Page 24 of Don't Tell

I stand in the lobby for half a second. Then I follow Suzanne. She is fast. She’s already at the service corridor door before I have crossed the lobby.

"Suzanne," I call after her.

She doesn’t stop. She swipes her key card. The door clicks open.

I catch up at the threshold. "Suzanne."

She goes through. The door clicks shut behind her.

It is a staff-only door, and I don’t have a card.

I can’t let her go yet — not when we have so much that’s unfinished between us. And it’s at that moment that I make up my mind.

I’m going to extend my stay at Cresswell. Indefinitely.

7.Suzanne

I think I’m losing my mind. No, I’m certain I am. You know when people talk about different stages of grief? Well, I’ve been going through different stages of kissing Mr. Nightingale.

First comes denial. I don’t want him to kiss me. I don’t want him to touch me. I want none of it. I don’t even like him, so why would I want to kiss him?

Next comes anger. He shouldn’t have done that. It’s all his fault.

And for a brief moment, I land on bargaining. If I can just kiss him again, then I’ll confirm to myself that there’s nothing there.

Then I go right back to denial, and the cycle continues. I will never land at acceptance, though. Because I refuse to accept what has occurred between us. Never.

The moment keeps replaying in my mind. I can’t get that to stop, no matter how hard I try. It’s like I’ve been conditioned to feel. Every time I hear the sound of a pen drop, my entire body jerks.

What is he doing to me?

I finally roll out of bed. I paint for fifteen minutes because it resets my head. I turn my brain off and just let my hands move.My wrists move smoothly as I flick the brush. It seems to be working. My mind is clear. He’s out of my head finally.

I step back to admire my work. “No…” A low gasp escapes my lips. Those devilish, skilled lips smirk at me. Gray eyes stare back at me. “Damn it.” I grab the canvas and rip it to shreds.

Damn him.

I clean the brushes quietly, then go back to sit on the edge of my bed. It’s time for Sunday math, especially since I have nothing better to do.

My notebook is on the nightstand. I reach for it and go through my weekly calculations — rent, utilities, bus pass, groceries, phone. There is a line at the bottom of the page, written in small type in the margin so I don't have to look at it head-on, that reads "art school."

I have been adding to it for three years. The number is closer than last year's, but it still isn’t enough. It would have been, if my mother hadn’t squandered my college fund.

The community art school in Santa Rosa has a fall semester that costs about $3,000, including the application fee and a basic supplies kit. I have approximately $1,000 in the account at the credit union. I have been doing this math every Sunday for three years, and the gap has never closed by more than $40 in a month. Something always comes up. And the hotel doesn’t pay enough for basic amenities. I barely have enough left to spare for my dream.

There’s a knock at the door.

I get up to unlock it. Maeve is standing on the other side. She’s in her studying sweatpants and a hoodie. She has her glasses pushed up into her hair. “Sorry. I know it's early."

I wave a hand. "It's fine. What’s up?"

Maeve stares down at her shoes. They’re a nice pair of sneakers. One I can’t afford. Sometimes I wonder why Maeve is in this crappy apartment. She has a choice, unlike I do.

"It's just…rent. You said last week."

Right. Rent. It is what you pay to ensure you have a roof over your head. I’m unfortunately short this month. Working exclusively at the penthouse suite has seriously affected my tips. So to afford rent, I’m probably going to have to dig into my savings for art school.

"And the light, I have to get the light bill paid before Friday because the auto-pay didn't go through last month. They’ve already sent the second notice, and I’m trying to study for my exams. I really need to ease up a little."