Page 7 of Queen of Nothing

I pack up my toiletries and escape the steam.

The motel room is a gust of cold, damp air.

I glance across the room. Red and brown, with just two narrow beds and a dated, bulky television on an old dresser.

Beyond the white lace drapes, the window is cracked open.

The lace dances in the breeze.

I hug the towel closer to my body.

Anyone passing by the motel room could look at the window and, if the breeze hits just right, catch a glimpse inside.

“Close the window,” I mutter, and maybe I should startle at the ragged sound of my voice, which is not unlike my vocal cords have been dragged over a grater.

I toss the toiletry bag onto my bed.

Serena was quick to claim the bed nearest the door when we staggered and lugged our way in here just a couple of hours ago. Said the draught from the window helps soothe her nausea.

Apparently she needs a lot more than a faint draught. She needs the window open, letting in all the cold air, and exposing me in my towel to the whole carpark out front.

I roll my tongue around the inside of my cheek, fighting back the quarrel brewing in me.

It’s been a long day.

A long few days.

Airplanes, boats, trains, buses, dirty motels.

That is all our escape has been so far.

The exhaustion wears on us both.

So worn-out that even the sight of this brown and rusty-red room didn’t deter us from the promise of food, beds, and a shower.

That’s what we stopped for.

That, and the next phase of Serena’s plan.

She’s still working on the details.

Ignoring my window request, she pores over a local map that’s spread out over the foot of her bed. Tucked under the map is an atlas that she’s been flicking through since we got here.

She is so focused, so determined, that I wonder if she even heard me complain about the window.

I think I could say anything at all right now, like ‘Changed my mind, I secretly love Dray Sinclair and need to run back into his arms now—’

And she wouldn’t even blink.

I change into a black loungewear set from my bag, then tug on a pair of bed socks.

The soft material gliding over my body is a relief, especially after the exfoliation of the rough towel that I let crumple to the carpet.

I drop onto the edge of the bed, then fold over myself. Another towel is wrapped around my head. I scrunch it against my scalp, soaking up as much of the wetness as I can—and it all feels so robotic.

My hair is damp when Serena moans, “I’m so bloated.”

My neck cranes as I glance at her.