Right of Way

by Lauren Barnholdt

  So now I’m roaming around the grounds of the yacht club looking for Peyton, not really sure where the hell I should go or where she might be. I finally end up ducking into the main building, not because I think Peyton is going to be there, but because I spot Courtney’s grandma lurking around outside, and I really don’t want to have another run in with her.

  I look around the lobby, but obviously Peyton’s not there. Why would she be hanging out in the lobby of the hotel?

  And then, suddenly, I have a brilliant idea. An idea so obvious that it’s actually not even that brilliant. I’ll just find out what room Peyton’s in, and then go and find her! Even if she’s not at her room right now, she’s going to have to come back to it sometime, right?

  I make my way over to the front desk clerk, a twenty-something guy wearing a nametag that says WADE. It would be much better if Wade were a woman. Women I can sweet talk—you give them a sob story, a little smile, compliment them on their looks, and you can usually get what you want. (Not that I usually manipulate women like that, of course. That’s way too douchey. But desperate times call for desperate measures.)

  “Hello, sir!” Wade says as I approach. Okay. So Wade is perky. Hopefully, he’s perkily going to do what I ask him.

  “Hey,” I say. I shake my head and try to look sheepish. “I forgot my room number.”

  “No problem, sir!” he chirps. Seriously, he chirps. I’ve never really heard a guy chirp before, but whatever. To each his own. He puts his fingers over the keyboard of the computer that’s in front of him. “Can I have your name, please?”

  “Well, see, that’s the problem,” I say. “The room isn’t in my name.”

  “No problem, sir,” he says. Only this time he doesn’t sound so sure. I take this as a very bad sign. “Just tell me the name of the person under whom your room is booked.”

  I rack my brain, trying to remember Peyton’s mom’s first name.

  “Michelle,” I say. “Michelle Miller.”

  Wade clacks across the keys. “Hmm,” he says. “Are you Peyton?”

  “Am I . . . ?” For a second, I’m confused, but then I get it. The room is in Peyton’s mom’s name, and Peyton must be listed on the account as the only other person who’s allowed to have access to it. And since Peyton can be a boy’s name too, I guess Wade here just assumes that I’m Peyton.

  “Why, yes,” I say, puffing out my chest. “Yes, I am Peyton. Peyton Miller, yup, that’s me.”

  “Okay, Mr. Miller,” Wade says, “I’m just going to need to see your ID.”

  Fuck.

  “Um, my ID’s in the room.” I hold my hands out and shrug, like, Oh, well, what can you do?

  “Oh no!” Wade puts on a really upset face, like he can’t take the fact that now he’s going to have to tell me some bad news. “That’s really too bad, Mr. Miller, because unfortunately we are not allowed to give out room information or replace keys unless we have identification.” He pushes the desk phone toward me. “Is there anyone you can call who can come down here and help? The person who booked the room, perhaps?”

  “No.” I shake my head sadly. “The person who booked the room is . . . unavailable.”

  I stare at Wade, waiting for him to do something.

  But he doesn’t.

  He just folds his hands in front of him and stares at me.

  “So, what am I supposed to do?” I persist. “I need to get in my room. My dog, Hector, is in there, and he probably really needs to go out.”

  I figure I can get him with the dog story for sure—after all, I seem to be the only person on the face of the planet who doesn’t fall to pieces when Hector gets brought into it– but instead, Wade gets a shocked look on his face.

  “Sir,” he says, and then takes in a deep breath, like there’s a situation that now has to be dealt with. “Dogs are not allowed at this hotel!”

  Shit. “Oh,” I say. “Well, um . . . ” I rack my brain desperately for something that can save the situation. But I can’t think of anything. And now Peyton and her mom are probably going to get some sort of bullshit pet charge on their bill or something.

  I wonder if I can offer Wade some money to just forget about this whole thing. He doesn’t seem like the type to take a bribe, but you can never really tell now, can you?

  And then my eyes land on his bracelet. It’s one of those plastic bands that come in all different kinds of bright colors—his is yellow—and on it are the words I’M A BELIEBER.

