Besides, Raff probably wasn’t even in Miami anymore. And if he was, he was likely out with his Golden Glades buddies—hitting the beach, peeling off bikinis…
No.
I shook that thought off as I was walked from the plane to my waiting car.
“Thanks,” I said to the staff, then the driver as I ignored the rolling feeling in my stomach and slipped into the backseat.
The drive back to Shady Valley was objectively short but felt impossibly long without Raff’s constant, easy conversation to fill the cabin of the car.
I turned my face away from the window as we rolled into town, directing the driver to pull behind the motel to drop me off.
“Home sweet home,” I sighed at the building as I moved through the back door with my bags and heavy heart.
“Look who’s back,” Jack said, glancing over from where he was knelt down filling the vending machine.
“Hey, Jack. Thanks for keeping my room for me. I’ll pay you as soon as I unpack.”
“Pay me for what? Covering your car?”
“For my room.”
“Your room is paid up for three months.”
“Wait, what? How is—”
But the question fell away. Because I knew how. Of course I did. Raff. Being the good guy. Once again.
It would be easier to stop thinking about him if he would stop being so damned frustratingly kind.
“Oh, okay.”
“Hey,” Jack called when I started to walk past.
“Yeah?”
“Here. Take this,” he said, tossing something at me that I instinctively caught out of the air. “Looks like you need it,” he said, closing the front of the vending machine and locking it before walking away.
I looked down at my hand to find a chocolate bar. The universal Band-Aid for an aching heart.
How did he know?
He didn’t. That would be absurd. I probably just looked rough from lack of sleep and a six-hour plane ride. That was all.
Each step toward my room felt heavier than the last. Some part of me wanted to justify it as my superficial, high-maintenance side not wanting to stay in such a seedy place. But I knew it was more than that. Because returning to my motel room felt like closing a chapter, like everything that had happened on the road trip and down in Miami were over, that I could never feel that way again.
I kicked closed the door then did a quick sweep of the room to make sure no creeper had moved in while I was away, then I did the only thing I could think to do.
I got busy.
I unpacked my clothes, took them to the washer to launder them. I straightened up my room, doing a bathroom scrub, freshening up my bed, organizing all the little trinkets I’d picked up on our travels. Or, rather, that Raff had seen me admiring and bought or picked out himself for me. I knew the healthy thing would have been to get rid of them or at the very least stick them in a drawer so they weren’t a constant reminder. But I didn’t do that. I lined them up in order on the dresser and let myself relive the memories, one by one.
I reached for the bracelet he’d made me, remembering sitting at that little hotel room table working on the one I’d given him. The one he hadn’t taken off since. Not to swim. Not to shower. Not to sleep. Nothing.
There was a sharp sensation in my chest I tried to ignore as I slid the bracelet on my wrist before forcing myself to move away from the trinkets—both literally and figuratively.
I needed to get out. Get some food for the room. Clear my head.
I took a few moments to apply some very careful makeup—hiding what was left of my bruising behind it, then changed into a dress that didn’t smell like coconut-lime-rum, grabbed my purse, and made my way out of the motel.
