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I fall into the chair behind Derik. Of course, my phone rings right on cue, with Justin on the other end of the line. I decline the call, a burning pit in my stomach. Justin’s humor is amusing, but I couldn’t take it right now. There would be nothing hilarious about not getting Sin back. Nothing at all.
Against my fervent wishes, a text pops up.
Justin: I just wanted to wish you good luck. I hope things turn out the way you want them, and if not, I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to bend them to do so.
Damn. I really have to start trusting people.
I text him back.
Me: Thanks. It means a lot.
Justin: Yeah, I know.
Despite not wanting to, I laugh.
Once we get off the elevator in the hotel, I pause in front of a full length mirror. My white cotton shirt is wrinkled, and my gray dress slacks have a stain on them from the coffee I picked up while waiting for my rental car.
By contrast, Tif, despite having traveled in a cargo plane and a cramped jet that was little bigger than a crop duster, looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her blue wrap around dress is pristine and camel colored boots still have a deep shine.
Her breath, unlike mine (I’m sure) still smells fresh as she turns to me and says, “I’m scared, Royce. What if he doesn’t want to see me?”
I continue to walk down the corridor, matching my steps to hers, wondering how to give her encouragement when I’m not so sure of my own fate. After a second or two, I seize on the fact that Thomas is staying in my old room.
“Tif, I’mpositivehe will want to see you. And if he doesn’t, I’ll get management to open the door. The room is still under my name after all.”
She merely nods and keeps walking.
In normal circumstances, Tif would call me out if I attempted to invade Thomas’s privacy.
But these aren’t normal circumstances. This is a call to action.
Andno onewill stop me from seeing Sin. Not even Sin herself.
Broken Rules
Royce
Onopeningthedoorat Tif’s light knock, Thomas grunts in greeting. Still, he stands aside to let us through. He looks no worse for wear...except where his beard once was, reddish-brown stubble grows like straggle weeds.
Tif’s eyes widen in appreciation at the sight of him in blue-striped sleep pants, no shirt, and bare feet.
At least he kept his toenails up. When we were kids, shits were longer than Dracula’s.
We gather in the living room and stand awkwardly in the middle of my former abode. Like Thomas, the suite itself hasn’t changed except to take on the scent of Thomas’s fruity cologne.
I hope he hasn’t thrown my clothes out.
I want to ask him, but I don’t want to be the one to break the silent stare-off between Tif and Thomas just yet. Yet I do, when neither of them seems inclined to talk.
“How about I go take a shower while you two chat?” I suggest as I rock back onto my heels.
“You do that, Royce.” Thomas says, not taking his eyes off Tif.
I need no other encouragement to get the hell out of there and wash off the tension between my shoulders. The trip down here was fraught with twilight dreams of Sin slamming the door in my face over and over.
When I told Tif, she said she fared little better. She’d sat up all night, a supercomputer in a small package, calculating the outcome of every scenario. Most of them, she said, ended up with her alone... except for her twenty-two cats she adopted as a fiftieth birthday present to herself.
Before we departed the plane, I promised not to let her down if she needed me. So that’s why, when I close the bedroom door, I try not to eavesdrop...
