Chapter 21
I sleep, and sleep, and sleep. I wake up at dawn to pee and go back to bed. It’s like my body and brain have decided that they’ve had enough, and they’ve gone on strike.
When I finally wake, it’s with a start. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. I’ve slept for twelve hours straight, and I’m still groggy, but I have a strange sensation that there’s something I’ve forgotten. Something that’s missing. A puzzle piece that’s out of place.
I relive my conversation with my mother. The revelations and the years of hurt that those revelations began the process of washing away. And my realization. All I ever wanted to hear from her was that she was sorry. Those words. Among the most important in the dictionary.
I’m sorry.
Charlie had said he was sorry. He’d said it again and again. And I wouldn’t listen. I wouldn’t hear a word he had to say, because I was so angry and so hurt that I couldn’t see past his mistake. But maybe that’s all it was—it was a mistake. Maybe he never meant to hurt me. Maybe he really was scared. And if there’s anything I’ve learned this weekend, it’s that everyone is carrying something around with them. Struggle, and vulnerability, and fear are all inevitable parts of the human condition. We’re all damaged goods, walking around in the world, pretending that everything is okay. But I didn’t even give Charlie the chance. I’m not the only one between the two of us who has been through a lot. Not even close. And I realize now, I fucked up. I should have listened. That doesn’t mean I had to forgive him. But I should have at least heard him out.
It’s eleven o’clock. His flight was scheduled for this morning. On a thread of hope as slender as spider’s silk I run into the hallway and bang on his door, but there’s no answer. My head falls forward against the wood, and I thump it twice.
Stupid. Stupid.
I’ll go to the restaurant next to check for him there. Maybe his flight was delayed? Or maybe I heard him wrong? I already know I’m lying to myself.
“Miss?” A housekeeper pushing a cleaning cart approaches me in the hallway. “Are you okay?”
I stare at her blankly. “I’m sorry. I’m fine.”
She looks awkward, her hand on the handle of the cart, and her eyes darting between me and the door number beside me. I glance around and down at myself. Maybe I forgot to put pants on again. But I’m wearing my sleep shorts.
“I’m here to turn this room over,” she tells me. “Are you at the wrong door? Can I help you find your way?”
My shoulders drop as I shake my head. He’s definitely gone.
I return to my room and pick up my phone, about to send him a text message begging for the chance to talk to him, and it hits me: I don’t even have his number. It was never a necessity. Charlie was just always available—in the room right next to mine. He called me on the hotel phone, and I still didn’t think to ask for his information.
I’ve been so wrapped up in my own world that I didn’t even get the contact information of the man who I’ve been falling in love with. Because that’s what was happening, wasn’t it? I was falling in love with him.