2. Weston
Weston
I leave the meeting with the same headache I came in with, plus three new problems.
Three architects, two investors, one whiteboard, nothing on it. The problem hasn't moved in months: How do you move a guest from the lobby of my building to the water without wrecking the building?
Route them across the spa terrace, and you kill the spa — no one pays four hundred a night for steam while strangers track sand past the loungers. Build a dedicated corridor, and it eats six rooms of revenue — investors said no twice in two different tones.
So we sat until the coffee went cold and left with the same whiteboard.
The sketch is in my jacket pocket. I've folded and unfolded it all afternoon until the crease has gone soft.
I get in the car, point it at Newport, and call my sister.
She picks up on the fourth ring, which means she thought about not. "Hey."
"Hey. You eat?"
"I'm nineteen, Wes, not on a feeding schedule."
"That's not an answer."
"I had something."
"What?"
"Food, Weston. I had food." A door shuts on her end. The music behind her drops. "You're doing the thing."
"I'm driving."
"You're doing the driving-and-interrogating thing."
I let it sit. The trees break on the right, and the water comes up gray and flat. I look at that instead of the dash clock I've already checked twice.
"How's your boyfriend?"
The pause tells me she knows which friend. "Beckett's fine."
"Mm."
"You're going to have to like him eventually."
"I don't know him."
"You said you didn't like him in four minutes."
"Three." She laughs.
My hand loosens on the wheel.
Then she remembers she's annoyed. "He's pre-law, texts me back, opens doors, and hasn't done one thing wrong, which I know is killing you."
Nobody's done anything wrong yet. I keep it behind my teeth. "I'm glad you're happy."
"You're a bad liar."
"Eat something real. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Love you. Stop hovering."
She's gone before I can do either one back.
I could call Ethan — he'd tell me I'm hovering, and he'd be right. Or Jasper — he'd agree with the parts I didn't say out loud and have me sick about it by dinner. I call neither.
The Langford comes up wet and lit. I hand off the car and go in.
Every Friday, I run this version of the drive. The Langford is better quiet, deeper focus, a better place to rest than an empty house two hours south, where my sister's door stands open down the hall.
I take the key card from her, and our fingers catch sometimes, the way I've decided not to notice, and I go up.
I spread the plans across the desk. The lobby, terrace, the six rooms, the water access circled in three colors of other people's ink. I should be in it.
I look at the clock instead. Her shift starts. Nine minutes after I sit down, I'm on my feet with a reason to go back to the lobby — the printer, the large format, a thing I could ask anyone with a name tag.
I don't work hard to sell it to myself in the elevator.
She’s the first thing I see when I step into the hallway. I never forgot that night. I looked for her after. For a while, anyway. Got nowhere, so I quit. Figured maybe it was just a night. One of those things that happens and then disappears.
Then I walked into my hotel, and there she was. Same brown eyes. Same smile. “Welcome to the Langford Hotel. My name is Monique. How can I help you?”
Not, “It’s you.”
Nothing.
She didn’t remember me. I would’ve preferred she hated me.
After that, I kept telling myself to let it go, but it didn't work.
Every Friday, I find myself back at her desk, waiting for her to look at me and remember.
Right now, she's dealing with an older guy who's one complaint away from bursting a blood vessel.
I’ve learned a few things about Monique. There’s always coffee somewhere within reach. Everything on her desk has its place. Every hour, she wipes the whole thing down.
I wonder if she knows what that night did for me.
After the plane crash, when I was running out of reasons to keep going, thinking about her was one of the few things that got me through it.
She turns the screen, shows him a line, and hands him a way out with his dignity intact. He takes it and never gets the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
I watch her before I walk over. Not in a creepy way. At least that’s what I tell myself. Mostly I’m waiting. Every week, I come down here and wait for her eyes to catch on mine. For something to change. A flicker. A pause. A look that says I know you.
Today, she glances up while she’s helping the older man. Her gaze lands on me. My pulse jumps. Just for a second. Then she looks right through me and goes back to typing.
Nothing.
The same as every other Friday. The old man eventually leaves, looking slightly less angry than when he arrived. Monique takes a breath and rolls one shoulder.
I walk over before I lose my nerve.
Her posture straightens immediately. “Mr. Blackwood.”
I stop at the desk and realize I don’t actually have a reason for being there.
“Do you need something?” she asks.
“Uh…” Brilliant. “No.”
One eyebrow lifts. “No?”
“I was taking a stroll.”
Her frown deepens. She glances around. “In the lobby?”
“Yes.” Another pause. It’s not judgment, but it isn't an agreement either.
She studies me for another second, then looks away. “I see.”
I lean against the desk. “You don’t sound convinced.”
Monique’s eyes find mine from underneath her lashes. And once again, I’m standing in front of the bench with my hands underneath her chin. I drag myself back from the past and to the present, where Monique’s eyes are still on me.
“I’m trying very hard to be.”
That gets a laugh out of me. Her expression shifts for half a second. Then the main doors slide open. A courier pushes a cart stacked with boxes. Too many boxes. Too much width. He’s heading straight for a corridor he isn’t going to fit through.
Monique glances over once. “Around the lounge,” she says.
The courier stops. “Sorry?”
She points with two fingers. “Take the service vestibule. The loading entrance is quicker.”
