Neither of us wants a relationship. Lucy doesn’t have time, and I don’t have the temperament. We’re both bad at being with others. I’m still not healed from my almost-marriage and the year of near-suicidal depression that followed. Lucy’s story is different but equally awful. This Aaron guy hurt her when he left, and worse, he cost Lucy her business. While she was in a relationship and focused on him, her business wavered.
Even if we could be together, it would be at the cost of Lucy’s biggest dream.
But I can’t think about that now. Her hand is in mine, and if I can forget the future I’ll still feel amazing. My usual pain will fade if I live in this moment with Lucy by my side. I can dream for this second, and then the next one, knowing it will eventually end.
We stop. Lucy turns and embraces me, kisses me the way a girlfriend would. It lasts too long and there’s too much contact between our bodies. I want her, but not just sexually. I need to hold her. I want to keep her with me, forever.
She steps away and says, “Just a second.”
“Aren’t we getting breakfast?”
“I need to stop by the front desk.”
“Why?”
“I need to extend my stay again.” When I hesitate, she smiles. And then, as if to sweeten the deal, she adds, “I’ll get us some candy bars afterward. My treat.”
I take a slow breath. My emotions are complicated and contradictory. I want Lucy to extend her stay so I can see more of her. But I also know how much worse another three days will make our inevitable parting, so some part of me wants to sabotage it. To end this now, while I still think we can take it.
But I don’t want to tell her no, so I hang on for an extra second. Then our hands part and she gives me this little smile that says she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“It’ll be okay,” Lucy says, then turns to walk away.
In her flickering eyes I feel a yawning wash of memory. I relive our time together. I see the top of the water tower, making love last night, walks spent deep in conversation, the night she met Mama, the evening I met her mother.
In that moment I realize something horrible.
I’m not just attached.
I love her. I love Lucy White with all my heart.
It doesn’t matter if we’re star-crossed. Or that we don’t make sense. It doesn’t matter if we live a nation apart and neither of us have time for what’s next. It doesn’t matter, because this is more than me and more than Lucy. This comes from somewhere else. We don’t get to choose. We can only submit to the feeling, and heed its call.
“Lucy!”
She turns back, expectant.
I open my mouth to share my epiphany, but words won’t leave. She waits, seeming to sense something coming — maybe feeling the same reckless feeling I am — but then the moment passes and she seems to decide I have nothing. Or, maybe more likely, she decides I have plenty, but that there will be time for it later … before the hourglass sand is all gone.
She kisses her fingers, holding them out and blowing me a kiss.
Thirty seconds after she’s gone, I get a face full of Thomas Booth. He steps beside me from down the staff hallway and watches Lucy depart. Then he ticks his head toward her before turning his stare on me.
“What the fuck are you still doing with her?”
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to reply. It’s irrelevant because he doesn’t give me a chance.
“I’ve been leaving you messages since yesterday morning. Jill Wyland has been chewing my goddamn ear off. Kendall’s, too, based on the way she keeps bursting in on me like a scared little bird. What exactly did you do to piss her off? She won’t say. Just keeps making petty threats. You’re not in your cabana, you’re not by the pool, you’re not answering your goddamn phone. Where the hell have you been, Marco?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with what?”
When I don’t answer right away, again he preempts me.
“Do we have a problem, you and me? Because I expect my employees to be reliable. So you’d better tell me what’s happening. I need you on call for things like this. On call. Do you hear me, Marco? The job market is slim right now. I’d think someone in your privileged position would appreciate what he has and just how bright his future could be if he’ll keep playing ball. I assume you’d be grateful. Because what helps me helps you. Got that?”
I want to shout him down, but Booth’s hit the nail right on its head. Not only does Hotel Indigo pay me twice what I made in my old job, but that old job doesn’t exist. In my bolder moments, I’ve considered quitting so I can stop being a plaything for him to shove in front of these sad, obnoxious, women. But there’s nothing out there. I could work as a cashier. Or sweep floors. And what could Mimi count on then?
