Chapter 8 Mira
The lobby is thick with the scent of artificial pine as I roll my luggage across the birch-colored laminate.
Rows of doors line the hallway, separated by well-worn couches and threadbare rugs that must have been purchased in the nineties from the looks of their outdated patterns.
Muffled conversation permeates through the thin walls as I pick up my pace, in no mood for more unnecessary small talk.
Locating my room, I insert the key and turn it, only to be instantly assaulted by a pungent wave of floral perfume.
The artificial, chemical stench is nauseating as I set my bag down to open a window.
Besides the queen-size bed in the middle of the room, there are two end tables, a dresser, and a set of wooden bunk beds pressed against the far wall.
If they added a handful of knick-knacks, this place would look more like an antique mall than a hotel.
Pushing back the green-and-gold dust-covered curtains, I unlatch the lock on the window and attempt to glide it open but the glass doesn’t budge.
I try again, moving the lock in the opposite direction.
Still nothing. It isn’t until I notice the white chips breaking off onto the windowsill that I understand the issue. The window is painted shut.
Great. Not only is my room slowly poisoning me to death, but it’s also a fire hazard. Scooting around the bed, I unlock the patio door, throwing it open. Bears be damned. But I’m offered no relief, as the heat combines with the fumes, creating a tear-gas-like stench that ignites a coughing fit.
I bump a nightstand and send something crashing to the floor. From the clamor I expect a remote or cordless phone, but I find a toiletry bag lying open at my feet. Bending down to retrieve it, I’m overcome by the faint scent of rain, Hudson’s scent, and I’m dizzy with raw emotion.
Bad clients, bad haircuts, I always let it go, I move on.
I put it behind me, I buy a hat, but I’m still hung up on this.
Maybe I just need to give it more time. Maybe it’s because I’m so fresh off my fight with Phoebe.
But a small part of me wonders if maybe I deserve this.
Maybe this is punishment for getting too close.
For letting my guard down. For not anticipating every outcome, even the ones I didn’t know to look for.
Collecting the items from the floor, I place them back in the bag, setting them on the nightstand to bring to the Activity Center’s lost and found later this afternoon.
Eager to unpack, I lift my suitcase up onto the bed, and catch sight of a neon-pink garment bag hanging in the closet, a set of two purple suitcases resting underneath.
I navigate through the Tetris-like decor to inspect it. It’s one thing to forget makeup, but there’s no way anyone left their luggage here by accident. I go over to inspect them, seeing a name I don’t recognize on the tags. Katherine Moore. And then it hits me. This isn’t my room.
Of course the girl at the front desk gave me the wrong key.
How is she supposed to focus on her job in that overstimulation station?
Tamping down my irritation at making another trek across the property, I grab my luggage and reach for the door, but the handle twists underneath my fingers, giving me only a moment to move out of the way before Hudson Hayes pushes inside, almost falling on top of me.
The alliteration of his name is stuck in my brain in the same way I memorized the feeling of his mouth against mine, and I take another step back.
The scruff against his cheeks I’ve come to love is gone, and his hair is wet and unruly, the soft curls that nestle at his nape starting to form as water droplets fall down his neck and freckle-covered shoulders.
My eyeline trails down his torso to the towel around his waist and I realize he’s practically naked.
This is a scenario I’ve only conjured up alone, in my bed, with my favorite vibrator—definitely not one I imagined actually living through after our disastrous hookup—and the sight makes me unsteady.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice dripping with disdain.
“I’m in the wedding party.”
“If you’re in the wedding party, shouldn’t you be in one of the cabins up front and not skulking around the common areas half-naked?”
I’m used to the unexpected: a sudden rainstorm on a sunny day, a bridesmaid passing out in the middle of a wedding ceremony, but Hudson Hayes standing in front of me feels like a cosmic joke.
Hudson runs his hands through his hair, and in the daylight, I’m able to take in all the things I missed in the darkness.
The broadness of his shoulders, the delicately placed freckles along his collarbone, the dusting of hair along his abdomen.
There are also a few tattoos I had no idea were hiding underneath all those layers: a line of foreign script I can’t quite make out on his chest, and a broken sword sitting on his ribs.
“My shower is broken and . . .” He trails off before focusing his attention on me. “Wait, what are you doing here?”
“I’m the photographer,” I reply, unsure of it myself.
“You’re the last-minute replacement?” he states, in a combination of bewilderment and delight.
“Is that an issue?”
He shakes his head. “No. I, uh . . . I just need to put some clothes on,” he says, grabbing a few things from his bag on the bottom bunk. “Give me one sec, okay?”
I should bolt. I should run straight out of the door and up the hill and hitch a ride back to the airport because this is a sign.
A glowing neon light in the darkness telling me that I should not be here.
I should let my career die. I should sell my cameras and start a new life as a truck driver or lighthouse keeper.
Something where I never have to deal with people ever again.
But instead, I give him a nod, as he steps into the bathroom.
When he comes out, he’s in a pair of forest-green shorts and a cream-colored tee.
“For the record, I didn’t know you were in here.
I think the girl at the front desk gave me the wrong key.
Then again, they don’t seem like the type that runs a tight ship?
