Hearts Inn

by Lilly R. Mason

  After heating up her Lean Cuisine, Rosalie debated watching reruns of The Office, as had become her routine. But sitting alone in Gran’s sad little room wasn’t something she wanted to do. Instead, she picked up one of the chairs from outside her room and walked along the building with it.

  Facing the street from the front of the hotel, the sky was vermillion and fuchsia and gold, as though all the colors the sun sucked from the earth during the day were concentrated and projected into the sky for one glorious hour, saturated past their previous glory.

  But Rosalie took her chair behind the hotel, into the shade, staring out at the dusty shrubs and the skyline where the sky was faded lavender and ashy gray. The desert stretched out before her, completely still, almost lifeless save for the occasional flicker of a lizard. Rosalie felt small and fragile in her chair, balancing the flimsy microwave meal on her lap.

  A few feet away, Rosalie saw a pile of bricks that had once been the fire pit she and Gran had loved to sit around after dark, telling stories and roasting hot dogs and making s’mores. The fire pit had crumbled since the last time she’d visited, like so many other things in town. Rosalie wondered if Gran had ever come out here by herself and contemplated the vast, unmoving desert or if Gran had been as lonely in Ashhawk as she was.

  Wanting to reassure herself her stay in Ashhawk was temporary, Rosalie took out her phone and called Tara. She grew nervous as she waited for her to pick up, wondering what they’d have to say to each other. Tara answered, her sweet, low voice soothing despite their state of limbo.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” Rosalie said, hoping she didn’t sound too sad.

  “Hi,” Tara said. “How’s it going?”

  Rosalie looked down at her sad little meal, balanced on her pinched knees. “Okay, I guess.”

  There was a moment of quiet.

  “How are you?” Rosalie asked.

  The question felt jerky and obligatory, a building block in a contrived conversation. She didn’t know what she would say after they’d greeted each other. She only wanted to fill a few minutes of time.

  “I’m okay,” Tara said. “I’m headed out to meet Ashley and Missy.”

  Ashley and Missy were a couple they’d hung out with together a few times in recent months. It was odd to think of Tara spending time with them without Rosalie, but Rosalie didn’t say so. “Say hi to them for me. Where are you guys going?”

  “To Zippy’s.”

  Rosalie was quiet for a minute. Tara going to their favorite restaurant without her made the desert feel even more oppressive.

  “Can you send me a sandwich?” Rosalie asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

  “Sure,” Tara said. Rosalie could hear her smile. “I’d ask you to send us some cooler weather in return, but I know you don’t have any to send.”

  “No kidding,” Rosalie grumbled. “Although I’m outside right now, and it’s not awful. It gets cold at night.”

  “Huh,” Tara said. “Where are you?”

  “Sitting behind the hotel.” Rosalie glanced around her at the dry shrubs and bricks. “I wanted a change of scenery from the office.”

  “I bet,” Tara said.

  It was quiet, and Rosalie cringed. She needed to be reassured her life was still waiting for her in Philadelphia, but having a forced conversation with Tara was not helpful in the least.

  “I miss you,” Rosalie said, desperate for some kind of affirmation.

  “I miss you, too,” Tara said. Her words felt rote and rife with obligation.

  “Hopefully, I’ll be heading back soon.”

  “Hopefully,” Tara said.

  It was quiet again. It pained Rosalie to have so little to say.

  “Well...say hi to Ashley and Missy for me,” she offered. “Call me if you want to chat. I’m pretty much always bored.”

  “Okay,” Tara said. “I will.”

  It was quiet again, and Rosalie knew Tara’s promise was empty.

  “Talk to you later.”

  “Later,” Tara echoed.

  Hanging up, Rosalie had even less of an idea of where they stood.

  Rosalie felt her muscles tighten and weight push down on her shoulders until she felt she would break. Tears pushed up her throat and she curled forward, putting her face in her hands as she cried.