  I’ve been on Facebook and Twitter enough to know that this means the dude likes Justin Bieber. So I quickly turn on the charm.

  “Oh, my God!” I say, pointing at his bracelet. “You like Justin, too?”

  He looks at me, then puffs his chest out. “Justin who?”

  “Is there more than one?” I scoff.

  His mouth drops. “You? You’re a belieber?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say, “for years.” I’m not sure if Justin has even been around that long, but whatever. “I love his music, and honestly, I don’t understand why more guys don’t like him.”

  “That’s what I always say!” He looks around then motions me forward, like he wants to let me in on a secret. I step closer to the desk, and he lifts up the cuff of his sleeve and shows me a tattoo. It says JB in curly script.

  “So cool!” I gush, when in actuality, all I want to do is lunge across this dude’s desk and grab his keyboard so that I can find out what room Peyton is in. “Anyway, aren’t beliebers supposed to look out for each other?”

  He hesitates.

  “Come on!” I say. “You know Justin would want it.”

  He sighs, then looks around to make sure we’re alone. “Fine,” he whispers. “I’ll tell you the room number and I’ll even forget about the dog. But I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Justin!”

  I’m so thankful that I almost reach across the counter and hug him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I say. “Dude, you have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

  He gets to typing, but then, like some kind of nightmare, all of a sudden from behind me comes the sound of someone screaming my name.

  “Jace! Hey, Jace!”

  I don’t turn around, willing whoever it is to just go away.

  “JACE!” The person is really screaming now.

  I just keep grinning at Wade.

  “I think that guy is looking for you,” Wade says, looking at something over my shoulder. He wrinkles his nose in disgust.

  “Oh, no,” I say. “He must think I’m someone else.”

  “JACE RENAULT, IT’S ME B.J. FROM THE WEDDING!!”

  The voice is getting louder, and I lean in toward Wade, trying to get a peek at the computer screen. “Did you find the room number yet?” I’m about to start sweating.

  Wade goes to open his mouth, but before he can say anything, I feel a pair of arms wrap around my shoulders from behind and grab me tight. What the hell? I struggle to get out of the embrace.

  “Jace!” B.J. says, and grins. “You’re here!”

  I shake my head, trying to communicate to him with my eyes that I’m in the middle of a scheme, and that he should just go away.

  But of course he doesn’t get it.

  “Jace! It’s me, B.J.! From the wedding?” He frowns. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

  “Excuse me,” Wade says from behind the computer. His eyes, which had brightened up a little when we were bonding over being (albeit fake) beliebers, are now dark and stormy. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave this desk, otherwise I’m going to have to call security.”

  I think about protesting, about trying to convince him that I really am Peyton Miller, but I’m smart enough to know when I’m licked.

  I sigh and move away from the desk as Wade starts mumbling something about how I’m not really a belieber, how a real belieber would never be so deceptive. Shows what he knows. One time I was at a Barnes & Noble when a new Justin Bieber book came out and I got run over by two eleven-yea
r-old girls who were so excited to buy it that they lost all sense of real decorum.

  “What’s up, my man?” B.J. says, and claps me on the back like we’re old friends. “Why did that guy want to call security on you? Did you try to sneak alcohol into your room?” He nods sympathetically, like he’s been there, done that. Which is not that hard to believe.

  “No, I didn’t try to sneak alcohol into my room,” I say. I resist the urge to start screaming at him, and then maybe throttle him around the throat for good measure.

  “Then what is it?” He lowers his voice. “Drugs? Because that’s not cool, dude. Crack is whack!”

  I shake my head, my anger starting to dissipate. How can I be mad at someone who’s so obviously clueless? “No, it’s not drugs,” I say. “It’s a girl.”

  “Pffft!” he says, shaking his head. “Chicks! They’re crazy, aren’t they?”

  “Not this one,” I say. “I’m the crazy one. The crazy one who fucked everything all up.”

  “Man, that sucks,” B.J. says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I have no fucking clue.”

