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Laughing, I shook my head. At some point, my white-collar father decided to restore a ‘52 Chevy pickup. For the most part, he just painted the garage in various fluids and shavings of metal, but he was bound and determined to do it himself. “Sounds about right. Night, Mom.”
“Night, Brod.”
Shoulders dropping, I blew out a breath that had wedged in my ribcage, and slowly eased into the room, eyes immediately scanning for El. Never in my thirty-five years had I been so grateful for hoodies and sweatpants instead of some frilly girly silk thing. Elora was either passed the hell out or a fantastic actress, her chest rising and falling steadily in an oversized green Grizzly Grind sweatshirt—paying homage to Rhyett’s coffee shop back home—when I finally returned from my call. She’d always been precious, but especially so in sleep. My Pixie girl—tiny, but capable of unleashing absolute chaos on any who provoked it. When we were kids, her petite stature had earned the nickname, the attitude growing to match over the years. I could never have left her in this shit show alone. Regardless, her brothers would fucking kill me. This was a terrible idea. I should sleep in my rental car.
Stomach in knots, I peeled back the comforter and had to fight the need to burst out laughing. She’d lined two pillows down the center of the bed like a down-filled barrier between her side and mine. Marginally less apprehensive, I slunk under the stiff, starched sheet, momentarily distracted, wondering who actually liked their sheets chemically straightened.
Laying back on a thick pillow, I laced my fingers behind my head and surveyed the textured beige ceiling, listening to the soft exhales of the woman to my right. I was eighteen the last time we’d fallen asleep together. We’d been on the trampoline Mom gave me for my birthday, my last summer break before college. It was one of those unheard of balmy Alaskan August evenings, the sun finally tucking behind the horizon around midnight, and the two of us fell asleep shoulder to shoulder beneath the stars.
Something about her proximity brought me back to that night. They had suspended Jameson for fighting—which was bullshit, because he didn’t start the fucking thing—and El had been beside herself because of our inability to help him. Somehow, my idea of comfort for the too-fucking-cute fifteen-year-old had been telling her all the folklore I knew about the stars. We’d drifted off in the middle of an indigenous fable, and all those years later, I fell asleep to the same soft sound of her breathing beside me.
The hotel room was silent when I woke to the early light of morning. Startling upright, I looked around, blinking into the dawn as I looked for any sign of El or her things. The room was freakishly tidy, right down to the hastily straightened sheets on her side of the pillow blockade. Like most American hotels, our room was the proud host of hideous carpet and chunky blackout blinds that doubled as a home to an inordinate amount of dust. No doubt that was what I could thank for the fact that my face was aching, sinuses stuffy, forehead throbbing. What was it about whoever designed these corporate monstrosities? They all felt the same, like one ongoing nightmare showing of The Shining. It was the green light of the miniature coffee pot that finally caught my attention.
Once I had a full cup in hand, I wandered to the bathroom, about to call her name, when I saw the door was cracked open, revealing chaos beyond. There it is. A cloud of hairspray lingered in the air, and I glanced over the open packs of makeup and still-steaming hair styling tools. Her pajamas were tossed over a towel rack, the vague moisture in the air telling me she’d showered. Had the sound of her leaving woken me up in the first place? How in the hell had I slept through all of this?
By the time I dressed and made it downstairs to register for the event, the banquet room was filling with eager attendees. Name tag hanging from my new lanyard, I surveyed the chaos, my eyes immediately finding El as she worked the room like a pro. Her little frame looked long as she buzzed from one group to another, beaming and shaking hands as though they were all old friends. She tossed her silky hair over her shoulder.
“Professor Allen?” When I found green narrow-set eyes blinking up at me, I realized I must’ve missed her first attempt to get my attention. Clearing my throat, I smiled down at the little redhead in a deep green dress, her round face trained on mine. Young enough to be one of my students, she stood tall and bold.
“Hi—yes, that’s me,” I muttered, offering her a cordial smile and stretching my hand out. She accepted instantly but shook with more vigor than I was frankly expecting, nearly pulling me forward.
“My name is Clara. I’m a junior at UC Davis, and I’m absolutely obsessed with your dissertation. I just needed to introduce myself.”
“Oh!” I blinked at her as she rolled her lip between her teeth. So…young. So obviously shoving herself out on the line that I almost felt bad for shuffling back a step. How on earth would she know about my dissertation? It was ancient. Grasping for the proper response, I pulled at my collar. “I’m flattered, thank you. Are you a philosophy major?”
Elora
“Fantastic meeting you, Miss Rhodes. Will we see you at the bar for drinks after the presentations today?”
“If I ever slow down long enough to stop dancing, absolutely.”
His laugh warmed my chest as the man—that just introduced himself as Pierce—released my hand and I returned it to the strap of my event-branded tote bag they’d distributed at registration. He was handsome, if you were into that whole blond J. Crew vibe.
Hand stuffed in his slack pockets; Pierce flashed a dimpled smile I’m sure won him all number of dates. “Excellent. Well, I’ll know where to find you.”
“Sure thing,” I chirped, relieved when none other than Mara Correa came skidding around the corner, her short, silky black hair secured away from her face in a tiny bun as her eyes landed on me. “If you’ll excuse me?—”
My sentence was cut off by the elated screech of a woman hellbent on a mission, Mara’s beeline headed directly for us. Pierce didn’t have a shot in hell at responding, because she collided with me with a yelp. The air rushed from me in a laugh as I threw my arms out to steady us, tote crinkling a beat before it fell from my arm to the floor, and I wrapped her up with just as much enthusiasm.
“As I live and breathe!” she squeaked, crushing me.
Shoulders shaking with laughter, I squeezed her right back. “Nice to see you, too.”
“I’m so glad you’re here! I got a little nervous yesterday.”
“Flying out of Chicago in November was not my brightest idea.” My delayed flight had eliminated any possibility of catching the connector, crafting one big clusterfuck of a day before the room debacle last night. I rolled my eyes in exasperation.
“It’s not normally that bad,” she allotted with a one shoulder shrug. “But you’re here now!! Come, come! Who have you already introduced yourself to?”
“Gosh, it feels like half the room.”
“Can’t exactly say I’m even a little bit surprised. Here, Johanna King is in the corner, and she just freed up,” she trilled excitedly, snatching my hand in hers and dragging me away with enough force that I barely retrieved my bag from the floor. Johanna was another podcaster—though her following was double mine—and one of my most anticipated speakers for the week. Beyond that, she’d be sitting on the panel for our grant, which meant if anyone had the inside scoop on what the judges were looking for, it was her.
I stood a little taller, lifting my chin and running my free hand through my hair before we cleared the distance. It was that final swipe of my tongue over my teeth as I checked for stray bits of bell pepper or hash brown that came to a halt as abrupt as my footsteps. Broderick appeared to be deep in conversation with a curvy little redhead a good decade younger than me, braced with his shoulder against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other. Sickly green oil swirled in my gut for the heartbeat before Mara’s face appeared in my line of sight, a deep groove between her brows as she locked eyes with me.
“Babes, you have a stroke or something?”
Clearing my throat, I shook my head, even as my insides knotted. Ew. What was this revolting somersaulting rage—fuck me, I’m jealous. This should not have been a new sensation. I’d been a victim of the acidic waves of envy since high school. It hadn’t rattled me then and it absolutely wouldn’t rattle me now. Schooling my features and yanking my shoulders back, I said, “Nope, just thought I saw someone, that’s all. Where’s Johanna?”
