Chapter 37 Hayes
Hayes
Have I always been this restless?
I can’t sit still. I pace the hotel room, going to the window to glance out into the parking lot for any sight of her. Nothing but pickup trucks and several sedans, and a Subaru with a kayak strapped on top.
I check my phone. No new messages. Not from Skylar, not from my mother, not from Coach checking in.
I scroll down to see Layla’s name, the same message that was there this morning—as it’s been for days.
I debate sending a message, urging her to come, but honestly, it feels pathetic and like a waste of time.
I want her to want to come. Not feel guilted into it.
And besides, she has that new boyfriend.
Gavin, Grayson—whatever his fucking name was.
The heat in my room kicks on, a mechanical sigh that sounds disgruntled by the entire situation on my behalf. Then. Somewhere down the hall ice clatters into a bucket. A door slams. Footsteps stomp loudly past. Children running.
My stomach growls. I should eat something. I should sit.
“I should get a fucking grip.”
I rub a hand over my jaw, feel the stubble, the stubborn ache behind my eyes beginning to burn. I try to remember the last time I felt like this—out of control and floundering.
Shit, I don’t know.
Probably the day Benny was born and she lost her mom?
The bed looks too neat for the way my head is spinning, so I yank the corner of the duvet loose to make the room match how I feel inside. Petty. Satisfying. I peel off my sweater. Put it back on because leaving it on the chair feels like admitting I’m staying.
I should go.
Sleep at the fucking airport instead of staying holed up at this lodge, gathering more shitty memories of Washington and the place where I should never have brought my daughter because then she wouldn’t have met Layla.
And neither would I.
I pick up the phone again and call Skylar.
“Hey,” Skylar answers on the third ring. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Not true. “Benny good?”
“She’s elbow deep in cookie dough,” Skylar says dryly. “Currently lobbying for more chocolate chips. I told her and Madison they’ve eaten enough to feed a small village and to save some for baking.”
The dull ache moves from my head to my heart. “Tell her I love her. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You sure?” Skylar hears more than most. “You don’t sound . . . so great.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, then make it a partial truth. “I’m waiting.”
“For?”
Nothing.
Everything.
I avoid responding, because Skylar Hansen doesn’t need to know my personal drama. I don’t need her running to all the other moms at school and spreading gossip. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
We end the call, and I return to watching the parking lot, my back to the door.
When a sharp knock interrupts my thoughts, my heart trips over itself, freaking the fuck out.
Holy shit, she’s here.
She showed up.
I blow out a puff of air. “Phew. Calm down, bro.”
Be cool.
I smooth my palms down my jeans, roll my shoulders back, and open the door, wearing a smile I don’t believe in.
The kid standing on the other side is decidedly not Layla.
He’s wearing a buttoned green velvet vest and pushing a two-tiered cart stacked with warming dishes and an ice bucket with a bottle of wine stuffed inside.
He stammers at the sight of me. “Room service?”
My brain fumbles, my chest caves. The adrenaline that had been screaming through me just—dies.
“No,” I croak, the word gravel in my throat. “Wrong room.”
He flushes. “Uh. Room 402, right?”
“Yeah, that’s me, but I didn’t order—”
From down the hall a door opens and a woman sticks her head out. “Yoo-hoo! Down here!” She steps into the hallway, wearing a hotel robe and slippers. “Thank God you’re here, my husband is starving.”
The kid looks ill. “Sir, I’m so sorry, I read that wrong.”
“It’s fine,” I manage, and it isn’t, but this isn’t his fault. “Go feed that room before the wife comes and wheels the cart away from you.”
He rattles away with his cart, and I shut the door, pressing the latch home until it clicks, and the room feels smaller for it. All that buildup. All that racing hope. For what? An ice bucket I didn’t order?
I lean my forehead against the cool wood, and laugh once—bitter, hollow.
When did my personal life become a joke?
I go to the window because there’s nowhere else to go. The lot is just cars now. Headlights drift through like fish in a dark tank. Every time one slows, I brace. Every time it doesn’t, something in me loosens and sours.
