My partner, Shayla, was usually my backup in that kind of madness, but it was Saturday, which meant she was likely sprawled on her couch somewhere, nursing a killer hangover and an attitude. That girl would stay out late, come in toworklater, then walk in like everybody else disrupted her sleep schedule. I didn’t expect Shayla for another thirty minutes—if that—so I wasn’t about to sit around, twiddling my thumbs, waiting on her ass.
I grabbed a hefty trash bag and went to work. The first things to go were luxury shopping bags, champagne corks, room-service containers, crystal glasses with lipstick stains, and a half-eaten fruit tray. Near the bed sat a pair of black lace panties that somehow hadn’t made it out with their owner.
I stared at them for a moment before letting out a laugh.
“Damn. People can’t even take their dignity with them when they leave.”
Shaking my head, I scooped them up and tossed them into the bag with the rest of the night's poor decisions.
I paused mid-reach, noticing the discarded condom wrappers lying beneath the bed, still holding onto last drops of a lie that probably started with“I’m different.”
“Classy,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
Working at the kind of hotel I did, I quickly learned one thing: Money buys a lot of things, but apparently shame isn't one of them.
As I continued my work, my mind drifted, wandering as it always did when my hands were busy, lost in thoughts of lives lived in the shadows of glitz and glamour.
Life wasn’t supposed to look like this, at least not for a girl like me anyway.
I never thought of myself as someone above hard work, but somewhere along the way, the future I imagined for myself got lost. One heartbreak, one bad decision, a year and one unexpected blessing later, there I was, caught in an endless cycle of room keys, housekeeping carts, working for people who probably spent more on a weekend getaway than I made in a month, making beds I’d never sleep in, wiping fingerprintsoff windows overlooking million-dollar views, and trying to remember which guests requested extra towels and which ones would inevitably leave their rooms in utter disarray. Some guests left generous tips, others left headaches, but most left reminders that there were entire worlds I could see but never truly touch.
Life truly has a funny way of humbling people. Sometimes I think God takes the wheel and reroutes a person completely just to remind them that he’s still the one driving.
After finding out I was pregnant, I cried more than I’d ever admitted out loud. I was scared, overwhelmed, even angry at myself. There were moments when I questioned everything, moments when I wondered if I was ready, even moments when I wasn’t sure I wanted to be. But over time, I started to understand something important.
Some detours are still destiny; they just take a little longer to reveal where they’re leading you.
Leaning heavily on the broom handle for support, I took a moment to survey the chaotic room, still littered with crumpled receipts and discarded bottles.
My focus landed on a glint of paper peeking out from beneath a lamp. Curiosity got the best of me, so I strolled over and carefully pulled out the paper.
My brows shot up.
It was a neatly folded note. The handwriting was rushed but legible:
Sorry for the mess. Hope this helps.
Tucked beside it was a crisp stack of bills. I counted the money quickly like I might’ve woken up at any second and realized I was dreaming.
Five hundred dollars.
It was always the flashy couples trying to live out a music video fantasy, or lonely rich men too scared to go home who tended toleave behind guilt in the form of tips, topped with a sprinkle of shame neatly packaged in littlelatexgift bags.
But hey… I wasn’t trippin’ too much. I was five hundred dollars richer.
I exhaled, blinking back emotion as I tossed a glance upward, sending a silent thank-you up to God.
God, you must’ve peeped my struggle and said, “Not today, baby girl.”
Without a second thought, I slid the note and money deep into the pocket of my uniform.
Just then, a knock at the open door pulled my attention away. It was Shayla, peeking in with a look that screamed she’d seen better mornings.
“Damn! And I thought the room next door was a mess! Girl, those muthafuckas trashed this whole floor!” she fussed, adjusting her honey-blonde wig, the loose curls bouncing around her shoulders.
Shayla’s lashes clung on for dear life from the previous night’s escapades, and the sheen of leftover highlighter on her cheekbones caught the overhead light.
“And what the fuck is that smell?!” she gagged dramatically, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “It smells like a concoction of liquor, bad sex, lust and a credit card statement nobody is ready to look at.”
