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“We’re both exhausted,” she continues when I don’t respond. “Let’s just get some rest tonight, and we can figure everything else out in the morning.”
I nod once, because sleeping in the car did sound kind of like a nightmare. But I would have done it, no questions asked. I’m not sure sharing a room with Mila is going to be very restful, but I’m too tired to worry about that right now.
I turn to the desk agent, and he hands me the keys and then gives us directions to the room. The one we’ll be sharing for the night.
I know it’s just one night and we’re both adults. I know nothing will happen. Still, if she knew how I felt about her … maybe she wouldn’t want this. It’s not like I can tell her, though. I can’t just blurt out,“I’m half in love with you, Mila. Sure you want to do this?”
I follow Mila to the elevators and she presses the button. Once we’re inside, she lets out another heavy breath.
“I can’t believe this,” she says.
“Me either,” I say.
“I mean, it’s just so”—she pauses for a second—“ridiculous.”
The word comes out as sort of a squeak, and I swing my head toward her, wondering if maybe she’s crying. But she’s not. She’s … laughing.
“Mila?” I ask, not sure if she’s really laughing or if she’s having some kind of breakdown, with the way her shoulders are shaking and how she’s holding her stomach, barely able to take a breath.
“I’m sorry,” she gets out through her laughter, tears now coming out of her squinting eyes.
We reach our floor, and the elevator doors open. Mila is attempting to stifle her laughter, but she can barely keep it together. She makes little snorting noises as we walk down the hall toward my room—the room we have to share tonight.
She appears to have recovered from her fit of laughter as I open the door using the key card. I walk inside and turn on the light in the entryway. Mila follows me in, and the door shuts behind her with an audible click.
We move farther into the room, and Mila starts laughing again.
“One bed?” she manages to say through near hysteria. She drops the bag she’s been carrying around all day onto the ground.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” I say, finding the light switch for the room and turning it on.
“One bed,” she repeats like she didn’t hear me, falling onto her side on the king-size bed, laughing even harder than she was before. “I’m sorry,” she says, wiping the tears from beneath her eyes as she tries to compose herself. “I’m so tired, and this day has been so stupid.” Her words come out choppy and breathy.
“It really has been stupid,” I say, and start to chuckle myself.
“No,” she says, suddenly sitting up. “Don’t start laughing. I won’t be able to stop.”
But it’s too late. I’m laughing now too, and she starts up again, and pretty soon we’re both on the bed, laughing so hard it hurts.
When the laughter finally subsides to just a snort (me) or a hiccup (her), we lie on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. A fan with tropical leaf–shaped blades spins slowly above us.
“I haven’t laughed that hard in years,” I tell her. Our heads are close together, our bodies angled away from each other.
“Really? Laughter is my favorite medicine,” she says.
“It definitely helps.” I’m not just saying that. I feel a lightness I haven’t felt in years. Probably since I started AppInnovate, feeling its weight on my shoulders ever since. Even knowing that tomorrow we’ll have to figure out what went wrong with the reservation for the hotel on the app, I don’t seem to care so much at the moment.
“Do you have a T-shirt I can borrow?” she asks after we’ve lain in silence on the bed for maybe a minute.
“Yeah. Sure,” I say, rising. Mila sits up, folding her legs under her.
“I just don’t want to sleep in this,” she says, looking down at her outfit. “I’ve been in it all day.”
I grab the wooden luggage rack from the closet and set my suitcase on it, opening it up and riffling through, looking for one of the T-shirts I packed. I find a white one and hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she says, looking down at the shirt in her hands. She balls it up and walks over to her bag and grabs the toiletries the airline gave her. “I’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” I say.