  As foolish as it was, Rosalie wanted a firework. She wanted a grand gesture or declaration or passionate embrace. She wanted someone to come rescue her from this terrible place or to help her overhaul it for sale or to at least keep her company while she fixed the clogged toilets and crumbling pool and broken air conditioners. If nothing else, she wanted some sense of purpose in what she was doing. She wanted there to be some meaning to why she’d had to leave her life and come to this strange, depressed town. For a fleeting moment, she wanted a fiery blooming of her relationship with Tara to be the reason. But she knew it wouldn’t happen. Even if it had, Tara’s presence in Ashhawk would be more uncomfortable than her absence. They were nowhere near the level of commitment or romance that would justify Tara coming to Ashhawk. Like the desert stretched before Rosalie, their relationship had been quiet and still.

  At first, Rosalie thought she was missing someone or someplace or something. But thoughts of home and Tara and her job didn’t comfort her. The feeling pressing down on her with unrelenting force wasn’t missing something, it was the feeling of being utterly lost. She was stranded in an unfamiliar place, orphaned and abandoned, and she had no idea how long she’d be held captive.

  She felt so heavy she worried she wouldn’t be able to stand if she sat in her chair much longer. She was about to shuffle back to her room when something moved in the corner of her vision. Looking over, she saw a small gray cat slinking toward her.

  She sat still, not wanting to scare it. It was thin and didn’t have a collar. It didn’t appear to have anyone looking after it.

  Hesitantly, the cat slunk toward Rosalie, as though gauging whether or not she was safe. Rosalie let her hand drift down to the cat’s level, offering it for the cat to sniff. The cat approached, growing bolder, and pressed its wet nose to Rosalie’s hand before rubbing its brow against Rosalie’s hand.

  “Hey, buddy,” Rosalie cooed, keeping her voice low. “Are you lost, too?”

  The cat head-butted her hand with more force, a hint of a purr vibrating through it.

  “Yeah, I don’t have anyone taking care of me, either,” Rosalie murmured.

  She studied the thin frame of the cat. It wasn’t starving, but it probably had to work hard for its meals. Birds and small prey camouflaged well in the desert.

  “Are you hungry?” Rosalie asked.

  The cat kept nuzzling Rosalie’s hand, then slunk toward her legs, weaving around them, pressing its side into her shins as its purrs grew louder.

  “What a sweet little thing you are.”

  She felt silly talking to a cat, but the cat was bringing her more comfort than Tara had.

  The cat took a few steps away, and Rosalie wondered if she had offended it. Then the cat leapt up, knocking Rosalie’s plastic dinner tray off her lap and sending her fork flying, rubbing against her stomach as it made itself comfortable.

  She felt a smile overtake her face for the first time in hours, her heavy skin growing lighter.

  “Hi,” Rosalie said.

  The cat continued purring, settling into her lap.

  “Are you hungry?” Rosalie asked again. She ran her hand down the cat’s back, feeling its vertebrae beneath its fur.

  The cat looked around the desert with disinterest.

  Rosalie sat rooted to her chair for a minute before she decided to get some food for the cat. She didn’t have any on hand, but she knew the convenience store across the street sold cans. Carefully, she picked up the cat and stood. The cat didn’t respond, only adjusted as Rosalie held it. If she hadn’t been starved for companionship, Rosalie might have set the cat down to go buy food, but she didn’t want the cat to wander away as sh
e retrieved her purse and walked across the street. Her feet crunched on the asphalt of the parking lot and road as she crossed, feeling its heat radiate into her.

  The air inside the store was stale and hinted at sugar, gasoline, and industrial cleaner. The row of refrigerators hummed, the beer and soda the freshest items in stock. The sound of indistinct Reggaeton radio followed Rosalie as she looked for cat food. The clerk, a Latino boy with reddish-brown, pocked skin and over-gelled hair, said nothing of her bringing an animal into the store. Rosalie wondered if he’d even looked up long enough to see what she was holding. The cat turned its head to watch its surroundings as Rosalie paid and left the store but otherwise remained inexpressive until Rosalie returned to the hotel.

  Rosalie set the cat down in front of her room, sitting in one of the battered old chairs as she peeled the lid off the can of food.

  “Here you go,” Rosalie said in a baby voice. “Dinner.”