  He looks thoughtful for a moment, his lips sliding over to the side, pursed in concentration. Then his eyes light up. “I know!” he says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I’ll call Jordan!”

  “Jordan?”

  “Yeah, you know, Courtney’s boyfriend? He’s the best when it comes to figuring out chicks.”

  “Um, no, that’s okay,” I say. The last thing I need is people who are pretty much strangers trying to help me with my emotional problems. I mean, talk about humiliating.

  But B.J. doesn’t seem to want to listen, and ten minutes later, Jordan’s walking into the lobby. Wade is still giving us death looks, so I herd everyone over to the lounge on the other side of the room.

  “Oh, sweet,” B.J. says, his eyes lighting up. “They have a pool table.”

  He picks up a pool cue and starts swinging it around like a samurai sword. “So what’s up?” Jordan asks, reaching out and taking the pool cue out of B.J.’s hands. “Why did you guys ask me to come down here?”

  “Jace needs women advice,” B.J. reports. He starts racking up the balls.

  “No, I don’t,” I say.

  Jordan nods. “Peyton, huh?”

  I nod sheepishly. “Yeah. Courtney told you?”

  “Yeah. So what’s the deal?”

  “Yeah, what’s the deal?” B.J asks, then leans over the pool table and breaks the balls. One goes flying over the side of the table and onto the floor. “Oops,” he says. It rolls across the marble floor until it hits the side of a man’s foot. “Sorry,” B.J. says.

  The man gives him a dirty look, but B.J. isn’t fazed. He just puts the ball back on the table. “Do over,” he says. “Okay, guys?”

  “Fine with me,” I say.

  “Whatever.” Jordan says. He grabs a pool cue and I do the same. “So what’s going on?”

  “Well,” I say, really thinking about it. “We met at Christmas, and then I broke up with her.”

  B.J’s mouth drops open. “You broke up with her? Dude, are you crazy? Peyton’s hot.”

  “There’s more to relationships than hotness, B.J.” Jordan says. He leans over and shoots the orange solid into the side pocket effortlessly.

  “Don’t I know it,” B.J. says. He shakes his head. “Jocelyn’s hot, and that’s not even close to being enough.” He looks at me like he’s letting me in on a secret. “With girls, you have to worry about their emotions.”

  “So why’d you dump her?” Jordan asks me.

  “Because I found out she’d been keeping a secret from me.”

  Jordan and B.J. exchange a glance.

  “Been there,” Jordan says.

  “Courtney kept a secret from you?”

  “No, he kept one from her,” B.J. reports. He bends over the pool table to take his shot, but the ball only goes about two inches before rolling to a stop on the felt.

  “So what happened?” I ask.

  “I broke up with her,” Jordan says. “Because I was a pussy.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Been there, dude.” It’s my turn, so I lean over the table and concentrate on the shot. I put all my energy into sinking the yellow ball, and it works. It goes right into the pocket. “So what happened?”

  “I made myself miserable because I couldn’t tell her how I felt,” Jordan says, shrugging. “And finally, she found out the secret on her own.”

  “She found out on her own?”

  “Yup. And she was totally pissed.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I had to make it up to her,” he says. “And she didn’t want to forgive me, so I had to work at it.” He shakes his head. “If there’s one thing I’ve realized, it’s that you have to be honest. Even if you’re scared, even if you’re worried that you’re going to get your heart stomped on, even if you think that the truth is going to ruin everything, you have to put it out there. Because otherwise, you’re fucked.” He leans over and sinks the solid blue ball into the middle pocket. He says this whole thing completely matter-of-factly, and the thing is, I believe him. I believe he knows what he’s talking about.

  I’ve seen him and Courtney together. I’ve seen the way they look at each other like they’re the only people in the room. They seem connected. I want that with Peyton. And I know Jordan’s right—in order to have that kind of relationship, you have to put it all out there, you have to be willing to let yourself be vulnerable. Otherwise, there’s no way you’re going to be able to have anything real.

