6.
Bianca's text comes in while I'm still in the backseat, the city lights of California smearing against the tinted window like watercolor.
I stare at it for a second too long.
My first reaction is irritation—quick, sharp, gone as soon as it arrives. Like my body reaches for disappointment and I swat it away on instinct.
Bianca has a real life. Bianca has deadlines and draft submissions.
I type back.
The heart is strategic. Casual. Proof that I'm normal about this.
Proof that I'm fine.
Except the moment I hit send, I feel my night rearrange itself—quietly, efficiently—like a new itinerary sliding into place.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
I don't like being alone.
Not in the romantic way people confess it, like it's cute or quirky.
I don't like being alone because my mind isn't friendly when it's unsupervised.
When everything goes still, something in me starts pacing. It picks at thoughts the way my fingers pick at seams. It turns the volume up on things I've spent all day keeping muted.
My security detail moves through the lobby first—polite, efficient, clearing a path I don't ask for but can't refuse. The hotel is bright with winter light, all pale stone and glass walls and a decorative fireplace flickering behind polished glass like even warmth has rules.
The concierge smiles too wide the second he sees me.
"First Lady Housner—welcome."
Not Naomi.
Never Naomi.
I return the smile because it's automatic now, the kind my face offers without checking in with the rest of me.
Poker face.
My key arrives on a sleek black folder with my name embossed like I'm a brand. The concierge offers to escort me personally.
"I'm fine," I say softly, and I hate how practiced it sounds.
The elevator ride is silent except for faint music overhead—something jazzy and slow, like the hotel is trying to convince everyone inside that they're relaxed.
My security stands behind me, eyes scanning the mirrored walls instead of looking at my face. That's the thing about this life now—everyone is always near, but no one is ever close.
When we reach my floor, the hallway smells like expensive soap.
The kind Rodney likes.
The suite door clicks open. My detail does their sweep like muscle memory, checking corners as if the quiet might be hiding something.
"Ma'am," one of them says, nodding once like I've been declared safe.
They step back into the hall.
The door shuts.
And suddenly—
It's just me.
The suite is beautiful in the way expensive spaces always are: pale couch, small dining table set for no one, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the city. A bedroom beyond that with crisp white sheets that look untouched by real life.
It's the kind of room people pay for when they want to feel important.
It just makes me feel watched.
I don't linger.
I don't go to the window.
I don't give the silence a chance to get comfortable.
I move like I'm on a timer—coat off, shoes kicked aside, makeup wiped down with the tiny hotel packet. Hair loosened. Clothes folded. Everything done quickly, efficiently, like speed can outrun my thoughts.
I climb into bed and turn the lamp off.
Darkness fills the room.
And my body waits.
At first I tell myself this is normal. Travel. A new bed. A new city.
But the minutes crawl and my mind starts doing what it does when it has nothing else to manage.
It replays.
It anticipates.
It rehearses.
Rodney's face flashes behind my eyes.
Most people would love a night like this—distance, a locked door, a few hours where the thing that hurts them can't reach.
Freedom, even if it's temporary. But my brain doesn't know how to rest in freedom.
It treats it like a lull before impact. Rodney's moods.
Rodney's hands. The next lash. The next appearance.
The next smile I'll have to wear. The next version of myself I'll have to edit so he doesn't feel the need to punish me—so I don't give him a reason to hit, or worse.
And if I'm not careful, if I let the room get too quiet, I stop thinking about him at all.
I start thinking about the kinds of solutions my mind offers when it wants everything to go silent.
I roll onto my side. Then my back. Then my other side.
The sheets are too smooth. The room is too still. My chest tightens—not a storm yet, just pressure building like a vice turning one notch at a time.
I sit up.
Breathe.
Tell myself to stop being dramatic.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand.
The floor is cold under my feet. Too cold.
I pace once.
Twice.
From the bed to the window and back, not even looking out.
Because the second I stop, the thoughts get clearer.
And the clearer they get, the more convincing they sound.
My stomach turns with a familiar dread.
I pause near the couch, breathing shallow, hands clenched and unclenched like I'm trying to release something I can't name.
The room is quiet.
And the quiet is starting to grow teeth.
I turn toward the side table.
My phone sits there, face down, exactly where I left it.
I stare at it.
Long enough to know what I'm about to do.
Long enough to feel ridiculous for needing to do it.
Long enough to feel relieved anyway.
And before I can talk myself out of it again, my hand reaches for my phone.
