I could go outside. Wander wherever Lincoln hides its noise. But something tugs me sideways instead, toward a sign that reads:
ROOFTOP POOL & LOUNGE – GUESTS ONLY
A rooftop means sky. Space. Air. Fewer people, hopefully. Height without velocity.
I follow the arrows down a quieter hall, swipe my keycard at another door, and step into a smaller bank of elevators that only go up. I hesitate for half a second in front of the car, then curse at myself internally and get in. Five seconds of motion, a tiny lurch, and then the doors open onto the top floor.
The rooftop is surrounded by glass, the kind that cuts the wind but leaves the view. A long, rectangular pool glitters in the center, steam curling off it in the cool morning air. Lounge chairs line the edges, their white cushions pristine. Potted plants in symmetrical rows try to convince you this is an oasis and not a very fancy box.
It’s early enough that it’s mostly empty. A woman in a one-piece does lazy laps. A guy in headphones sips something green at a table, eyes on his tablet. A staff member in hotel black moves chairs half an inch like that matters.
And on the far side, in the blue-grey shadow of an oversized umbrella, of course, is Sadie. Legs folded up crisscross on a lounge chair, boots off, bare toes tucked under her. She’s wearing those damn cutoffs again, but I tilt my head in appreciation at the black bikini top she’s wearing. Much better than the standard band shirt she’s usually got on.
She’s got her camera in her lap, laptop balanced on a towel-covered side table. Her hair’s down, a loose, messy fall around her shoulders, curling at the ends from the humidity. Sunglasses slide down her nose as she squints at the screen.
She has no idea I’m here. My heart does something stupid and adolescent in my chest, like it didn’t get the memo that we are not doing this. I should turn around. Go back down. Find another coping mechanism that doesn’t involve throwing myself at the source of my current frustration. Instead, my feet move forward like I’m on a track.
She notices me when my shadow cuts across her toes. Her head jerks up, sunglasses pushed into place with one finger, like armor.
“Stalking me?” She smirks by way of greeting. Her voice is rough from sleep and coffee and probably not enough water. It slides over my skin like someone dragging their nails, but in a good way.
I don’t take the bait and bite back. I scrape my fingers through my hair and continue to stare her down. She squints up at me. “Pretty sure there are other places you could brood today, Ross.”
“Yeah.” I shrug, maintaining my focus directly on her. “But then I’d miss the view.”
Her lips twitch. She hates that she likes that. I can see it. She drops her gaze back to her laptop. “If you’re going to stay, don’t loom. Looming is rude. Pick a chair.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, but I take the lounge chair next to her, dropping into it with a grunt. The cushion sighs under my weight. For a second, neither of us talks. The sound of water lapping gently against the pool tiles fills the space where words could go. The sky is a pale, cloudless blue stretched tight overhead.
“What do you even do on a day off?” she blurts suddenly, eyes still on the screen.
“Sleep. Pretend the world doesn’t exist. Avoid people.” I spout off my normal list.
“Bold strategy for someone whose job involves thousands of screaming fans every night.”
“That’s the point,” I explain. “When we’re on, we’re on. When we’re off, we disappear.”
She hums without conviction. “Is this disappearing?”
“Close enough,” I reply. “Half this town doesn’t know who we are.”
She snorts. “Give it an hour. Somebody will post that they spotted you by the omelet station and the lobby will look like a pop-up Hot Topic.”
I imagine that. The shrieks, the selfies, the way people’s hands sometimes shake when they hold something out for me to sign, like I’m anything other than a guy who got lucky and didn’t die young. “Then I guess I’ll enjoy the peace while it lasts.”
She finishes whatever she was typing and snaps her laptop closed with a soft click. “Congratulations,” she announces. “I actually think you’ve chosen a prime disappearing spot.”
“Why’s that?” I squint over at her.
“People are scared of rooftop pools.” She states like it’s a known fact.
I raise a brow. “Since when?”
“Since the internet taught them falling is a thing,” she explains. “They don’t come up unless they’re drunk, tanning, or in denial. None of which is a morning activity, generally.”
“Which one are you?”
She considers, then smiles, her blue eyes dancing with mirth. “Denial, obviously. With a side of coffee.” She reaches toward the small table between us and grabs a paper cup. Condensation beads on the sides. She takes a sip, eyes closing briefly like she’s communing with a higher power.
