“Swallow,” I answer shortly. “Which I told her. Three times.” When in doubt, throw some incompetent sap under the bus, I always say. So long as there’s an incompetent sap around, it’s foolproof.
Trembly girlshakes, and satisfaction spears me. She should be shaking. She’s standing between me and the love of my life—mywife. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to eliminate that obstacle, and no lengths to which I would not go to ensure the blockade never happens again. Maple is mine, and I will have her, anxiety-ridden receptionists be flagged.
“You’re Mrs. Swallow’s husband,” the competent one says, pursing her lips.
I nod, chest puffing. “Yes.” IamMrs. Swallow’s husband.
She eyes me, unimpressed. “Unfortunately, Mr. Swallow, if your wife were staying here—and I can’t confirm that she is—you aren’t in our system as being listed on any check-in paperwork for any rooms in this hotel.”
My eyes narrow. “And?”
“Andthat means we can’t help you. The safety of our guests is our highest priority. We have no proof you’re actually her husband beyond what you claim, and, further, we have no proof she wants to see you. And,further, if shewerea guest here, we certainly couldn’t compromise the safety of a guest for the sake of a man she may or may not want to see. If you’d like to visit your wife, sir, then I suggest you call her to pick you up.” With that, she turns to the younger woman, wraps a firm arm around her shoulders, and leads her to an office tucked behind the reception desk. “I’ll give you ten minutes, Mr. Swallow, before I call the cops to have you escorted away.”
I glare. Menacingly.
Oh, yes. My Maple is smart, and it’sreallyinconvenient. It’s all well and good to be willing to bust down obstacles to get to my wife, but currently? The obstacleismy wife.
Nothing for it, I pull my phone out of the pocket of my dark linen pants, navigate through screens backed by photos of her until I get to my favorites list, and hit call.
She doesn’t pick up.
I hit call again.
She doesn’t pick up. Again.
I hesitate, then say flag it. I call, let it ring twice, hang up, call, let it ring twice, hang up, then call and let it get to the third ring.
She answers on the fourth.
“You better be dying,” she greets, lovingly. “You better be in a freaking hospital bed bleeding out right now if you’re using our emergency secret code. You betternotbe abusing the system to manipulate memorewhen you’re already in trouble, Iverson Swallow.”
“I am manipulating the system,” I confess readily. “But I’m manipulating it openly and honestly out of sheer desperation. This is a clear call to your conscience to have pity on me for long enough to hear me out for the length of a singular phone call.” I squeeze the words out quickly, willing her not to hang up before I can put my cards on the table. Manipulating is bad. Bad, bad, bad. I’ve learned my lesson there, at least where it applies to Maple. One night without her under my roof while I tossed and turned in bed, checking my phone in the vain hope that she’d spend more money after booking half a hotel just so I’d know she’s okay, drilled the manipulation is bad lesson straight into my skull.
However. It’s not manipulating if youdeclarethat you’re manipulating a person, is it? If everyone is aware of what’shappening, then nothing is happening, and I can continue on as normal. Logic. Sound, irrefutable logic.
“Oh my gosh,” she mutters. “He’s cracked.”
It should be noted, she does not hang up the phone.
“I’m downstairs,” I tell her. “The idiots behind the desk won’t give me the keys to our rooms.”
“That would be because they’re notourrooms,” she retorts. “They’re mine. And I’ll be tipping them extra for this. I love this place.”
“What’s yours is mine,” I remind her. “Particularly when I pay for it, one would think.” I won’t touch on her “loving” this place. Possibly a night without me has affected her similarly, and she is no longer in her right mind, leading to such nonsense speak.
“This ‘one’ person sounds like an idiot,” she says.
I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face. Clearly, my blasé attitude is not helping things. I adopt a more agreeable countenance for her: begging. It isn’t hard. In the stages of grief, I’m firmly set to desperate, despondent, disconsolate longing for the one that I’ve lost.Temporarilylost, anyway. I soften my voice as I plead, “Maple, please. I just want to talk.”
I learn immediately that I’ve made a mistake. Again. Really on a roll, me.
“Yeah, well, you know what I ‘just want,’ Ivy?” she hisses through the line, making me flinch. “I ‘just want’ to be valued and respected by the man I thought I could trust more than anyone. The world is disappointing.”
I grimace. I deserve this. I know I do. It’s been several handfuls of hours since my bride fled our home, and I’ve spent nearly all of them ruminating on where I went wrong and what I can do to fix it—in between bouts of hopeless self-pity, anyway.
I am not a man accustomed to being wrong, let alone having to fix those wrongs. The horrifying reality I faced is that I didn’tentirely know where to start in figuring it out. For Maple, Iwillfigure it out. Dedication to the cause isn’t my issue. Knowing how to go about figuring this out, though…
I need help. From Maple. Because my sweet rosy Maple is and always has been my moral compass. Without her, I flounder, making stupid decisions that hurt my loved ones and ruin my life. Clearly.
