“Fine!” I throw up my hands. “But make sure to knock loudly.”
He nods and slips out into the storm as lightning flashes. I slide the bolt in place, then hurry to the bathroom.
And it’s once again not great. Lots of things that used to be white are now shades of yellow and brown. The mirror is cracked in the corner, and the overhead light buzzes like a mosquito is watching me pee. At least the toilet flushes.
My long-sleeved shirt sticks to my skin in a way that makes me itch. I want to take it off so badly, but all I have on underneath is a bra.And not even a cute one. It’s blue and cheap. But it holds the girls in place, so that’s all I need.
Not that I want to wear a cute bra and show it to George. No matter how interesting his forearms were when he was steering us through the downpour. There is absolutely no connection between his thick fingers gripping the wheel and me considering my underwear choices.
I pick up a threadbare towel, the thing so thin I’m not sure it can absorb water anymore.
While I wait for George’s knock, I text Mom and Marge to let them know I’m stuck for the night, then I perch on one of the beds and try to pat my hair and shirt dry. My phone chimes with their responses telling me to stay safe and check in in the morning. My fingers hover over the screen, wanting to type out another message asking how Mom is doing. But they’ve given me no reason to think she’s anything other than as healthy as she was this morning, so I wrestle down my worry and close the text thread. I set my phone aside and pop up the moment I hear a pound. After unlocking the door, I whip it open.
George glares at me as water drips down the angles of his face. “Did you even look through the peephole to see if it was me?”
“Why does it matter now?” I fist his shirt and drag him inside out of the rain. “It is you.”
He grunts and runs a hand over his buzzed head. At leasthewon’t have to worry about wet hair tonight. I move toward the bathroom, intent on grabbing him a towel, when I feel a sticky chill.
On my butt.
“Oh no,” I whisper, horrified.
“What?” George sets the damp brown paper bag he’s carrying on a rickety desk and steps into my space, his eyes scanning me. “What’s wrong?”
“My butt is wet,” I groan.
He blinks. And blinks again.
I leave him to digest my words as I check the bed I was just sitting on. When I press my hands into the cover, I can feel the sogginess.
And that’s when I notice a droplet of water fall from the ceiling onto the bed. Glancing up, I find a brownish stain on the ceiling tiles.
Turns out, this is one of the rooms with a leak, too.
“Shit.” George is at my side, seeing the same thing I am. He reaches out to check the bed closer to the door and sighs. “This one is dry.”
That one. One.
There is only one bed.
And two of us.
And my jeans are wet.
Suddenly, I feel a lot like crying. It’s not that this is the worst situation I’ve ever been in in my life. It’s just that it seems so much worse because the day started off so great.
“Hey. It’s okay.” George is in front of me, his hands gripping my upper arms. “We’ll make it work. I can sleep on the floor.”
“This floor?” I point at the gray green carpet beneath my feet. I haven’t even taken off my shoes because I think dirt would be cleaner than what I’m standing on.
“Yeah.” There’s not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. No grimace. No trepidation. No fear of all the diseases he’ll contract by breathing in the years of gross at our feet. The guy will likely wake up with a raging case of rabies.
“No. We’ll”—just say it—“share the bed.”
George’s fingers tighten slightly, but at least he doesn’t cringe in horror at the idea. I’m not sure how I would’ve taken him preferring the motel carpet of disgust over close proximity to me.
“Only if you’re okay with that,” he says after a prolonged pause.
