Chapter 4 Hayes
Hayes
Well. That run-in with Layla was interesting.
I wait patiently as Benny taps our room key card onto the lock and pushes the door open, then disappears into the rustic space without a backward glance.
“Don’t jump on the—”
She jumps on the bed. Then starfishes.
Of course she does . . .
I make a sound that could be a laugh and could be a groan. Hard to say. The room is warm; my shirt is clinging to my skin from being in the rain.
I peel it off and hang it over the shower bar in the bathroom, then grab the robe on the back of the door and wrestle it over my large frame. It barely fits, but at least I’m covered, and damn is it toasty . . .
My eyes catch my reflection in the mirror: big, tired dude with drenched hair and straw stuck in it, with a scowl that matches my mood.
Out in our room, I hear the sound of the balcony glass door sliding open. “Dad! I wanna go explore!”
Of course she does. She’s squirrely, and we’re in a new town, and I’m sure there’s plenty to see, even though the span of it stretches less than one mile, end to end.
When I walk out of the bathroom to tell Benny to change out of her wet clothes into dry ones, I notice a wicker basket and begin rummaging through it.
It’s a welcome basket filled with fruit and other shit. Apples. Bananas. Several leaf-shaped cookies, a bag of maple candies tied together with an orange plaid ribbon.
Fuzzy socks, two pairs. Adult doodle book and gel pens.
An envelope with a Welcome Fielder Family in bold, cursive letters and a cartoon drawing of an axe.
I glance from the basket to my daughter, who’s leaning against the balcony rails, gazing at the horizon.
Our room has a clear, unobstructed view of the lake.
Benny is transfixed by the view, like a tiny weather reporter. The lake spreads out in full, smug high definition. Docks stitched like notches, lights waking up along the shore, a lone kayak slicing gray water like a pencil line. If the town is only a mile long, it’s at least scenic about it.
I crack the envelope. Inside: a handwritten welcome letter on a thick, cream monogrammed card. The cursive is neat, tidy, with exclamations peppering the note.
Hello Hayes and Benny!
Welcome to Star Lake and the annual Fall Festival. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve agreed to come and participate in the festivities, which will help make this year a smashing success! Please reach out if you need anything or have any special requests.
Tomorrow during the festival, I will have you in a special booth so you don’t have to walk among the crowd and cause a stir and possible foot-traffic pile up. We’ve assigned an assistant for you. June will be available all of Saturday. I will make introductions then.
In the meantime, here is my cell number, do not hesitate to use it.
411-555-8960
I’ve taken the liberty of making you a dinner reservation at Velvet guess I’d been too busy corralling my daughter to appreciate it.
I fish out my phone to pull up the Uber app, only to be greeted with the cheery, mocking words: No Cars Available in Your Area. There must be some mistake.
That can’t be right. I jab Refresh with my sausage pointer finger.
“Hi, excuse me.” I stride over to the concierge desk, thrusting my phone at the young man behind the counter. “It’s not showing any cars in this area.”
The kid behind the counter—skinny tie, black-rimmed glasses, deadpan expression—leans forward for a look. “That’s correct.”
I blink. “Correct as in temporarily correct?”
“No, sir.”
“Will there be cars later?” How long do we have to wait for one to become available? We’re hungry and want to go to dinner.
“No, sir.”
“Like—ever?”
“There are no Ubers in Star Lake, sir.”
I give my head a shake. “I’m sorry, for a second I hallucinated and thought I heard you say there are no Ubers in Star Lake.”
“That is correct.”
I shove my phone back in my pocket and scrub a hand over my face. “There has to be another option. Taxis? Shuttles? A bus?”
We are not driving that truck fifty yards, nor are we walking in the rain. A bus could be fun.
The concierge adjusts his glasses again. “There’s no public transportation. The hotel does not offer a shuttle because we’re so close to town.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bopping nervously. “Sorry, sir.”
Oh my God, why is he calling me sir? I’m barely older than he is.
“Dad, we can drive.”
I snort. “I’m not driving fifty yards down the block. We can walk.”
She scrunches her face. “It’s still raining.”
True. Sheets of rain are still streaking down the glass doors, thunder echoing somewhere over the lake. I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Fantastic. Walking’s out, driving is ridiculous, and apparently we’ve arrived in a town where time stopped in 1992.”
Benny rocks on her heels, far too entertained. “Guess that leaves Plan C.”
I look down at her. “I don’t want to know what Plan C is.”
Her grin is sharklike. “Call Layla.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You literally have no other options unless we walk or drive ourselves. Dad, it’s not a big dealll,” she sing-songs, dragging out the syllables like she’s savoring my reaction. “Plus, we have her number.”
My head shakes. “I left the note card in our room.” I don’t tell Benny that I already have Layla’s number saved to my phone from when she reached out months ago.
“False,” Benny declares, whipping the card out of her back pocket. “Lucky for you, I swiped it on my way out the door. Please, please, please?”
I glance back at the concierge, who’s still standing there, awkwardly polishing the counter with the edge of his sleeve. He offers a tiny shrug like, She’s begging, dude. What choice do you have?
My jaw tics.
I hate this.
Hate I’ve been cornered, hate that I can’t resist her sweet little face, hate that the universe is laughing at me.
I pull out my phone again, poking in Layla’s cell phone number as my daughter reads the numbers out loud. My thumb hovers over the green dot, and I tell my daughter, “This is not a date. This is a mercy call.”
Benny clasps her hands together like she’s praying. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dad.”
“Last chance to walk.” My brows go up. “It’s not far.”
My daughter shakes her head no.
I shoot her a look dark enough to peel paint, then hit Call.