Thea
“Ican’t give you that information.” The concierge, Juanita, studies me and my tears with her callous gaze.
She’s middle-aged, but there’s not a single gray hair in the severe bun she wears on top of her head.
She’s got a large, protruding mole in between her brows, and my focus keeps wandering there without my permission.
“B-ut I was robbed!” I hiccup, an unfortunate side effect of my tears, and Juanita backs up a step as if I’m contagious. Maybe my bad luck is.
“I’m here, honey.” An arm slips around my waist, and I fling a hand backward at my attacker. My attacker catches it and slips his fingers through mine.
I blink. Mark. Or whatever his name is.
“Did they give you a new key?” he asks.
“N-no. I need to show ID.” I hiccup again. I’m sure I look more pathetic than the droopy flamingo balloon drifting slowly down to earth in the middle of the lobby as kids jump and reach for it. A leftover from some party?
“What’s wrong?” Mark turns on me, his expression full of concern, and for a moment I want to melt into his kindness, but then I remember I’m supposed to be playing a part.
“I-I’m not feeling so well.”
“She’s dehydrated. Do you have water?” Mark asks the concierge.
Juanita’s brows pinch together, and I sink in on myself, like the balloon, no life left.
“Please, she’s pregnant,” Mark says again.
My heart stops. What did he just say? But there must be some universal pity for pregnant women because Juanita acquiesces and retreats from the desk. “One moment.”
She disappears into the tiny office behind the half-wall, and Mark leans forward and takes a picture of her computer screen.
His arm is back around me as the concierge steps out and rushes toward us, thrusting the water at me. I waste no time cracking it open and draining half the liquid while Mark plays with his phone below the desk.
“Didn’t you tell her your room number, sweetheart?” he asks.
All I can do is shake my head, but the water bottle is still pressed to my lips so I dump the last half down my dress.
I gasp as the cool water hits my chest and seeps toward my stomach. Mark’s brows knit together before he quickly shifts his expression to that of a charming, yet compassionate partner. “She’s not at all well,” he says to Juanita. “Her room is 227. I can give you my ID if you need it.”
I’d like to get a look at that myself.
He reaches into his wallet, then sighs. “Honey, you put your key in my wallet again.” He tsks, giving me a soft smile. “Pregnancy brain.” He turns to the concierge. “Sorry to waste your time.”
He whisks me away from the desk before I can stop him. As if I could.
“I didn’t get a key,” I hiss.
He holds up a plain white card. “Sure, you did.”
I frown. “I don’t think that's mine.”
“I’ll get you a new one later. I slipped this master key from a housekeeper.”
“You did what?” I screech.
“They weren’t going to let you in without an ID, and you’re desperate,” he says, poking the button for the elevator. I stare at his back.
“Am I being gaslighted right now?”
“No, but you are being rather ungrateful.” The elevator dings, and he motions me ahead of him. I’m no longer sure I trust the man who stole a poor housekeeper’s key. But I do need to get into my room.
I exhale slowly, letting the indiscretion go. Unfortunately, it brings to mind a very embarrassing incident from two minutes ago.
My face warms instantly.
“Are you good?” Mark asks.
“Yes.” I swallow. “Thank you for your help. Though next time I would appreciate some warning before you make me pregnant.” My face burns, and I cover my mouth. “I mean announce a fake pregnan—I… you know what I mean.”
His lips twitch and he rolls them in, biting down to stop the laugh I know he wants to release.
I appreciate his restraint. The doors open and I practically run into the hall, the walls of which are indeed very pink. He follows me to my room, and I wait for him to hand over the key. Instead, he swipes it over the scanner for me. It beeps, and I press down the handle, holding it there.
“Gonna keep the evidence of your misdeeds?” I ask, looking over him one last time.
He spins the key in his fingers, then slips it into his pocket. “Nah, I’ll return it. I’m not actually a thief.”
“One of the good ones, then?”
He leans closer, one inch, maybe two, a distance so minuscule I can’t be sure I didn’t imagine it. Whatever his proximity, or lack thereof, has my heart pumping harder. “I never said that.”
Something tells me he could use some appreciation. “Then allow me to.” I open the door a crack. “Thank you for helping me today.”
“You’re welcome.”
He doesn’t offer more, and I can’t make myself ask. He’s fulfilled all that one kind stranger is required to. I can barely look at him as I say my next words. “I think I can make it home from here.”
He lifts a brow and opens his mouth as if to argue with me. “Are you sure?”
I paste on a totally fake smile. “Yep!” Mostly. Not really. But I’ve made it here; I can make it home. Most likely. I have some cash in my suitcase. At least I’ll have access to a phone. I can call my aunt; she’ll help me work things out, and I won’t leave the safety of my room until I do.
“Okay.” He takes a step backward, hesitating slightly, as if he knows he shouldn’t leave, but I can see his eagerness to be anywhere except here.
“Bye!” I say too quickly, fearing I’m making the greatest mistake of my life as I step inside the room.
The door closes, shutting me in darkness and the humiliation this night has been.
Flipping on the light, I draw in a breath.
It’s vaguely familiar. My pink suitcase is sitting on the bed, the contents scattered all over the room.
How drunk was I?
I head for the bathroom, then stop. There’s… something poking out from under the bed.
That’s not my shoe.
I inch closer, my heart thudding against my ribs the only sound in the world. And then I scream.