Because if I don't call now, I'm not sure what I'll do with all this silence.
My thumb hovers over his name like it weighs more than it should.
Grant Lennox.
I stare at it until my eyes blur, until the screen starts to feel unreal—until I can almost convince myself I'm not actually about to do this. Not actually about to reach for someone who has seen me too close to the edge.
My chest is tight in that vague, creeping way—panic's quieter cousin. Not a storm yet. Just clouds gathering.
I tell myself I'm not calling because I'm in danger.
I'm calling because I'm alone.
And that sounds pathetic in my head even though I know it shouldn't.
I inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
Then I press call before I can change my mind.
One ring.
Two.
My heart beats louder with every second.
I almost hang up.
"Naomi?"
His voice is low, immediate.
My throat tightens.
"Hi," I say. My voice comes out steady enough to pass. "Sorry. I didn't check the time."
"I was awake," he says. "Where are you right now?"
It's a simple question. Not what's wrong. Not why are you calling. Not are you spiraling again.
"In California," I answer. "Hotel."
"Okay," Grant says, calm. "Are you alone in the room?"
"Yes."
"Are you safe?"
Safe.
I glance around—the locked door, the quiet, the expensive furniture, my security on the other side of it. No Rodney.
"I am," I say. Then, because honesty is easier than performance with him, "I think so."
"That's honest," he replies. "Are you somewhere comfortable?"
"Yeah," I lie automatically.
Grant doesn't call it out. He doesn't make me prove anything.
A beat passes.
Then, gently, "What made you decide to call?"
I look at my hands, at the ring that makes every sentence feel supervised.
"It's nothing," I say first, because that's what my mouth is trained to do. "I don't know."
"You do know."
I exhale, annoyed at myself. "I can't sleep."
"Okay," he says, like can't sleep is enough reason.
"I'm fine," I add quickly, as if I need to clarify I'm not embarrassing myself. "I just—this place is too quiet."
Grant exhales softly. "Quiet can be loud."
My jaw tightens. "That sounds ridiculous."
"It doesn't," he says simply.
I swallow. "I'm not having... a situation." The word comes out clipped, like I'm filing it away. "It's just discomfort."
"Okay," Grant says. "That's manageable."
I should feel relieved.
Instead I feel annoyed—at the tightness in my chest, at my own brain, at the fact that I'm calling a man because a hotel room is quiet like I'm twelve years old.
"I canceled my last two sessions," I say, because I'd rather confess something factual than something emotional.
"I know," he replies.
"I didn't want you to remember me like that," I add, still controlled. "After the night I called."
Grant is quiet for a beat.
Then "Naomi, I don't file you under your worst moment."
I blink, staring at the carpet as if it can keep me composed.
"You're not calling me to impress me," he continues, calm. "You're calling because you're trying to stay upright. That will never make me think less of you." A pause. "And you don't have to perform here."
My throat tightens.
I hate that it does.
I clear it like I can erase the reaction. "I'm not performing," I say automatically.
Grant doesn't argue. He just shifts the air in the conversation like he's turning the volume down.
"Tell me what you need right now," he says.
The question lands too intimate.
So I choose the safest answer.
"I need to sleep," I say.
"Okay," Grant replies. "Are you in bed?"
"No."
"Can you get in?" he asks, like it's normal. Like it's not a metaphor. "Not to force sleep. Just to let your body stop working for a minute."
I hesitate because obedience is a trigger.
Then I remind myself this is not Rodney.
I move to the bed and lay down.
"I'm in bed," I say, tone neutral.
"Better?" Grant asks.
"Marginally," I answer dryly before I can stop myself.
And then—because he's smart enough to know I'll drown if he keeps it too serious—he changes direction.
"Can I tell you something ridiculous?" he asks.
I blink. "Sure."
"Have you ever done hot yoga?" He asks randomly.
The randomness caught me off guard, a smile trailed on my face trying to imagine Grant doing hot yoga. "I have."
"I lost a bet with Isabel and was forced to go to a class earlier with her and her friends. I really underestimated it."
I let a laugh slip.
"There she is."
A smile creeped up on my face but I tried to force it back down. "It can get intense, but I enjoy hot yoga every now and then."
Silence crept over us for a moment.
Then he says, "Alright. Your turn."
I blink at the ceiling. "My turn for what?"
"I shared a detail about my day," Grant says. "You share one about yours."
The request is harmless.