This all doubles if Booth’s threats about advancing me out of massage and into sales pan out. I don’t have a high standard of living, so another raise would set me up for a while. I’d have money to send home and pay my bills, plus enough left over to start hacking at my debt — maybe even start a savings account once it’s finally paid off.
I nod, hating myself.
“What happened with Wyland?” he asks, when it seems we agree.
“She wanted more than was on the menu.”
“So?”
“I know you’re not suggesting you’d let a guest exchange money for sex. I may not know much, but I know that can’t possibly be what you’re implying.”
Booth’s tongue sneaks into his cheek. He eyes me. “Of course not. But you don’t need to piss her off.”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“Well, then maybe you should be progressing on it instead of chasing White’s tail out the door. Where’s the logic in escorting her anymore? Kendall spoke to Miss White a while ago and says she’s happy; something urgent must’ve made her cancel. She’s in the bag. Her stay is over.”
“She’s going to re-up right now, Thomas.” Then, because he has too much upper hand and I know exactly where he’s going, I add, “I got her to stay.”
Thomas looks at me, then says, “Not interested.”
I look at him sideways.
“Wyland already snatched up the Emperor Suite when White cancelled the last time. So what if she stays? I don’t really care about three more nights in another room. Kendall says she got Hunter Altman here yesterday, and his limo was on HipPic, with the Indigo in the background. We’re good there. Now it’s time to focus on Wyland. Do to her whatever the hell you did to get White extending her stay the first time. Do that and this place will be dripping with models. And they talk. Are you with me, Marco?”
The motherfucker holds his hand out. For a low-five.
I need time to figure this all out.
So I give him what he wants.
I hear a small noise.
And that’s when I turn to see Lucy behind me, holding her new room key and two candy bars. She went down the side hallway to get us snacks, just as she promised before walking off, and came up behind us.
I try to replay the last of what Booth said, wondering how long she’s been listening.
She drops the bars and the room key, and she runs.
And when she does, I know exactly how long she’s been standing there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
MARCO
I PRACTICALLY PUSH BOOTH TO the floor as I chase her. My right foot strikes something, and there’s a distinct chance it was his knee, maybe even his chin if he hit the deck. It doesn’t matter. If I hurt him, fine. If I’m fired, whatever.
All that matters is that I catch Lucy before she reaches the door.
We must look like a civilized scene from a cops-and-robbers chase. Lucy isn’t quite running; she’s in low heels and seems unwilling to make a scene. I’m dodging chairs and couches, trying for the straightest shot through the lobby, while Lucy takes the proper aisles. I pass the old man swiping his iPad, coming within inches. He doesn’t flinch. The iPad wobbles, but his attentio
n doesn’t.
I see Lucy sidelong as I try and fail to summit a high-backed couch, then move to circle around it. She’s staring defiantly forward, never looking back. But I can see her face. I can see the mascara she applied before coming down, and how it’s started to run. She’s stalking away with empty arms, headed for the front entrance. She has a decent lead, thanks to the way Booth tried to detain me before I shoved him down.
“Lucy!”
She doesn’t turn.
“Lucy, wait!”
I cut around, flat-out sprint, and nudge my way ahead of her as she moves in front of Kendall’s big counter. I see Kendall watching us, but don’t turn my head. My breath is coming hard, only half from exertion.
“Wait. Let me explain.”
“Get out of my way.”
“Let me explain!”
She hits me in the chest, and her voice snaps into fury. It’s as if all of her stress hasn’t gone anywhere, instead collecting below the surface like water behind a dam. Now that she’s leaving, it’s all back. Seven days of anger, frustration, and worry channeled into a single moment and a crumbling facade.
One slap. I don’t see it coming, but she hits me hard enough to put water in my eyes.
