Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
REED
S leep. That’s what I should be doing instead of barreling down Highway 95 at three in morning. But after I called Jack, I couldn’t stay.
Rhabdomyolysis, he called it: a form of kidney failure caused by the breakdown of muscle tissue.
I wanted it to be me. I wanted to give Hailey her best friend and Jack his squad leader back. Change every decision I made over the last twenty-four hours.
Instead, I did what I do best: put my phone on silent and left town.
I roll down the window and let the wind drive everything away. Well, almost everything.
A heavy metal concert is ravaging my stomach, forcing me to pull off at a random diner to quiet it with a hamburger, fries, and a raspberry milkshake.
A waitress with a shock of red hair slides a glass across the gingham tablecloth. I take a long pull of the watered-down fruit through a plastic straw.
“How is it?” she asks with a southern drawl .
“It’s not LaBeau’s.”
It’s rude but honest, my answer. I hoped that it might taste like home. Give me some indication of where to go next.
“Do you think I could have a pickle to go with it?” I ask.
“Honey, if you think a pickle is gon’ save that sorry excuse for a drink, you’re sorely mistaken.” She chuckles.
“You could have warned me, ya know.” I dunk the straw a few more times before taking another sip. Nope . Still tastes like a diluted Crystal Light packet.
“Now why would I have done that when I needed somethin’ to keep this job interestin’.”
“What’s wrong with your job? It seems”—I scan all the empty chairs—“delightful.”
“I was gon’ be a sky divin’ instructor at your age. Biggest mistake I ever made was walkin’ away from that.”
Sounds like we have a lot in common.
“Why did you do it then?” I ask.
“The only reason you ever change your plans… For someone you love.”
Someone you love . The words are like pinpricks wrapped in guilt.
“It’s worth it though,” she adds. “Every bit of the stayin’.” Then she rests a picture next to my plate. She’s at a farmers’ market with a wicker basket full of fresh fruit and flowers, holding the hand of a small child.
“Lucy’s my reason for everythin’.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “She looks like you.”
“I knew I liked you,” she says, bumping into me. “Nobody says that.” She swipes her picture from the table and tucks it back in her apron pocket.
“It’s the smile,” I add “It’s clear you’re her reason too. ”
She looks a little stunned by my answer. “Well,” she says, dabbing at her eyes, “can I get you anything else?”
“No. Thank you,” I say, raising my sub-par shake to her.
“Don’t mention it. Like I said, keeps life interestin’.” She winks at me and disappears through the wooden bi-fold doors into the kitchen.
I shuffle the food around my plate. Is that why I always chase the next best thing? Because it keeps life interesting? No . After this summer, I don’t think it’s the leaving that does that. It’s not a place that I’m seeking anymore but a feeling. I think I could be anywhere in the world and feel it if I wasn’t so scared of rejection.
I push a hand through my already rumpled hair. Or maybe it’s my head that’s scrambled from that all-nighter. I really need sleep.
I down the hamburger and fries and leave a twenty-dollar tip behind. Through drooping eyelids, I spot a little blue sign with a bed on it. It’s not even ten in the morning but I’ve already lived the longest day of my life.
I park the truck at the Best Western and drag my duffel bag through the river rock entrance and into the low-lit lobby.
“How can I help you?” An attendant in a matching burgundy suit vest and business skirt ditches a book with a scantily clad couple on the cover.
“I’d like a room please.”
“How many guests will be staying with you?” She scans the lobby.
“Just me.”
A nervous laugh bubbles up from her chest. The sharp points of her black nails clack against the keyboard. “One guest, one bed. I’ll need a form of ID and a credit card to put on file, please.”
I fish my wallet from my pocket and pass the cards to her.
“Do you want to participate in our singles happy hour we’re having tonight? It’s free to all guests! You just have to RSVP.”
What part of these dark circles say single and ready to mingle?
“No thank you,” I say.
If this lady could hurry up and fork over my key I might actually make it to my room before passing out.
“Room 313. It’s on the third floor,” she clarifies.
“Thank you.” I shuffle to the elevator.
With the press of a button the doors slide part way open and pause. They hang there for about ten seconds before closing.
Perfect .
I give it a good five seconds before trying again. Same thing.
I have two choices here: stuff myself through the slot or hike up the stairs. I’d rather not compete in an Olympic sport in the condition I’m in. Turn and slide, it is.
With a shove, my bag clears the gap and swings toward the buttons highlighting floors one, two, and three.
This is beginning to feel like a series of comedy scenes all smashed together.
Joey Tribbiani and Buddy the Elf would be so proud.
When the doors clamp shut, I slump against the back wall. Even the key card acts a little faulty the first two tries when I find room 313.
As they say, third time’s the charm.
I’m greeted by a lovely shade of chocolate brown. Everything but the bedding on the king-sized mattress is that color. It’s the last thing I remember before falling into a dreamless sleep.
When I wake next, a woodpecker pounds at the base of my skull. What time is it?
“No housekeeping, thank you,” I yell .
A knock sounds again, and I groan. This hotel .
I peel myself off the comforter, trudge across the sea of dingy carpet, and yank on the door handle.
“I said, no—” The words die on my tongue as I stare into my father’s eyes.