Chapter 3
THREE
Lauren
I kick the door open, and it rams against my suitcase with an insistent bang.
One of the wheels gave out on my layover in Madrid.
The handle became stuck in a pulled-up position when I landed in Orlando.
And the bag barely fit in the convertible rental.
Stupid thing. I kick the door open again, as if it represents everything that's gone wrong on my way here to Cypress Grove.
This is the part of being a world traveler my Instagram followers never see.
Normally I love the journey, but this one left me exhausted and irritable. Compounding matters: I'd left my e-reader, stocked with my favorite books, on the plane. I’m most upset about that and by the looks of Cypress Grove, it’s too small for a Target or a Best Buy.
I’ll deal with the e-reader later. All I want now is a shower and something cold to drink. Then a long talk with Kate. I can already picture us fleeing the wedding together, the top down on the convertible I’d rented, our hands thrown in the air like Thelma and Louise.
“Crap,” I say, and kick the door a third time.
When I look up from my toppled suitcase, I see a guy in just his boxers.
He's got his phone in his hand and he's staring at me with the same stunned expression I must be wearing. It's the man from the balcony. I recognized him immediately — the dark hair, the muscular arms.
“What the hell is this?” I yell.
The guy grabs a cream-colored pillow embroidered with a green palm tree off the sofa and holds it in front of him, even though he doesn't strictly need it. “I could ask you the same thing. How did you open the door?”
“With a key.” I shake the card key in his direction and try to rise to my full five feet, three inches. “If you don't get your— whatever this is — sorted out right now, I'm calling the front desk. Or the cops. Pervert.”
The corners of his mouth quirk upward. “I think there's been a mix-up. This is my room. Suite two hundred, all the way at the end of the hall. Check your key packet. The desk should have written the room number on the sleeve.”
He's not panicking. He's not even embarrassed. There's a low, easy humor in his expression that is supremely annoying, given the circumstances.
I'd taken the key out of its paper holder. My hand digs through my giant purse for it — past a tampon, a pen, another tampon, my passport — and finds it. I wave it triumphantly. At the same time, a tampon leaps from the purse and lands with a thwack on the tile floor.
Yeah. Pure glamour.
I ignore the tampon, attempting to locate the dignity and grace I project to the world daily on social media. Obviously those things left me somewhere between Italy and Florida.
I scan the curly handwriting on the sleeve. “I am in suite two-zero...” My eyes snap to the last number. “Two.”
My cheeks flare with embarrassment. Of course. I’d misread the room number and barged in on a stranger. Oh, this trip is shaping up beautifully.
“Well.” I close my eyes briefly. “Sorry for interrupting. I don't know why the key worked on your door.”
“I don't know either.” The humor is still there in his voice and his eyes are glittering. “I'll talk to the desk about it.” He shuffles a few steps, still clutching the pillow to his crotch. “Hey, I can help with your bag—”
“No. I'm good! Stay exactly where you are. I've seen enough of you already.” I wave him off because I’ve learned men in hotels can be super weird at best. “Carry on with your…whatever it is you were doing.”
Trying to muster as much poise as possible, I put the key and packet in my bag, bend to scoop up the tampon, and wrench the battered suitcase to a standing position.
The door, which is heavy and on a particularly strong spring, bangs into my shoulder as I lurch forward. The tampon falls again to the floor, and I kick it into the hall.
“Ow,” I mutter, turning my head to the left. The guy's door slams shut.
Great. My room's right next to his.
It takes three tries to get the suitcase through the door. I swear twice, bang my shoulder once, swear some more. I’m scoop up the tampon and fling it into the room, which is blissfully empty of strangers. It bounces off a painting of… I squint.
Is that a witch silhouette against a full moon?
The door slams shut and I fall onto the sofa.
Am I crying? Yep. I am. Crying and sweating. Even with the air conditioning, the Florida humidity has seeped everywhere.
Why am I so emotional?
Is it because of the e-reader? Or because the last four posts got a fraction of my usual engagement?
Maybe it was due to the hotel in Italy refusing to fully comp my room.
Or perhaps it’s just being back in the States, a place that feels heartbreakingly familiar and makes me realize I have no permanent home anymore?
