“Relief,” she confirms, nodding. She points to the same spot on her own chest. “Right here.”
I don’t know what to do with that information, but I can’t argue with it.
“Was it the right call?” I ask.
She considers it. “It was, but that’s a question for another day, sweetheart.” She puts her glasses back on. “Two beds. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
I exhale.
Beside me, Griffin unclenches as he looks down at me. “You good?”
“I just gave a lecture on dress-boning to a stranger,” I mutter. I’m so tired I can feel it in my bones. “I’m sorry about the speech.”
He offers me the smallest smile, but it feels like reassurance. “Don’t apologize.”
“Right,” the woman says. “I’m Barb, by the way. I’ve got a lovely room on the second floor, at the end of the corridor. Two queen beds, en suite, just freshened.” She looks at me over her glasses. “No boning.”
I blink, then burst out laughing because what the fuck is my life right now?
“In the mattresses,” she clarifies.
“Perfect. Thank you, Barb.”
She slides the key card across, then looks at me with a terrifyingly maternal look. “I’m going to say congratulations because I suspect today took more courage than you’re giving yourself credit for.”
For a second, I just stand there, the words landing somewhere deep and unfamiliar. I don’t trust myself to speak.
Griffin’s hand brushes lightly against mine where it rests on the counter.
I glance at him, and he gives me the smallest nod.
Breathe. You’re okay.
My throat closes.
He reaches across the counter and takes the card before I can embarrass myself by crying. Then he picks up the bags and my dress.
The man near the stairs gives me a small, supportive nod as we pass.
I have no idea what’s on the other side of tonight, but I have a shower and a bed and the memory of a dress that never belonged to me. For now, that’s enough.
Griffin falls into step beside me, carrying the wreckage of my wedding day. He’s looking at me sideways every few steps. It’s that careful, measuring look. The one where he’s running calculations and hoping the numbers come out right.
“I’m not going to break, Griffin,” I tell him at the bottom of the stairs.
“I know.”
But he doesn’t stop looking at me like that.
I start up the stairs. Somewhere at the bottom of my chest, underneath the guilt and the exhaustion, the relief is still there.
I decide to let it stay. Just for tonight.
Thirteen
The gown is in the corner.
I dropped it there earlier, before my shower. The hem is dark with the grime of a gas station floor, church steps, and a small-town pavement. Thousands of dollars of someone else’s vision, sitting in the corner of a budget hotel room in Opal Creek.
