walk the familiar neighborhood loop, her enthusiasm for every smell and sight providing a welcome contrast to my brooding thoughts.
She doesn’t care that Aleks left without saying goodbye in person and doesn’t analyze the intentions behind cash left on kitchen counters or wonder whether genuine connection can develop in less than twenty-four hours.
She just enjoys the walk, finding joy in the simple pleasure of exploration and movement.
I try to follow her example, focusing on the crisp mountain air and the way late-morning light filters through pine branches.
I return the dog with enough time to spare to meet Gemma for our usual Thursday lunch.
By the time I meet her at our usual spot downtown, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m handling the situation with appropriate adult perspective.
“You look different,” Gemma says before I’ve even sat down at our booth.
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Relaxed? No, that’s not right.” She tilts her head, studying me with the intensity of someone who’s known me for fifteen years. “You look like you’ve been thoroughly?—”
“Can we order first?” I interrupt, heat flooding my cheeks.
“Oh, my, Celia.” Her eyes widen with delighted realization. “You slept with someone.”
“Keep your voice down.” I glance around the restaurant, though it’s mostly empty in the lull between lunch and dinner crowds.
“You did! You actually had sex with a human male who isn’t Tripp the Terrible.” She leans across the table, grinning like she’s won the lottery. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Proving how observant she is, she says, “Bullshit. You’re practically glowing, and you’re wearing lipstick on a Thursday afternoon, which you never do unless something significant has happened.
” She flags down our server and orders for both of us without consulting the menu, a privilege earned through two years of shared meals and identical taste in comfort food. “Spill.”
I give her the edited version. Attractive guest, unexpected chemistry, and one night of adult companionship that was never meant to be more than temporary connection. I leave out the money on the counter, and how it turned the whole night into something tainted and sordid in my mind.
“I’m proud of you,” she says when I finish the sanitized account.
“For what?”
“For doing something spontaneous and fun without overthinking it to death.” She raises her iced tea in a mock toast. “Though you probably shouldn’t advertise that as coming with the room. Your QwikRent reviews might get interesting.”
I laugh despite myself, grateful for her ability to find humor in situations that make me want to hide under blankets. “It wasn’t planned. It just...happened.”
“That’s usually how it works. So, when are you seeing him again?”