Page 143 of Scouting the Single Dad

He rattles away with his cart, and I shut the door, pressing the latch home until it clicks, and the room feels smaller for it. All that buildup. All that racing hope. For what? An ice bucket I didn’t order?

I lean my forehead against the cool wood, and laugh once—bitter, hollow.

When did my personal life become a joke?

I go to the window because there’s nowhere else to go. The lot is just cars now. Headlights drift through like fish in a dark tank. Every time one slows, I brace. Every time it doesn’t, something in me loosens and sours.

My phone buzzes. I don’t even let myself hope this time.

Skylar:

Benny says goodnight!!

I send back a text with three red hearts and the hugging emoji and hit Send.

“I’m done waiting.” I grab my wallet and the key card and pull the door open again.

Carpet swallows my footsteps, and when I reach the elevator, I jab the button with more force than necessary and watch my reflection in the brass: Surly. Frustrated. Jaw clenched.

The hotel bar is tucked to the left behind a half wall of smoked glass, close enough to the front desk that you can hear check-ins and complaints if you listen hard enough.

There’s a game on the TV over the shelves of bottles—the news on mute, closed captions translating the commentary. A couple at the far end is whispering, faces close, and I wonder if it’s a first date or a couple on vacation.

I pick a stool in the middle and park myself.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, laying a napkin in front of me.

“Old-fashioned. Light on the soda, bourbon.” I don’t want ceremony. I want to get buzzed. Or drunk.

My phone buzzes, and I check it, disappointed. A message from the airline about my return flight tomorrow. A weather alert for freezing fog at the Seattle airport has already delayed my itinerary.

“Fuck.” I do not need to be stuck here, but it looks like I’m going to.

The front doors breathe open with that motorized sigh, and a pocket of cold air rolls across the lobby. Instinct makes me turn. Not her. Two conference guys with badges and laughter too loud for the time of day.

My shoulders crawl back down an inch.

“Rough night?” the bartender asks when he returns to check my drink.

“Just long,” I say.

He nods in the way service people do, knowing how to acknowledge without prying, and leaving me to suffer in silence, but sliding a menu across the counter before he walks off again.

“Here’s a food menu if you want it. Kitchen is open until nine.”

“Thanks.” I ignore it. Continue watching the lobby doors.

A few more arrivals drift through; the two men in suits pay their tab and leave. The bartender returns to ask if I want anything else—I don’t. I fold my napkin in half to give my hands a task, then toss it down.

I’m not sure when I finally accept it, but acceptance has a shape: the weight of the key card in my pocket, the bill tucked under the edge of my glass, the straight line my legs find when I stand.

She’s not coming.

Of course she’s not.

She’s in a relationship.

“Have a good night,” the bartender says, easy.