My phone buzzes. I don’t even let myself hope this time.
Skylar:
Benny says goodnight!!
I send back a text with three red hearts and the hugging emoji and hit Send.
“I’m done waiting.” I grab my wallet and the key card and pull the door open again.
Carpet swallows my footsteps, and when I reach the elevator, I jab the button with more force than necessary and watch my reflection in the brass: Surly. Frustrated. Jaw clenched.
The hotel bar is tucked to the left behind a half wall of smoked glass, close enough to the front desk that you can hear check-ins and complaints if you listen hard enough.
There’s a game on the TV over the shelves of bottles—the news on mute, closed captions translating the commentary. A couple at the far end is whispering, faces close, and I wonder if it’s a first date or a couple on vacation.
I pick a stool in the middle and park myself.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, laying a napkin in front of me.
“Old-fashioned. Light on the soda, bourbon.” I don’t want ceremony. I want to get buzzed. Or drunk.
My phone buzzes, and I check it, disappointed. A message from the airline about my return flight tomorrow. A weather alert for freezing fog at the Seattle airport has already delayed my itinerary.
“Fuck.” I do not need to be stuck here, but it looks like I’m going to.
The front doors breathe open with that motorized sigh, and a pocket of cold air rolls across the lobby. Instinct makes me turn. Not her. Two conference guys with badges and laughter too loud for the time of day.
My shoulders crawl back down an inch.
“Rough night?” the bartender asks when he returns to check my drink.
“Just long,” I say.
He nods in the way service people do, knowing how to acknowledge without prying, and leaving me to suffer in silence, but sliding a menu across the counter before he walks off again.
“Here’s a food menu if you want it. Kitchen is open until nine.”
“Thanks.” I ignore it. Continue watching the lobby doors.
A few more arrivals drift through; the two men in suits pay their tab and leave. The bartender returns to ask if I want anything else—I don’t. I fold my napkin in half to give my hands a task, then toss it down.
I’m not sure when I finally accept it, but acceptance has a shape: the weight of the key card in my pocket, the bill tucked under the edge of my glass, the straight line my legs find when I stand.
She’s not coming.
Of course she’s not.
She’s in a relationship.
“Have a good night,” the bartender says, easy.
“You too,” I answer like I didn’t spend an afternoon pacing ruts into the carpet of the room upstairs.
The lobby is colder on the way back. The hall is long.
My key card works on the third try, just about pissing me the fuck off with its irritating red light the first two tries. I flip on the light, then slide the dead bolt; remove my wallet from my pocket and toss it to the desk, my phone face down beside.
Shoes off.
I strip off my clothes and pull on the T-shirt and sweatpants I wore to bed last night.
Brush my teeth, watching my reflection.
I think about what I’ll say to Benny when I return home, knowing she’s going to ask a hundred questions about Layla, knowing I’m not going to have the answers she wants. She’s going to be crushed, and you know what? It’s my fucking fault.
I think about getting on a plane and doing my job and not letting a woman who isn’t mine take any more of my mental space.
Lying in the center of the bed, I breathe. In. Out. Map out my day tomorrow, taking my delayed flight into consideration: Breakfast at the hotel. Text Coach with an update. Text Benny good morning. Land. Glue for slime. Home.
Sounds good, yeah?
I hear a tap, hollow to be the heater settling. I ignore it.
Then I hear another one. A tentative knock—two quick raps that tingle up my spine. Check the time.
8:01.
Jesus Christ, why does it feel like midnight?
Every muscle wants to lunge at the door, but I force myself to ease off the bed like a normal person, like I don’t care who it is standing on the other side.
I refuse to give my chest another chance to cave in or a reason to hope.
Another knock.
Louder this time, as if they aren’t sure I’m still here.
“One second,” I manage, steadying my breath and inhaling a few.
I check the peephole.
For several moments I don’t move. My brain needs a buffer to catch up with what my eyes are seeing. Then the chain scrapes, the dead bolt slides, the latch gives.
I open the door.
“Hi.”