23
Present Day
I spent alot of my mid-twenties in hotel rooms, and for a few years, it was extremely fun. Traveling to new cities, visiting bookstores across the country, meeting readers, visiting movie sets. Being an author on tour is the best level of famous because absolutely no one knows or cares who you are except for your own fans. I was almost never recognized in public, but my readers were thrilled to meet me at a signing or a conference. And after an event, there is nothing better than coming back to a hotel room, taking off my bra, and eating delivery while watching HGTV.
Tonight, my bra is off, a half-eaten poke bowl rests on my lap, and real estate porn is on mute in the background. Unfortunately, I can’t appreciate any of it. I toss a paperback to the end of the bed, where it joins a growing pile. I’ve read the same page five times, and I couldn’t tell you if I’m reading a mystery or a romance.
I stare at my Kindle. It’s taunting me from the nightstand. If I open it, I won’t have the self-control not to downloadDrought, and I don’t think I can handle that tonight. Now that I know the reason West refused to go to New York, buried guilt threatens to claw its way to the surface. The fact that he was drowning in fear and self-doubt while I was having sex with some guy I didn’t care about is a brutal thought. The last thing I need is to crawl inside West’s head and look around.
I groan and pull a pillow over my face.
My mind skips easily fromiftoif: If that agent had waited one day to send the rejection. If West had told me about it. If I’d not left the house, not gotten drunk, not tried to hurt West to get back at him for hurting me.
Ugh.
Now is not the time to fall into a depressive spiral. Tomorrow is too important. This book and this tour and this second chance are too important.
I need a distraction. Books aren’t cutting it. Reality TV isn’t cutting it. Not even a doomscroll is enough to get me out of my own head and my mind off West. I’ve got one thing left to try, and it’s the thing I tend to do when I’m desperately bored or incurably sad.
I redownload my dating apps.
I swore them off six months ago, after I spent an hour getting to Manhattan for a date only to be stood up, ghosted, and blocked without ever meeting the guy. But desperate times and all that.
I open an app that’s location based. I don’t want to meet anyone in Tucson—heaven forbid—but I’m so burned-out on the wannabe stand-up comedians and finance bros who are inescapable in the city. With any luck, the men of Tucson will be interesting enough to keep my mind off West for the night.
I spend the next hour numbly swiping through the profilesand am devastated to realize that bad dating profiles aren’t unique to New York.
Some things are different in the Southwest: I swipe left on too many pictures of men holding fish, men holding guns, men in the driver’s seat of a truck, wearing sunglasses that hide their entire face. There are also way too many guys who can’t be bothered to fill out their bio and ones who are looking for their “partner in crime.” I’m constantly surprised by the number of men who apparently need someone to rob a bank with. Don’t they have friends?
Eventually, I drift to sleep, and hours later, my phone is still open onJosh, 34 (Just ask)when a shrill alarm wrenches me from sleep. Instinctively, I check the phone still clutched in my hand, but the noise is coming from somewhere else. My brain plays catch-up as I blink sleep from my eyes. The alarm is blaring through the hotel, and I’m out of bed with my feet in sandals before I realize there’s a fire. My brain turns to autopilot; my body moves without direction. I race seven floors down the smoky stairwell and don’t stop running until I get to the crowded parking lot.
It’s chaos. People are everywhere. Parents clutch sleeping or crying kids in their arms. I’m weaving through the crowd in search of red hair when my phone lights up with a text from Daphne.
Sidewalk across the street.
I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. When I get to her, she quickly folds me into the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. We huddle together and watch smoke billow from the hotel.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I say, breath misting in front of me. Ididn’t consider the nearly freezing weather when I left my room in a thin tank top and sweats, and my teeth chatter from a mixture of cold and adrenaline. Daphne clutches my hand as screaming fire trucks pull onto the scene. Ambulances follow closely behind, but soon enough, word spreads that no one is hurt, and some of the tension in the air dissipates. The fire was contained to several empty conference rooms, and aside from checking out a few people for smoke inhalation, the EMTs stand around without much to do.
Daphne and I sink to the curb and wait, adrenaline draining nearly as quickly as it arrived. She leans her head on my shoulder and drifts off. After what feels like hours, a man from the fire department gathers all the displaced guests and tells us that because of smoke damage, no one will be allowed back inside for several hours.
“Make other arrangements for the night,” he concludes.
Daphne yawns.
“Should we start calling hotels?” I ask.
“Doubt we’ll have much luck,” she says, gesturing to the people around us. Most of the families called other hotels immediately, and we hear loud groans and low mutters of “fully booked.” The city is packed due to the book festival; it’s not going to be easy to find an empty room in the middle of the night.
“I’ll call our mutual sabotage friend Jazz,” Daphne says. The phone rings until it goes to voicemail.
“We’re old now, Daph. No one we know is awake at this hour.” I drop my forehead to my knees and breathe into my hands to stay warm.
“I’m texting her. I’ll keep trying.”
“If nothing else, there’s a twenty-four-hour Waffle House down the street.”
“I can’t,” she says.
