My mind goes numb as I walk, along with my fingers and toes. I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Cold or not, it’s good to move my body. Being caged in my cubicle all day and turning into couch mush in my few off-hours at home means my brain has had too much time to think.
More concerningly, it’s had too much time toremember.
And it is very, very fixated on remembering one thing and one thing only: how it felt to kiss Bastian and feel his hand slowly slide down the front of my leggings.
The memory has this strange sort of half-dreamlike, half-hyper-real quality to it. The sky was pure Technicolor, almost too beautiful to be believed. But Bastian’s calluses, the rasp of his beard—that’s more sensory than my senses know how to handle.
The more times I turn it over in my head, the fuzzier it gets, though. Was his hand on my neck or my hip when he first kissed me? Did I pull him down or did he lean in first? How long were weactuallyin the back of that Range Rover before things escalated from innocent to decidedly not?
I can’t pin down the sequence of events, and it’s driving me crazy.
What Icanremember with perfect, 1080p clarity is how he looked at me afterward.
And what he said.
Friday night. Eight o’clock.
By the time I arrive at the building site, it’s nearly six o’clock and the winter sun is already starting its descent. Most of the crew has cleared out for the day, but a few stragglers remain. Guys in hard hats hauling toolboxes toward the parking lot, a forklift beeping as it reverses into position. When its driver kills the engine, an eerie silence settles over the whole place.
Frank’s trailer sits at the far end of the lot, a dingy white rectangle with rust stains bleeding down the sides. As I approach, I notice something odd: There are voices coming from within.
Angryvoices.
I slow my pace, straining to hear, but I can’t make out words. Just the unmistakable cadence of an argument. Two men, maybe three, their tones sharp and heated.
Then I notice the cigarettes.
Three of them, stubbed out on the metal stairs leading up to the trailer door. They’re still smoldering. Thin wisps of smoke curl up into the gray afternoon air.
Someone was just here. Multiple someones.
I climb the stairs carefully, avoiding the cigarette butts, and raise my fist to knock. Before I can, the voices inside cut off abruptly.
I wait, listening. Nothing but silence now.
After a moment, I knock. “Frank? It’s Eliana Hunter from Hale Hospitality. I need to talk to you about the damage report.”
No response.
I press my ear against the door. I swear I can hear movement inside—the creak of floorboards, the rustle of paper or fabric—but no one comes to answer.
“Frank?” I try again. “I know you’re in there. I just want to ask a few questions about the vendors. It won’t take long.”
More silence.
I stand there for another thirty seconds, feeling increasingly ridiculous. Finally, I give up and go back down the stairs. I pull out my phone to call him instead.
It rings only a couple of times before cutting off and going to voicemail. “Hey, Frank, it’s Eliana. I stopped by your trailer, but you must’ve just stepped out. Give me a call when you get a chance. I’ve got some questions about the inspection reports. Thanks.”
I hang up and stare at the trailer for another moment. Unease prickles at the base of my spine.
Something is very, very wrong here.
But with no other available route to keep inquiring, I decide to hang it up for the time being. I’ll try again tomorrow.
As for what I donow, that’s a better question.
