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As I get out of my car and walk to the front door of the place there’s a huge part of me that wants to run back. This motel reminds me of what would happen if The Bates Motel and a crack house had a baby.
In other words, not good.
Being broke—I’m learning—is not good. If I miss anything about my old life it would be the fact that I never worried about money. Then again, all of the shit I did have to worry about—life threatening shit—was much worse than worrying about money.
I didn’t know you could still find a room for twenty-nine-ninety-nine a night. I was riding my elation on that right as the clerk asked me if I wanted the room for an hour or all night. I found this slightly scary, but motored through. It took me all of five minutes and sixty dollars to secure a room for two nights.
The clerk hands me a key—yes, an actual key with a huge plastic brown fob with a gold number thirteen on it. I grab my bag and walk back outside and walk down thirteen dark green doors to find mine. It takes some effort and moving the key around—and the knob because it’s loose to the point you can see a crack between it and the door, but finally it unlocks and I’m inside.
The inside isn’t great. Paneling from the seventies and faded velour curtains and bedspread of the same green variety that the door is painted greet me. I’m guessing the owner really has a hard-on for that color. It smells musty, but at least on the surface it looks clean. I go to the double bed and lean down to push against the mattress. It’s hard as a rock, but beggars can’t be too choosey I suppose. I turn down the sheets and look at the mattress. It seems clean. I mean I don’t have a blacklight and I probably should be thankful for that. I did bring pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt and I have my own pillow—which is in the car I’ll need to go fetch. I’ll make do.
And hopefully my room, lucky number thirteen, will give me space to think about crap and I won’t spend the time thinking about Noah and how much this morning hurt me.33DieselI stare out the window at Rory’s empty driveway and curse under my breath. It’s almost eleven at night and she’s been gone all damn day. I came back from taking Ryan to school intent on trying to repair the hurt I saw on her face and she was gone. I waited around and she didn’t show up, so I went to the store to try and find her. Her boss said she asked for a couple of days off. That pissed me off, but it also made me breathe a little easier. She’s coming back, I wasn’t sure but she could have got a wild hair and decided to take off to Mexico.
I pick up my cellphone and dial her number again. I’ve lost track of how often I’ve called her today. It goes to voicemail. Son of a bitch. I wait for the tone and then leave my message.
“Gorgeous you can’t just leave and not talk this out with me. I told you I was dealing with shit. I’m working through it.”
My voice is hoarse, I suck at this shit and I’m not sure what I want to say—or what I can say without sounding like a sad-fuck that she shouldn’t waste her time on. Before I finish, the damn beeper goes off again and I’m out of time. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pick up the phone and dial her again. My foot taps against the floor until I get my chance and I give it another try.
“Damn it, Rory,” I growl—which is probably not the way to go about this shit. “I miss you,” I add and that guilt in my stomach hits me as her face flashes into my mind. “Fuck, I miss you, Baby,” I add a second later, just as the beep comes across the line. I hang up, not liking that again I’m denied her voice.
I flop down on the sofa, kicking my legs up, crossing them at the ankles, lay my phone on my chest and throw my arm over my eyes. There’s no way I’m going to sleep in the bed tonight. I may not have made a habit of having Rory in my bed at night because of Ryan, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been in my bed often during the day. The damn sheets smell of her, I close my eyes and I can see her there. I don’t know how she became such a part of my thoughts in just a few months, but she has. My phone vibrates against my chest and before the ringer can even start I pick it up.
