The hotel is called The Opal Inn. There’s a hand-painted sign above the door. It’s the most cheerful thing I’ve seen all day, which is a depressing commentary on the overall quality of my last twelve hours.
Griffin holds the door open for me.
The lobby is cozy and warm, with the scent of old wood and something baking lingering in the air. About six people are inside, and every one of them looks up as I walk through the door.
I’m no longer in the wedding dress, but in a small town, that doesn’t seem to matter.
Griffin follows me in, carrying the shopping bags in one hand and my wedding dress folded over his other arm. The white silk is a glaring contrast against his dark shirt. He’s lost his jacket somewhere between the church and here. His tie is probably still on the floor of the Camaro. His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, and there’s a looseness to his posture.
I have no idea how he’s doing that. I’m barely upright.
On the walk over, I told him not to bother wasting money on two rooms. We’ve known each other since I was in middle school. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve shared a space, and the idea of being alone in a room right now felt less like a luxury and more like a threat. Griffin tried to argue, but I must have looked as wrecked as I felt, because he eventually sighed and said, “Whatever you want, Pipes.”
We step up to the reception desk. The woman behind it is in her mid-fifties, with reading glasses on a beaded chain.
She looks at me, then at Griffin, and then at the heavy pile of white silk draped over his arm.
Her expression goes soft. “Well,” she says. “Welcome to the Opal Inn. You must be the bride. I’ve heard all about you.”
My stomach does a nauseating roll. “You have?”
“Honey, word moves faster than a brushfire in Opal Creek,” she says with a wink. “I was hoping you’d choose to stay with us. We love a good story.” She beams at Griffin. “And you! Just arrived, I assume? Newlyweds! How wonderful. When did you—”
“We just need a room,” Griffin says. “Two beds.”
She looks up at him over her glasses, her smile not wavering for a second. “Oh, don’t be silly. We have our honeymoon suite available. King bed, jacuzzi, view of the hills. I just had it freshened this morning.”
“That’s great,” Griffin says, his tone measured. “But we’d actually prefer the two beds.”
“It’s our most popular room,” she continues, steamrolling right over him. “Couples come from all the way up the coast for it. I had a pair in last month—lovely people—they said it was the most romantic night of their lives.”
“The room with two beds,” Griffin repeats. He looks at me, his eyes questioning.
It’s theDo you want to handle this or should I?look. He’s trying to be respectful, trying not to claim a space that isn’t his, but the woman is currently describing the “Champagne Package,” and I’ve officially reached my limit for the day.
“I need a room with two beds,” I blurt, my voice louder than I intended.
She looks at me.
“Because this man is my friend.My friend. Not my husband. I don’t have a husband. I was supposed to get one today, but—” I gesture vaguely at Griffin, who is still holding the dress. “As you can see, that didn’t work out.”
The lobby goes silent. The couple on the sofa has stopped drinking their coffee.
“This dress is a Vera Wang,” I continue, and apparently, I’m doing this. The floodgates are open, and the town of Opal Creek is getting the full show. “I never actually liked it. I picked a different dress, but someone told me to wear this one instead, and I did. Because I always do, don’t I?”
Griffin has gone very, very still beside me.
“It was on my body for seven hours, and it made me itchy. There’s a piece of the boning on the left side that poked me in the ribs. I just want a shower and a bed. Two beds. So I can sleep in one, and my friend can sleep in the other, and I can forget that Vera Wang exists for eight hours.”
The woman behind the counter has taken her glasses off.
“A room,” I repeat. “Singular. Because I don’t currently have a husband, which is something I did to myself today, and I know I should feel terrible about it. Idofeel terrible. But there is also this other thing…” I press a hand to my sternum. “This thing that feels like relief, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
The silence in the lobby is absolute.
“I don’t know, honey,” the woman says. “But when I divorced my second husband, I remember feeling something exactly like that.”
I stare at her, confused.