” I say, rechecking the plastic keyring in my hand to have something to concentrate on other than the fact that I’ve found myself in a fucked-up, parasocial episode of The Twilight Zone.
“I’m surprised they didn’t give me the key to the equipment shed,” he says, giving his hair a quick dry with a towel. His green eyes soften as they meet mine, and I’m right back where I was two nights ago, falling for him behind the bar.
“I was worried, you know, when you didn’t answer my texts. I thought something might have happened. That you were hurt or I hurt you.”
There’s a gentleness to his voice that makes hope pool in my chest.
There’s no way this man—the one who made me laugh at the bar, who sat next to me almost every night, who kissed me like I was the only girl in the world—there’s no way he could be a cheater.
“I shouldn’t have ignored you. I thought . . .”
“I know what you thought,” he says, taking a step towards me, his thumb gliding against the inside of my wrist.
My eyes linger on a purplish bruise against his collarbone, and when Hudson catches me staring, a redness creeps up his neck towards his ears. Did I leave that there?
I’m not one to mark my conquests, but that is definitely a hickey.
I feel self-conscious about it until my embarrassment quickly turns to panic.
His girlfriend must have asked what happened, right?
It’s not like he could use the excuse that he burned himself on a hair straightener.
And that’s when I remember the bags in the closet, the ones with a woman’s name on them. And my stomach lurches.
He’s here with her.
As if I conjured her with my mind, the door bursts open, and Hudson catapults away from me faster than a cat in water, as the brunette from the photos breezes into the room.
She’s more beautiful in person. Her slim figure is accentuated by a purple sports bra and matching shorts that hug her sculpted curves.
Her tan skin is flawless, not a pore in sight, and I wish I’d taken an inventory of the balms and lotions in her makeup bag to replicate the look.
“Who do we have here?” she asks, eyeing me skeptically.
“Katherine, this is Mira,” Hudson says, introducing us.
The words come out straightforward and monotone.
Like he’s answering a math problem instead of introducing the woman he cheated on to the one he cheated with, and I’m unsettled.
How could he be calm in this situation? Does he have no shame?
No remorse? Is he one of those emotionless sociopaths that I’ve read about who have multiple families without ever worrying that they’ll find out?
I try to keep my face neutral, hoping she can’t read the guilt that’s etched across it.
I’d take overbearing mothers, bitchy bridesmaids, and a frat house full of drunk groomsmen over dealing with this right now.
But confronting this woman makes me panic, tying my stomach into tight knots, and I’m right back to Phoebe’s wedding day.
“The photographer,” Hudson clarifies.
“Oh,” she says, assessing me as if I’m a pony on parade; one that’s one bad day away from greener pastures.
Although she must have spent the last few hours in the sun, there’s a light floral scent on her skin and I wonder if it’s a product of dry shampoo, sunscreen, or if she naturally expels scented sweat.
I mean, she does seem like the kind of woman who would be on the ground floor of investing in that type of technology.
“I was explaining that they must have made a mistake at the front desk,” I mumble, trying to shuffle around her to initiate a speedy exit. “I’m on my way to fix it now.”
“Oh, no mistake,” she chirps. “You’re rooming with us.”
Her words are muffled in my ears. Playing nice with guests when I’m on duty is one thing, but being forced to room with them, especially after I hooked up with one only a couple of days before, is another.
The situation is so absurd I bet I could pitch it to the producers of Survivor.
I’m sure by the end of the week, contestants would vote themselves off the island to get away from the awkwardness.
She beams with fake enthusiasm. “Hudson here volunteered you to stay in our room, isn’t that right, sweetie?”
I glance at Hudson for confirmation, and his expression is just as pained as mine.
As an avid proponent of girl-on-girl loyalty, part of me wants to confess that her boyfriend is potentially a lying, cheating scumbag, but having a face-to-face confrontation, when we have to spend the weekend together, feels like an extreme sport I have no interest in playing.
Perhaps I could slip a nicely worded, anonymous note into her luggage before we leave. That seems safe.
“Oh, um . . . I don’t want to intrude.” The words come out too quickly, and as I back away from them, my calf bumps against the dresser. Seriously, who designed this room?
“It’s no problem, really,” she assures me, nestling into Hudson’s neck. “We’ll make sure to keep the PDA at a minimum.”
Hudson doesn’t reciprocate her affection, stepping away from her as his eyes stay laser-focused on me.
I’m sure he’s trying to communicate with me telepathically, to plead not to rat him out.
But I can’t concentrate on him, or her, or anything but the floor, as a sudden wave of claustrophobia washes over me.
The room’s too small, the air too fragrant, and I’m back in that groomsmen suite all over again.
The weight of the smooth metal cufflinks in my hand, the scent of Cliff’s cologne, and the sound of Phoebe’s voice reverberating off the marble walls.
I must look as if I’m having a stroke, because when I come to, Katherine is staring at me and Hudson’s hand is lightly pressed against my forearm.
The steady evergreen of his eyes finds mine, a color I could pick out of any palette, as he asks, “Are you okay?”
But I haven’t been okay since Phoebe’s wedding.
“I think I just need some air,” I say, pushing past him.
“Feel free to take your gift bag on the way out,” Katherine says, pointing to the blue bag resting on the desk. My name is written in silver lettering on the outside, and I snatch it up and head out the door.