  The cat looked up at Rosalie before lowering its nose to sniff the food and began to eat enthusiastically, its jaw hinging as it tried to gobble down large chunks of wet food. Rosalie was glad she had made the cat happy. Helping Shelley and now this cat were the only good feelings she’d had since arriving in Ashhawk.

  After the cat ate its dinner and licked the tin clean, pushing it along the cement a few inches, it hopped up on Rosalie’s lap again, its tail swishing as it settled and cleaned its face and paws. Rosalie stroked its fur, appreciating the warm weight in her lap as the night chill of the desert set in. The dim, eerie glow of the exterior lights was soon the only light by which she could see, making everything ghostly and pale. When a hard shiver took her, she knew she needed to go inside.

  “I gotta go inside now, buddy.”

  She lifted the objecting cat from her lap, setting it on the ground. When she opened her door, the cat tried to follow her inside.

  “No, no,” Rosalie said with pout. She realized she shouldn’t have fed the cat if she didn’t want it to attach to her. “I don’t have a bed or litter box for you. I’m only here for a little while.” The cat stared up at her, ears pointed up. “Come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you some dinner again.”

  She knew it was silly to negotiate with a cat, but she had no one else to talk to. She closed her door and got in bed, trying not to think about the cat outside.

  The next morning, Rosalie was surprised to see Alex’s truck already in the parking lot as she made her way to the lobby to start her long day of hoping someone would buy the hotel. Looking down into the pool, she saw Alex had finished filling the cracks and was set up to start replacing the decorative tiles.

  “You found the tiles,” Rosalie said, glad to have a conversation topic.

  Alex looked up. “Yeah, they weren’t too hard to track down.” She looked proud for a moment before she refocused on the task of chipping the old, broken tiles out so they could be replaced.

  “Do you want anything?” Rosalie offered. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “I’m okay for now,” Alex said. “Maybe in a bit.”

  “Come in the lobby whenever you’re ready for a break,” Rosalie offered. She hovered by the edge of the pool for a minute until she was certain Alex wasn’t going to say anything.

  Rosalie considered that perhaps Alex resented her for trying to sell the inn. The people of Ashhawk were distrustful of outsiders, and while Rosalie had been afforded familiarity on account of her relation to Gran, whoever purchased the hotel wouldn’t receive the same courtesy. Seeing as no one in town could afford the hotel, Rosalie wondered if perhaps Alex begrudged her willingness to let strangers take over a local business.

  Rosalie watched the pool area from the office for a few hours, venturing out as often as she could justify to bring Alex water and try to start a conversation. The row of tiles around the edge of the pool filled in. Rosalie found Alex’s work ethic remarkable; she didn’t know anyone else who could concentrate on such a mundane task for so long.

  Around noon, Alex went across the street to buy food, and Rosalie felt guilty, as though she should have thought to offer Alex lunch. It was the least she could do. Rosalie would have invited Alex to eat in the lobby, but by the time she walked out, Alex had scarfed her food down and was back to work. Rosalie retreated, not wanting to be a nuisance.

  Alex appeared in the lobby an hour later, sweat shimmering off her skin, collecting in small beads she wiped off her upper lip. She took her cup over to the cooler and filled it.

  “How’s it going out there?”

  “Done for the day. Gotta let the plaster dry before I paint the basin.”

  “Cool.”

  The door of the lobby opened with a startling clang, and Rosalie looked up to see one of the residential guests of the hotel, a stocky middle-aged man named Jorge, walk in.

  “The sink in my room is leaking everywhere,” Jorge said, jerking his thumb back toward his room.

  “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry about that.”

  Rosalie’s gaze darted up to Alex, pleading.

  “I can take care of it,” Alex offered, setting her glass on the counter.

  “Thank you,” Rosalie said, grateful. She wouldn’t have known who to call.

  “Show me what’s happening,” Alex said to Jorge, heading toward the door.

  “Water started coming out from the cabinet under the sink…” Jorge said as he led Alex outside. The door shut behind them, and Rosalie was left in the quiet office.

