“I need to book a room. Do you want to come in with me? It might take a few minutes.” She glances over at the well-lit doors.
“No.” I huddle in the seat, feeling cold even though my heat is on. “I’ll wait here.”
“Lock the doors. If anyone comes around just… just run them over,” she says, opening her door. I don’t think she was kidding. She doesn’t walk away until she sees me hit the lock button, and even then she’s in this near jog type of walk and looking over her shoulder to watch me like she doesn’t want to leave me alone for five minutes.
My eyes go unfocused as I look out the windshield. In my mind, I can see Ed and Mert Bigelow, our neighbors. They were always so nice. She made us pumpkin and zucchini bread from her garden every year. I scrub my hands over my face. I need to know what happened to them, but I don’t want to know at the same time.
A shadow passes by the car, and I pull my fingers back to see my dad standing near the hood. He’s on his phone, but that’s not unusual. It’s the frown on his face and the tight set to his shoulders that looks out of place.
I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but his tone says enough. He’s pissed at whoever is on the other end of the phone. He takes a few more steps away from the car, and I notice someone walking at the other end of the parking lot, approaching the end of the building. The black shirt and stance are familiar. When he reaches the side entrance, he pauses under the light long enough for me to confirm it’s him. His head shifts just enough that it almost looks like he glances back at me.
He did say he just got to the area a few days ago, but what are the chances we’d end up at the same hotel he’s staying at? He moves his hand to the handle then hauls the door open before disappearing inside.
He must have had a key to get in, those kinds of doors are always locked. I jump when my dad pulls on the car door handle. “Sorry.” He winces. “I’ll park the car. You can head in with your mom,” he tells me after pulling my door all the way open.
There’s a big part of me that doesn’t want to run into the guy in the hallway. I don’t want him to think I’m some sort of stalker. It would be even worse if I were with my mom—well, more embarrassing anyway. I slowly enter the lobby, pretending that I’m looking around, but really, I’m watching for him.
“Hey,” Mom says softly, approaching my side. “We’re all set.” She holds up a small envelope as proof.
“Dad’s parking the car,” I tell her.
“Okay. Should we wait or text him the room number?”
“Wait I guess.”
“Are you hungry? Do you need anything?” Mom is in rescue mode.
“No.”
The doors open behind us, and Dad walks in, hauling a big suitcase. It looks like he didn’t even get a chance to unpack. It makes me wonder how they found out about the Bigelows, but I know this isn’t the right place to talk about it.
“We’re on the third floor,” Mom says, and we all take the short walk over to the elevator. The ride up is silent and awkward. It’s like none of us know how to talk to each other.
Dad takes the keycard from Mom’s hand, unlocks the door, and holds it open for both of us to enter in front of him. Even though something so small shouldn’t be on my mind right now, I’m thankful I didn’t run into him.
There’s a small kitchenette area on the left and a bathroom on the right, but what hits me first is the bleach smell, which is a good thing. There’s nothing worse than walking into a musty hotel room.
Mom walks farther into the room, heading past the couch and two beds to a wide window, and then she opens the heavy curtains. There’s not much to see but some lights in the distance and the night sky, but it does seem to make the room feel less claustrophobic.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Dad announces after a quick look around.
Mom shuffles toward me and grabs Dad’s bag. I watch her struggle for a second to get the thing lifted onto the luggage rack then unzip it. “I’m sure he has a T-shirt you could sleep in.” She rummages around a bit until she pulls out a plain white shirt. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I didn’t have anything to change into.
“Good thing it wasn’t filled with dirty laundry.” She tries for a smile while she leans over to hand it to me.
The door to the bathroom opens, and Dad emerges. He looks tired, but his presence is welcome. Instead of the awkwardness that usually hangs around us for a few days upon his return, he just walks right up to me and wraps me in a tight bear hug. He doesn’t say anything, but I don’t need him to.
When he eventually releases me, I notice Mom wiping under her eye, but her face is clear of any other sign she was tearing up. “I’m going to change,” I tell them both then slip into the bathroom.
When I look into the mirror, I’m a little surprised by how disheveled I look. I pat down my wild red curls and turn from left to right, seeing the dark circles under my eyes. It’s a ridiculous thought, but knowing he saw me like this is embarrassing. I can’t believe he even spoke to me. I also can’t believe that I sat with him for a few hours and I still don’t know his name. I shake those thoughts away. I know I’m using them to distract myself from what’s really going on.
Mom and Dad are huddled together, talking quietly, when I exit the bathroom. They break apart like kids at school who got caught kissing. I tug at the hem of Dad’s oversized shirt, feeling like I’m intruding.
Thankfully, I left my jeans on with the plan to remove them when I got in bed, so I reach over for the ice bucket sitting on the counter across from me. “I’m going to grab some ice.” I use the excuse to get out of the room, even though we all know we don’t need any damn ice.
The door slams behind me loudly. Why the heck are hotel doors so heavy? I keep my steps slow and measured, allowing them enough time to finish talking. Plus I know when I get back, there are going to be discussions I really wish didn’t have to happen.
My walk takes me past the elevator alcove, and I follow the signs to the vending machine. The little closet-like room doesn’t have a door, and it’s only big enough for an ice machine and two vending machines—one with snacks, which is half empty, and one with drinks.