“Explain.” The word drips hurt and hatred. “Explain how you talked me into sticking around.”
“It wasn’t like that. I—”
“And maybe you can explain how you’d do it differently for this next woman. What do you think, Marco? The water tower again? Maybe you could introduce her to Mama, if Mama doesn’t mind the rough edges.”
“Lucy …”
Her mouth opens. Her hand moves to cover it, and I see her eyes falter, breaking down. “That was her, wasn’t it? In the cabana. It wasn’t just any job. That was your next conquest. The next girl you get to push into staying as long as possible and telling her friends.”
“No!” But the real answer is, of course, Yes. I was there on Booth’s command. I was there to make Miss Wyland happy in exactly the same way as I’d first been asked to please Lucy.
She shakes her head. Tears are coming freely, but she doesn’t bother to wipe them away.
“I’ve been so stupid. So damn gullible.” Another shake of her head, her angry face like a boiling volcano. “That whole thing you told me. About your engagement. It was all bullshit, wasn’t it?”
“No! It’s—”
“Almost got married. ‘She broke my heart. I’m not ready for a commitment … except maybe with you.’ It’s all a script, isn’t it?”
Hearing my worst year used like a weapon against me riles my defenses. I want to strike back, but I’ll take her slings and arrows for now. I just want to know how I can make this go away, explain away the sins she thinks I committed — even those I actually did commit, because Booth told me to.
“Well, she got my suite. Snapped it right up. So what do you think, Marco? What’s the best use of your time? Wanna come to my new room and keep telling me how maybe we could really be together, or is it better leverage to focus on the newest whale in the penthouse?”
I stammer, and she pushes right past me. I reach out to grab her but she’s moving faster now, in the revolving door before I can get in front again. I try to dive after her, but there’s no way; she’s halfway around by the time I reach her vestibule. So instead, without thinking, I dive into the next wing of the revolving door, grip the door’s edge and pull back to trap her inside.
She’s pushing to turn the door the rest of the way and leave the hotel, but I won’t allow the spindle to budge. The force of her whole body can’t match my grip, and now we’re at an impasse.
She turns around and bangs on the glass. Her voice is muffled. “Let me out!”
“Not until you talk to me.”
Another bang, same fist. “Let me go! I don’t want to talk to you!”
“It’s not what you think, Lucy! He set me up with you, sure. But all the things that happened between us … those were all real!”
“Like they’ll be real for Miss Wyland? I saw the way she looked at you! Go ahead, Marco, listen to your boss. Nail the new girl so you can do your fucking job!”
“I don’t want her! I want you!”
Lucy lunges for the far edge of her tiny space, ramming the glass hard enough to shimmy the door. She can’t weigh much more than half of what I do, but the jolt surprises me, so the door revolves just enough to advance the big wheel, squishing my fingers against the semicircular glass wall that makes up the outer edge.
I yell in pain and pull back, giving Lucy plenty of slack to push the door.
She’s out into the parking lot in seconds, and I can’t do much more than watch her go. Booth has caught up with me, as have Kendall, Carlos, and a few guests milling near the entrance. I could push through them, but there isn’t any point.
Lucy left her luggage, but she had her purse — and her car keys.
I’m helpless as I stand there, losing my breath, forced to watch Lucy rush to her car and drive out of my life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
LUCY
MARCO TRIES TO CALL.
HE sends me texts.
Somehow, he gets my email address, and I start getting emails. They’re the worst of all. I can set my phone to drop his calls without so much as allowing a voicemail. And texts have a limit. But there’s no such limit on emails.
So he explains. And he explains. And he explains.
I don’t have the energy for any of what he sends. I’ve skimmed most of it, but reading in depth only hurts. There’s literally nothing Marco can say to make me feel better. When he admits that what I heard him discussing with the manager was true, I feel like a fool; I feel used. But when he says that it was all a big mistake, and that what I imagined from him toward the end was real, that’s even worse. Because what good is it to believe that Marco could be with me? That could never happen. In some ways, believing him is worse than hating the man for his lies.
