He hands me the phone, and I hold it close to my face to get a better look at the photos. Lots of wood paneling. Funky quilts. “There’s snowmobile parking.”
“We’re in a Chrysler Town and Country, Madeline.”
“This person says they got bed bugs from here!” I exclaim, vetoing him and handing the phone back. “No way.”
“That was four years ago, and one comment. Things have changed, look how many comments say the place is clean. We don’t really have much of a choice if you want to be close for the concert. Let me just call.”
He presses the button to give the motel a call, and I listen to the jazz holding music with him on speakerphone. A crackly voice picks up. “Hello? This is Rhonda.”
Dean clears his throat. “Hi, yes. I’d like to book two rooms for…just tonight, please.”
There’s a thick pause while Rhonda clacks on her keyboard. “For how many?”
“Two. There’s two of us,” Dean clarifies for her.
“Two rooms,” I add.
“We only have one room left. It sleeps two.” Rhonda says.
“Are there two beds?” I pipe up.
“Yes, there’s two beds. Two doubles.” Rhonda’s country drawl is becoming exuberantly apparent.
I nod and Dean tells Rhonda we’ll take it.
“You have to pay by credit card now,” She says.
I read my credit card number off to Rhonda, and she accepts it. “Check-in is at 3.”
“We won't be there until 5, at least,” Dean explains to her.
“That’s fine. Just ring the bell if I’m not at the desk.”
“Well, Rhonda fucking lied.”
I’m standing in the doorway of room 106, staring at a single queen bed. “Unless there’s another bed in the closet or something.”
Dean walks over to the small sliding door, and glides it open as if there really could be another bed in there. Much to my chagrin, there is not. He returns to the entrance to bring in his duffel bag. He lifts and sets my suitcase up on the dresser. “Well, I guess you’re stuck with me,” He remarks, shrugging off his coat and hanging it neatly in the previously empty closet.
I press my lips together and don’t say anything. This is not the ideal scenario—I’m petrified that Dean might realize how truly unhinged I am. But how bad could it be? He’s seen the tote bag. He’s watched me sanitize a menu. It’s not like he’s completely in the dark. I like Dean. He likes me. What’s there to worry about?
Standing in the doorway, I watch him move about the wood-paneled room, his tall, brooding figure throwing shadows across the wall. A sliver of sunlight splashes across the bed, in from the small, sliding window in the front of the room. After inspecting the complimentary coffee maker, aligning his shoes in front ofthe dresser and plugging in his phone, Dean sits in the only armchair, running his fingers along the pilled fabric.
He looks up at me. “What? Are your shoes stuck?”
“No.”
I set my tote bag on top of the dresser. It’s weird sharing this time and space—the post-check-in, pre-meal hour—with Dean, especially after last night. To say I’m used to, and accustomed to, settling in on my own isn’t an exaggeration. He hasn’t been there to watch my routine of scrubbing my hands and face, aligning my pill bottles on the counter, and counting my postcards from Andy this whole trip.
But I do it, anyway, for fear that if I don’t, it’s all I’ll think about all night.
I dig my bar of soap that I’ve been toting between inns and hotels out of my suitcase, and flick the light switch in the bathroom on, and while I’m skeeved out by the dirty grout in-between the countertop tiles, the given towels look freshly bleached. After tying my hair up, I wash my hands and face, and pop the bar of soap back into the box once I’m finished.
Making my way back to my suitcase and tote bag, I toe my shoes off and align them next to Dean’s. I fish out my antidepressants and antipsychotics out of my tote bag and take one of each. I always take them before dinner if I can help it, even though I don’t need to take them with food. I arrange the labels face out and leave them on the dresser.
Digging deeper, I pull out my postcards and count them. Four, just as there should be. The Waverly Inn. The Monarch Resort. The Pic-a-Lilli Pub. The Belladonna. And Andy’s letter.
“What are you looking at?” Dean asks.