Or is all this emotion bubbling up because my best friend is getting married in this pretty little place to a sweet man, and I have no one?
Maybe I'm just exhausted. I haven't slept in twenty-four hours. That's it.
The curtains to the balcony are open, and I ease off the sofa, muscles aching. I push open the sliding glass door and step out, sniffling.
I knew Kate had reserved a riverside room for me but I assumed it meant I'd have to crane my neck to see the water. I didn’t anticipate this.
The Starlight River winds through cypress trees so old and wide their roots have lifted the bank in places, and the late afternoon light comes through the canopy in long gold shafts, turning the water amber and green.
In the distance, through a gap in the tree line, something glows — a faint pulse of electric blue, like someone has placed a lantern below the surface of a pool.
I stare at it for a moment, not sure what I'm seeing.
It's beautiful. Genuinely, unexpectedly beautiful.
The kind of light you'd want to photograph.
My palms prickle. It's the feeling I get in sacred places — a low warmth, like holding your hand an inch above a steaming hot mug of tea. I don’t feel it often, but when I do, I try to listen.
I stand there for a moment, soaking it in.
Then it passes and I'm just a woman in high-performance travel underwear weeping on a balcony in Florida.
I wipe my eyes and let out a small, stupid laugh. My mood lifts slightly. I can handle this. Maybe.
My phone buzzes and my mood instantly plummets because it’s a text from Dad.
Hey hon. Did you get a chance to look at those laptops I sent you? Jessie off to OSU in August and she really needs something reliable. You know more about this stuff than any of us.
I stare at it for a moment. I do know more about laptops than Dad. I also know that computer stores exist, have staff, and are perfectly capable of helping a man pick a computer for his daughter.
I've been fielding these calls and texts since I was a pre-teen. Maybe younger. I’m the oldest, the one who figures things out, the one who knows how to navigate the world.
The time difference was the one thing I'd loved about being in Europe. By the time my family thought to text, it was two in the morning my time and I had a reasonable excuse not to respond until the problem had solved itself.
Here in Florida we're in the same time zone.
I'll look into it, I type back, because I always do. Then I put the phone face down on the nightstand.
I'm pawing through my suitcase for a bathing suit — Kate had mentioned there was a pool, which sounds incredible right now — when there's a knock at the door. Oooh, could it be Kate? When I texted her last, she said she was running errands and would be at the resort in a couple of hours. Hmm.
I tiptoe to the peephole.
My breath catches. It's him. The underwear guy next door. He's now in cargo shorts and a blue T-shirt that pulls across his broad shoulders, and he's holding two unopened beer bottles, condensation coating the glass. He’s… gorgeous.
I almost salivate, but not because of him. I don't usually drink beer, but right now I'd love to feel something cold slide down my throat. The problem is I'm in my underwear, I've been sobbing, and I surely look like a trash fire.
“I don't need housekeeping,” I call out.
“This isn't housekeeping.” His voice carries the same low, amused quality as before. “It's your friendly neighbor from next door. I thought you might want a drink. You seem like you've had a day.”
He could tell I was upset. It’s impossible for me to hide my emotions.
“That's so sweet of you. But I'm not really in a position to socialize right now. I have work to do.”
I watch him through the peephole. He grins — that same warm, slightly helpless grin from the balcony — and holds up both bottles.
“How about I pass one through the door and you don't have to socialize at all?”
I consider this for a half second. Why not? I crack the door a few inches and his hand, holding the bottle, appears. I take it from him and shut the door.
“Thank you,” I yell. “I’ll get the next round.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that. And don’t work too hard. This is Florida. You’re supposed to relax. Oh, and it’s a twist top, by the way.”
As I silently swing the metal latch on the door, I put my eye to the peephole to see him grinning. He’s got the beginning of little lines at the corners of his eyes, a sign he laughs a lot. I like that. He walks down the hall, and I also notice his easy gait, like he’s wholly at home in this place.
I laugh out loud as I twist the top off my beer and take a long, delicious sip. Every trip always has a little weirdness, but this one’s turning out to be extra strange.