For days, I’ll try to ignore his messages. But then, when I’m low I binge like a bulimic, gorging myself on all he’s sent at once. I do it when Mom has beaten me up particularly hard with her demands or her guilt, or when she — bless her — asks about the nice young man I brought to meet her. I don’t have the heart to give her the details, saying only “It was a thing,” and leaving it at that.
I sit in the bathtub, in hot water, and read Marco’s emails on my phone.
I lie in bed, remembering the deluxe King at the Indigo. This way, it’s doubly torturous — delightful for the masochist within me — because when I remember that bed, I remember what it was like to feel as I did during that week. I recall the freedom I felt — the freedom to be, for the first time, true to myself. Then I look around at the bed in my mother’s guest room and remind myself that I’m no longer there. I’m not like that anymore.
I’m no longer that person.
I’m back to accepting the world’s responsibilities as my own. Back to accepting that, for Lucy White, there’s only subservience. I’ll take care of my mother. And my brother. Until there’s nothing left for me.
Now, I’m back to being afraid.
And to discover how neutered I’ve become, two days later I take the stairs to the top deck of my local health club, where there’s a five-story balcony that lets you look straight down.
If I can still go to the railing and look, it will have been worth it.
But I can’t look. Not anymore.
Just like I can’t tell my mother No. Just like I can’t tell Caspian I need to scale back at GameStorming, because I want my own identity, my own thing to tend. Just like I can’t read Marco’s emails without crying — whether because he used me or was telling the truth, I don’t know.
Every night I have dinner with Mom. And she usually asks something to bother me. Why don’t you get your roots dyed again? It’s so obvious you’re not a natural blonde. Or Your brother does such a great job of providing for me, Lucille. If only you could do the same.
>
And to this, I’ll say, My hair looks fine. Or Caspian never visits, Mom. Caspian abandoned you and Dad.
I’m so proud of him, she replies, as if I haven’t spoken. Though I know she’d never say that to Caspian and doesn’t believe it, and to him she’d say a similar lie about me.
She’s just afraid in her own way, I tell myself, trying to abide my infuriating mother. Everyone’s afraid of something, and I should feel sympathy rather than rage.
Then one day, without preamble, she says, “That boy Marco was very sweet to you, I thought.”
I hold it together while clearing the table. I set my dishes beside the sink without incident. But the second I close the bathroom door, I start sobbing. I don’t want her to hear me, so I turn on the shower and sink, both full blast.
I pull out my phone and read Marco’s latest email.
I really do love you, Lucy White, he says in closing.
So I stab out a reply — the first I’ve sent, despite more than a dozen messages from Marco.
We both know that’s not enough, I tell him. I believe that you never meant to hurt me, but that’s the problem right there. We never had a chance. You’ve been hurt. I’ve been hurt. From the start we were both always afraid of being hurt again. I couldn’t take it, Marco, and neither could you. If we’d met somewhere else … then maybe. But there was never a future for us. We knew it from the start. If we’re brave enough to stop now, without chasing what can never, ever be, then at least we can keep the memories.
And after a moment I add, I’ll remember you forever. And we’ll always have Hotel Indigo.
Then I hit Send.
Marco is smart enough to understand how things stand, and strong enough to stop pushing — to let it be what it was and nothing more.
I know I won’t get a reply to my email.
And I don’t.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
LUCY
CASPIAN FINALLY BREAKS RADIO SILENCE and calls me four days later. By then I’m not quite as sad, at least most of the time, and I’ve regrown the thick shell necessary for dealing with life with Mom. I resist the urge to snap at Caspian for his non-involvement. I’m supposed to manage my mother, and Caspian says that it’s my choice, not his. He’s going to stay out of Mom’s affairs. It’s my business if I choose to stay — there’s no use bitching at him about it.
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