The courier immediately changes direction. Thirty seconds later, he’s gone. The lobby never misses a beat.
I look back at her. “You know every inch of this place?”
She shrugs. “I work here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
For a moment, she studies me, then shrugs again. “Most of it.”
For some reason, that answer feels more honest than saying yes. Another front desk employee glances over. Then again. The look says exactly what I’m thinking. Why is this guy here?
Reasonable question. I don’t have a good answer. Monique notices it too. I can tell by the way her mouth tightens. She’s aware of me.
I tap two fingers against the desk. “Well.”
“Well.”
Neither of us moves.
Then she looks toward the next guest approaching the lobby. Duty calling. The moment’s over.
I push myself away from the counter. “Have a good evening, Monique.”
“You too, Mr. Blackwood.”
I wait for a moment, hoping to see some flicker of recognition, a trace of memory, anything that might suggest she remembers.
Nothing comes. Eventually, I leave.
The elevator ride up feels longer than usual, and when I step into my room, the silence swallows the space. I pace from one end to the other, check my phone, sit down, then get back up.
After staring out the window for a few minutes, I resume my restless circuit of the room.
I’m acting insane. I know.
Another five minutes pass. I make it to the door, turn around, and walk back to the window. I last thirty more seconds. Then I'm heading for the elevator again.
When I come back downstairs, I don't bother with a reason.
Usually I at least try — the Wi-Fi, the ice machine, extra towels, something that justifies the trip.
Tonight, I make it all the way to the desk before it occurs to me I should've prepared an excuse.
Monique looks up when I stop in front of her. Actually looks up.
For a second, something shifts at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile, but close enough that I feel it anyway. If that's not flirting, it's doing a convincing impression of it. I’m willing to bet she’s into me.
“Mr. Blackwood, you’re back.”
“Monique.”
Her hands settle on the keyboard. One eyebrow rises slightly. “Didn’t we already solve your problem?”
There it is again. That almost-smile.
I lean a forearm against the counter. “Apparently not.”
“Hmm…”
That’s all she gives me. Still worth the trip downstairs.
Before I can think of something else to say, singing drifts through the lobby. Loud. Off-key. The kind of singing that belongs in a shower, not the lobby of a luxury hotel.
A man stumbles through the front doors a moment later, carrying the song with him. A few guests glance over. One couple exchanges a look. Juan doesn’t even blink. He’s already moving.
I look at Monique instead of the drunk.
She notices him. Her eyes flick up for a second, taking in the situation. Then she goes right back to her screen. No tension. No uncertainty. Just a quick assessment and a decision. The kind of thing most people wouldn’t notice.
I do.
The drunk disappears toward the elevators with Juan steering him in the right direction. The lobby settles around us again.
Monique lets out a slow breath through her nose and rolls one shoulder before returning to whatever she’s working on. It’s such a small thing I probably shouldn’t catch it. The problem is that I’ve spent months noticing things about her.
“You weren’t worried?” I ask.
Her eyes lift. “About what?”
“Him.”
She glances toward the elevators. “Juan had it handled.”
“You knew that.”
“I know Juan.”
Simple answer. Simple confidence. For some reason, I like that answer more than I should.
She goes back to typing. Conversation over, as far as she’s concerned.
I should probably leave. Instead, I stay where I am, watching her work. The crease between her brows appears when she concentrates. Her coffee has gone cold again. She keeps tucking the same loose strand of hair behind her ear every few minutes because it refuses to stay put.
Then she looks up and catches me staring.
My pulse jumps before I can stop it. For one ridiculous second, I think this is it. The moment something clicks into place. The moment she looks at me differently.
Instead, she just asks, “Was there something else?”
“No.” The word comes out rougher than I intend. I clear my throat. “No. That’s it.”
She nods once and returns to her screen.
I tap two fingers against the desk and push away from it. “Good night, Monique.”
“Good night, Mr. Blackwood.”
I walk toward the elevators. Halfway there, I glance back. She’s already helping another guest. I can feel her forgetting about me before the doors even close.
The room feels too quiet when I get back upstairs.
The plans are spread across the table exactly where I left them, water access routes circled and crossed out so many times the page looks bruised. I stare at them for a while without actually seeing any of it.
My phone lights up on the desk.
Iris
Are you awake?
I call immediately. No answer. I call again. Voicemail.
I leave the phone face up beside me and try not to think about it. It doesn’t work.
After a few minutes, I end up standing at the window.
Six years, and I never stopped waiting for her to come back.
Six years since a girl stood beside me on a pier, talking about tides, bad coffee, and things that shouldn't have mattered. She walked away before I could ask her last name.
Then one day, I walked into my own hotel and found her behind the front desk.
Same eyes.
Same voice.
Older now. Tired around the edges.
But it’s her.
I remember asking if we’d met before. The stupidest possible way to tell someone you’ve carried the memory of them around for years.
She said no without hesitation. No pause to search her memory. Nothing.
I should’ve told her then.
Every week, it gets harder to say anything at all. Some stubborn part of me decides maybe I won’t have to. Maybe she’ll look up and remember on her own.
I know better. Still doesn’t stop me.
I look at the clock on the nightstand. Three minutes. That’s how long I last.
Then I’m heading for the elevator.