The woman was Laila, giggling loudly. Her cheeks were red. The guy was younger, holding on to her waist. His eyes shined like a predator’s.
“Connie! You! Are! Here!” Laila exclaimed in a fit of giggles, punctuating every word.
She wasn’t just drunk. She was past good decisions. I got out of the elevator to get closer to her.
“Samuel is walking me back to my room,” Laila scream-whispered to me. “There was a party. On a boat. With alotof champagne. And no water anywhere.”
She cracked up, then twisted her neck so she could look at him. He was holding on a little too tight and his smile was strained.
“Wait, therewaswater,” she added conspiratorially. Then, lowering her voice even more, “There was water all around the boat. So much water. It wasveryblue.” She was almost moved to tears. “Do you like blue, Connie? I think you do.”
“I like blue.”
The guy, Samuel, cleared his throat. “What floor are you on, Laura?”
“I got it,” I said.
He didn’t even know her name.
His smile faded a little as he made a move for them to get in the elevator.
“It’s all good,” he said.
I held onto Laila’s elbow.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” I said to him so pointedly that he slowly let go of her.
He was still well within earshot when Laila said, “Is he cute or is it the accent? That’s the problem with French guys, you can’t always tell.”
He made a face as he left, probably realizing he’d dodged a bullet. Because, as soon as the door closed on us, Laila bent over and threw up all over my sneakers. The acid stench of her bile made me retch, too, but I managed to keep it all in. My new sneakers were ruined.
“Where did he go?” Laila asked two minutes later outside her room, as I fished around her clutch for her key card.
Then she pursed her lips. “Do I have his number?”
“I don’t know,” I said annoyed.
She wiggled out of my hold. “I have to get his number!”
“No, you don’t!”
She tried so hard to shove me away that she elbowed me in the face.
“Stop telling me what to do, Mom!”
I got the door open just as Laila threw up again. This time I managedto shuffle off target, but the vomit hit the inside of the room. After that she let me drag her to the bed, where I lay her down with some effort. Laila was small, but so was I. I got her a glass of water from the bathroom along with a towel that I’d run under the tap. I was being a good friend. I was going to make sure she was okay on her own, that she had everything she needed. I was even going to clean up that patch of regurgitated champagne.
And then I would leave.
That was the plan. And Ididdo most of those things. Except I didn’t leave. Not right away. Because once Laila was drifting off to sleep, I took in her room. Her clothes were neatly tucked away in the closet—silky tops, matching skirts, an impressive collection of designer shoes and bags, the kinds that one could definitely not afford on whatever she was making at her job. The rest of the room was a mayhem of Clapard shopping bags and black boxes in various sizes. They were on every surface and all over the floor.
“Thirsty,” Laila called from the bed. She sounded half-asleep already.
I got her another glass and helped her sit up to drink it, avoiding a glance at my shoes, which I was desperate to take off. The smell was awful, but Laila didn’t seem to notice.
“Saw Dorian Fisher in the marina,” she slurred almost inaudibly, “getting on a yacht with a girl.” Laila sighed. “Awoman. Not a girl. But young.”
My spine tingled. “Who?”
