What kind of “Princess and the Pea” nonsense is that?
Pushing all the junk to one side of the bed, I slog into the bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth, and contemplate a hot shower before ultimately deciding that that’s too much work for my sleep-addled, emotionally drained body. I return to the room, turn off the TV, strip down to my underwear, and hop under the covers, hoping dreams will come and whisk me away somewhere pleasant and unscrewed.
They don’t.
No matter how dark I make it. No matter how cold I set the thermostat, its continuous hum becomes less like a white-noise machine and more like a marching band. I even switch beds, wondering if maybe one mattress is softer than the other, attempting to convince my mind it no longer needs to be awake, alert,thinking. The second mattress is, for some reason, plusher, but Drew’s scent lingers there—Dove soap and lavender.
Maybe I am a Hans Christian Andersen character after all, and I’m passing the queen’s test tenfold. Only trouble is, my prince just walked out on me.
When the clock finally blinks 3:13 a.m., I throw off the covers and shuffle like a zombie around the room.
In my shuffling, I notice the scroll with the crystal instructions is flipped over. On the back is the Doop logo with its foreboding slogan:It’s Never Too Late to Make a Change.
That’s what everyone in my life wants from me. Change. Change in attitude. Change in behavior. Change in goals. Everything that makes meme. That list doesn’t even include the changesIwant. Change in address. Change in relationship status. Change in job title.
Sleep deprivation wins out as I reread the instructions, cradling the crystals close to my heart chakra, and set my “intention.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean.
“I intend to become successful, happy, and universally loved…AnnnnndI intend to prove everyone who doubted me wrong.” Maybe it’s petty, but it’s truthful, and damn, am I in for a dose of truth after the day I just had.
I close my eyes, and the ideal future—successful comedian, together with Drew, everyone proud of me—becomes a whimsical paint-by-numbers image in my mind, so serene and awesome that I almost forget how badly shit hit the fan today.
I feel like simply saying my intentions out loud isn’t enough, so I blow on the crystals as if they were casino dice, jiggle them around in my hand, and let them loose beneath my pillow so they land in a random assortment that is sure to hurt my head no matter how I position it.
With my eyes heavy and my heart heavier, I flick off the light and allow my thoughts to drift back to that wonderful world where everything is at my fingertips and life is but a laugh.
A long, hearty, nothing-really-matters laugh.
PART THREE
PYRITE
Panning for fool’s gold
Chapter Thirteen
“Whoomp! There it is!” Tag Team shouts at an earsplitting volume.
I’m jolted from sleep with so much frightening energy that I snap up, and in my closed-eyed frenzy to reach for the remote or my phone, I topple overboard.Whoosh.Straight to the floor like a sack of potatoes rolling off the bed of a truck.
There was definitely a bedside table within arm’s reach when I went to sleep last night. Did one of the housekeepers come in here and feng shui the room while I was sleeping?
This hotel had weird energy from the moment I stepped foot in it yesterday. The by-product of a Doop-affiliated wedding, no doubt. I wouldn’t put it past the staff here if they did a little redecorating in the dead of night, regardless of guest status.
Now that I think about it, this faux sheepskin rug—faux sheepskin, why do I even know that from feel alone?—was not here when I went to sleep last night. I think I’d remember this cloud-like texture under my bare feet as I got ready.
Maybe I was sleepwalking. That would be a first for me, but after the atrocious day I had, I wouldn’t be surprised if my body decided to revolt against me as punishment for my sins.
When I roll onto my side, I’m inches from a dresser, stained a deep black, with silver handles. A matching mirror hangs above,and a silver vase is perched on top. Fresh-cut flowers fill the air with strong, sneeze-inducing fragrance. Those weren’t there yesterday.
I go to rub my eyes and notice the splint isn’t there anymore.
When I touch it, my nose doesn’t hurt at all. This is somebody else’s nose. Like one of the fancy celebrity ones Drew was showing me at the urgent care. I squish and I flick at what almost feels like an applied prosthetic.
A deep voice comes from above. “Are you picking your nose?”
On the edge of my bed is a naked man. A chiseled, black-haired, full-mast morning-wood man covered only by the satiny white sheet I slipped out of minutes ago.
Okay.I’m dreaming.I’m dreaming, and all I need to do is pinch myself to wake up back in the Flamhaff Hotel in Brooklyn. Simple.