  Wanting a mental escape from the worries of Hearth, Rosalie pulled up her Facebook feed. As she scrolled, she came across a picture of Perene. Though they hadn’t spoken in years, the pang that had dulled to a ping still pulsed in Rosalie’s chest. It rang of affection, loss, and shame, now whittled down to manageable bites. Perene had brought forth the fear Rosalie had tamped down since her pubescence. Rosalie’s fascination with changing bodies had extended to her friends beyond the physical and technical curiosities she justified it with; she had managed to logic her smothered jealousy over friends’ boyfriends and crushes on shiny-faced Ryan Phillippe, Freddie Prinze Jr., JTT, and James Van Der Beek. But during their sophomore year of college, Perene had burst through all Rosalie’s intellectualization with a simple press of lips against lips.

  Rosalie had been insatiable then; whatever study rooms and deserted labs they could find to kiss and touch each other were made somehow sacred. They ate most of their meals together and were permanent fixtures in each other’s rooms, to the annoyance of their roommates. Rosalie had been ecstatic to discover the force that made knees weak and schoolwork a distant priority to the work of soft words and touches.

  But that didn’t mean she was ready to shout its glories to the world. Always reserved, Rosalie had rerouted her formidable intellect from its former job of obscuring her sexuality from herself to the no less damaging task of preventing anyone from knowing she and Perene were a couple. It was no one’s business, she said again and again. Why would they want to subject themselves to the leers and glares of every gross frat boy and homophobe on campus?

  But Perene had seen through her defenses a second time, and after months of arguing and oceans of tears, Perene had ended things. Only then did Rosalie realize her shame and discomfort had been forcing her hand, not reason. She felt numb with her own stupidity, wondering why her aptitude for academics didn’t carry over into understanding her own emotions.

  Since then, Rosalie had ventured out of the closet slowly. First, she told a counselor at the student health center, then a few trusted friends, then her parents. All had responded with soft, mellow encouragement, if not a whiff of surprise. Her coming out had been almost painless, save for the loss of Perene.

  The following years had been good to her, bringing a string of amiable girls content to let her step out in her own time, so long as the closet door wasn’t welded shut. Rosalie had come out inch by inch until all her social contacts knew. She still preferred to test the waters for a month or so with professional and academic contacts, when it was necess
ary at all, but she was less inhibited.

  Though she knew it wouldn’t change the past, she wanted Perene to know how far she’d come. But it seemed laughable to send her a message out of the blue, expressing pride in something Perene had done so far before her. So she said nothing, wondering if Perene thought of her in the same sad, fond way.

  Rosalie was jerked from her thoughts when Alex returned, pulling the door open and walking toward the desk. “Sorry, I got caught up talking to Jorge for a bit, but I know what the problem is.” She picked up her water glass and took a drink.

  Rosalie wondered what Alex and Jorge might have in common, other than living in Ashhawk and having a distant association with Hearth. She wished she could find some commonality with Alex.

  “What?” Rosalie asked.

  “The nut that connects the pipes to the sink basin is broken.”

  “Is it hard to fix?”

  “Not at all,” Alex said. “I bet you’ve got a few spares in the shed out back.”

  Rosalie nodded. “Let me know if you need to get materials.”

  Alex nodded, finishing her water. “Shouldn’t take too long,” she said, setting her glass down. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  Rosalie watched as Alex turned and exited the lobby, heading around the building toward the storage shed.

  As the day wore on, Rosalie wondered what Alex was doing. Rosalie imagined Alex’s arms as she fixed Jorge’s sink, strong and flexing in her black tank. Or perhaps she was rooting through the shed with her feet planted solidly on the ground. Wherever she was, Rosalie felt she needed water. She refilled Alex’s glass and ventured into the heat.

  She found Alex inside the maintenance shed, bent over an old toolbox, sorting through parts Rosalie didn’t know the names of.

  “Hey,” Rosalie called, not wanting to startle Alex.

  Alex stood, back creaking as she righted herself and ran her wrist over her upper lip. “Hey,” Alex responded, breathing heavily.