  “Now,” Jordan says, “the only question is, is she worth it?”

  “She’s worth it,” I say. God, is she worth it.

  “Then you have to go find her.”

  And again, I know that he’s right.

  Saturday, June 26, 10:53 p.m.

  Savannah, Georgia

  When I get back to my hotel room in Savannah, I’m starting to consider maybe having a mini meltdown. I mean, I have no clue what I’m going to do. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get to North Carolina. I don’t have a car. I hardly have any money. I don’t even have a phone.

  I plop down on the bed, wondering if maybe I should just call my mom and have her come get me. Or maybe my dad. I could tell him about why I wanted to run away, about what my mom did to me.

  But doing that would mean I would have to speak the words out loud, and I really don’t know if I’m ready for that. Besides, I don’t want to go home. I want to go to North Carolina. I want to get my apartment in Creve Coeur. I want to stay there for the summer until I can figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

  I stare up at the ceiling. Maybe all I need is a good night’s sleep. Maybe tomorrow morning I’ll be able to come up with a plan. I mean, there has to be a way. People are always finding ways to do things with little to no resources. It’s, like, the basis of civilization. Maybe I can take a bus, or maybe I can find one of those cash-advance places that are super shady and charge you, like, triple the money when you go to pay it back.

  I turn on a rerun of one of the Real Housewives shows, and then slide under the covers, determined to just fall asleep. But it’s not working. I can’t stop thinking about him. About Jace. About how he knew my parents were getting divorced, about how that was the reason he stopped talking to me.

  I’d spent so much time obsessing about what went wrong, and the possibility that maybe he’d somehow found out about my parents had never crossed my mind.

  Of course, the absolute worst part about it is that I’m the one who did this. I’m the one who pushed him away. I’m the one who didn’t tell him something important that was going on in my life. All that time we spent on the phone—all that time I spent getting to know him, making plans, getting close, and I didn’t tell him. I should have told him.

  Even so, I can’t put all of the blame on myself. He’s the one who just blew me
off like it was nothing. He didn’t even bother to ask me about it.

  And what about the fact that he was kissing me last night, while the whole time he had a girlfriend? A girlfriend who was texting him all “I miss you” and blah blah blah. And yeah, I was kissing him in the bathtub tonight even after knowing that. But you can’t really blame me. I mean, it was a physical reaction that couldn’t be controlled.

  Anyway, that’s two strikes against Jace. Two strikes and you’re out. I mean, when you think about it, that’s how it should be. Who wants to stick around for a third strike? Anyone can have one slip up, but after the second, it’s probably not an accident.

  My thoughts swirl around my head, keeping me awake and driving me crazy, until finally, at around three in the morning, I fall into a fitful sleep.

  I’m woken up by a knock on the door. It’s so loud and violent that at first, I think it must be coming from the TV. But when I blink my eyes open, the clock on the nightstand says 10:07 a.m., and the TV is off. I must have turned it off at some point during the night.

  I sit up in bed. Shit, shit, shit. This is not how my morning was supposed to go. I was supposed to be awake by six or seven, showered and clean, my stomach full of free continental breakfast. I was supposed to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to come up with a brilliant plan for my future. But instead, I’m still in bed, being assaulted by aggressive knocking on the door. Probably housekeeping. Don’t they know that checkout isn’t until noon?

  I throw my legs over the bed and pad to the door, yanking down the right leg of my pajama pants, which has slid up to my knee.

  “I’m still in here,” I call. “I’ll be out at noon, you know, when it’s time for checkout.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t!” a voice says. “You will open up this door right now, young lady.”

  My heart pounds in fear. Whoever that is sounds like they mean business. Real business. The only other times I’ve heard a tone like that is when I’m watching reruns of police shows, and there’s some wanted man in a house somewhere who won’t come out. But I’m not a criminal. And I don’t have a warrant. Unless . . . we never called the police after we got into that accident earlier. Maybe they traced the car or something back to me, and now I’m going to get in trouble for leaving the scene of a crime!