“Got it,” Juliette says.
Catherine turns to me and, before I can prepare for it, pulls me into a hug too. She’s shorter than Juliette, and I have to bend slightly to accommodate it. “It’s so good to finally meet you, Rodriguez. Jules is lucky to have you.”
“I’m the lucky one, Mrs. Chastain.”
“Catherine,” she corrects, beaming at me.
Richard shakes my hand again. “See you tonight.”
They drive off and Juliette and I just stand there on the sidewalk with our bags, the reality of what we’re doing suddenly very present.
“That went well,” I offer.
“My mom hugged you within thirty seconds of meeting you.”
“Your mom seems great.”
“My dad thinks you’re too charming.”
“Your dad is skeptical of everyone. I could tell by the handshake.”
“The handshake? You shook hands like normal people.”
“There’s a whole language to dad handshakes. Trust me on this.” I grab both our bags. “Come on. Let’s check in and figure out this hotel situation.”
The hotel lobbyis the kind of place that makes you feel underdressed even when you’re not. We cross to the front desk and the woman behind it smiles as we approach.
“Checking in?”
“Yes. Should be under Chastain. Juliette Chastain.”
The woman types. “Ah, yes. One room, king bed.”
I see Juliette’s face go through several expressions in rapid succession. “I, yes. That should be right.”
“Perfect. I’ll just need an ID and credit card.”
Juliette fumbles with her wallet and I lean against the counter, processing the one room, king bed situation. I knew we’d probably be sharing a room, it would look weird if we didn’t, but somehow hearing it confirmed out loud makes it way more real.
Six nights. One room. One bed. With Juliette.
I’m either the luckiest person alive or about to torture myself in ways I haven’t fully considered yet. Probably both. Definitely both.
The desk clerk hands over key cards and gives us directions to the elevators. We ride up to the fifth floor in silence, Juliette stares at the numbers ticking by, while I try not to think about the sleeping arrangements and failing completely.
The room is extremely nice. A king bed dominates the space and off to the side is a small sitting area with a loveseat by the window. Everything is very clean and very neutral and very much just one bed.
I’m going to die. This is absolutely how I die. I’ve been cross-checked into next week by a guy who looked like he ate smaller hockey players for breakfast. I once played through food poisoning so bad the trainers had a bucket ready on the bench. None of that compares to the specific panic of realizing I’m about to share a bed with Juliette for six nights while pretending I don’t want to.
Juliette opens her suitcase and immediately starts unpacking, moving things around like if she can control the physical space, she can control everything else. It’s such a Juliette thing to do - controlling what she can control while everything else spirals. I want to tell her it’s okay to let things be messy sometimes, but I know she won’t hear it right now.
“I can take the couch,” I offer, even though the couch is basically a glorified large chair at best and I’m six-two.
“Don’t be dumb. You’ll never fit on that.”
“I’ve definitely slept in worse places.”
“Rodriguez. We’re both adults. We can share the bed.” She says it like she’s trying to convince herself. “It’s a king. There’s plenty of room.”
