“They’re not that bad.”
I let out a hopeless huff of air, wishing I didn’t have to chase online success in order to keep Mom’s hotel open.
“Hey. What’s goin’ on in that brain of yours?” she asks. Gwen wraps her arms around me in the same pose Mr. and Mrs. Hollis had in that picture.
“I want to believe that a photo could solve all my problems.” The quiet confession tumbles out of me. “But what if that doesn’t happen?”
“My manager says that consistency matters more. Show up, that’s all.”
“And reduce the hotel to a snapshot and a punny caption? It’s bigger than that. Doesn’t feel right.”
Gwen’s head bobs on my shoulder. “But it totally makes sense for my shop.”
“No.” I laugh, pinching her lightly on the arm so she releases me. “You make it look genuine.”
“You could too.”
“Maybe. My mom created The Mirage to be a literal oasis in the desert. Not a Best Western, not some trendy hotel with no substance. She wanted to have a hidden gem.”
“Hiddenmakes earning a steady profit kinda hard, don’t you think?”
“I wish…” The corners of my eyes prickle, so I look to the ceiling to chase the sensation away. “I want to do a good job here.”
Gwen has been privy to many of these conversations. My first major meltdown happened when I discovered Mom had misreported a room renovation, which led to a minor tax headache the year I took over. When I switched to an entirely new booking software because the old one was clunky and outdated, I almost lost my damn mind. Even though Gwen’s gem shop is thriving, she has her own business-owner breakdowns,and I love being the person she can talk to. We know what to say to each other, how to bolster each other up.
But rather than bounce back with a reassuring reply, like “You are doing a great job,” or offer me an overflowing glass of wine, she clicks her tongue and says, “And I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
I follow her line of sight to the overgrown parking lot at the far end of the property, where Max exits his vehicle. My stomach twists into knots.
“The apparition is back,” she mutters, and her gaze snags on me. “I can get rid of him.”
“Are you going to raid my spice cabinet and leave salt circles around The Mirage to cleanse it again?”
“I figured I’d just ask nicely, but I like how you think.”
Smiling, I pat her shoulder. “I’ll handle it.”
Max catches my eye and tips his chin up in a casual greeting, a carefree smile painted on his face. And for the second time in three days, Max Weber walks back into my life.
Rather than subject Max to a sage cleansing from Gwen, I greet him in the lot and tell him to meet me at one of our old favorites. It’s that or welcome him into the casita, which I’m not mentally prepared for. He waits by the entrance to Sal’s Saloon until I arrive, and when he opens the door for me, the pungent smell of stale beer hits me first. Dusty, western-style decor covers the walls, from rusty license plates to splintered wagon wheels that have been there as long as I can remember. Music from the jukebox blares, and conversations rattle in all directions. For strong drinks and greasy eats, Sal’s is the place to be.
“Wow.” Max halts at the entrance as if the sticky beer on the floor has glued him there. “It’s like stepping into a time machine.”
“Would you rather go somewhere else?”
“Are you kidding?” He gapes at the bar with wonder, and warmth trickles into my limbs seeing him excited to be back here. “This is great.”
A boisterous voice roars from across the bar. “There ain’t no way.” Sal throws a stained towel over his shoulder and speed-walks to greet us, his tiny white apron like a child’s costume wrapped around his rotund belly. “My Daisy Duke and Maxster, together again?” He rests a hand on each of our shoulders, squeezing us so our sides meld. Max could be made of steel, he’s so firm against me. The heat from his body surges into my arm, while a citrus scent overtakes the stale lager. Something sharp and fresh like lemongrass.
“We’ve missed you in here.” He points his finger at Max, then me. “Both of you.”
In high school, we weren’t old enough for alcohol and stuck to sodas and lemonades, so Sal fusses over Max and serves him his first official beer at the Saloon. He even throws in complimentary tater tots to commemorate the occasion.
We claim an open booth by the papier-mâché antlers. I blend into the scene with my Levi’s, vintage T-shirt, and much-loved boots, but in a crisp, plain tee and slacks, Max gives off out-of-towner vibes, although he’s technically not. It’s not only his clothes—his presence commands quiet attention. Either he doesn’t notice, or he chooses to ignore the folks gawking at him, yearning for some small-town drama.
My heart races as we slide onto the still-warm leather seats because the man across the table is a stranger in so many ways—yet we know so much about each other. For the past couple of years, I found comfort in his voice and in knowing that, although we couldn’t really be friends, I didn’t have to lose him completely.
“They still have karaoke Friday nights?” Max’s question snaps my mind back to the here and now.
