by Cat Carmine
“You got it, Mister,” the cabbie says, tipping his hat at me in the rear view mirror and then pealing away from the restaurant faster than a bat out of hell.
We get to the hotel in seven minutes, and as promised, I pay the twenty dollar fare and tip the driver an extra hundred for his lead foot.
I race up to the room as fast as I can. Please let her be there, I think. Please let her be curled up in the bed, wearing that skimpy little tank top and watching Pawn Stars or something.
But when I slide in the keycard and open the door to our room, my heart sinks.
It’s empty. No Celia.
I sit down on the edge of the bed for a minute, trying to collect my thoughts. Where else would she be? Maybe downstairs at the bar, having a drink? Maybe she ran out to get something to eat, since we never got a chance to finish our dinner?
That’s when I notice that there’s something different about the room.
I look slowly around — the fluffy white hotel bathrobe Celia had been wearing this morning, when she’d come out of the shower looking so sexy and fresh, is still hanging over the back of the wingback chair, where she’d thrown it. But I don’t see anything else of hers in the room — the suitcase that had been sitting on the floor, the stack of clothes that had been neatly folded on top of it, not even the stick of deodorant that she’d left on the desk — all of it is gone.
I get up off the bed and walk over to the bathroom, praying that I’m imagining all of this. But there’s nothing in here either: the white and blue toothbrush is gone, the silver bracelet she’d worn to dinner last night, the bottle of coconut shampoo that she’d lugged here in a big Ziplock bag.
It’s all gone.
She’s gone.
I step back out into the main part of the room, running my hands frantically through my hair. I’m practically spinning in circles now, at a loss for what to do. Where would she go? How could she have left?
Then my eyes light on a piece of paper on the desk. It’s just hotel stationery, with the Grand Windsor logo printed in faint burgundy ink at the bottom. Celia’s handwriting is neat, and even though the paper is unlined, her words go in rigid lines, straight across the sheet.
I start to read, my breath already catching in my throat, dread filling my stomach.
Jace,
I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I screwed everything up for you. This was a huge mistake, for so many reasons. I think it’s best if I don’t go to the wedding. The cat’s obviously out of the bag now and I think you’ll have a better chance at patching things up with your family if I’m not here. I’m going to go back to New York.
I had a really special time with you this week, and I’m sorry things didn’t work out differently.
All my love,
Celia
I crumple the note up in anger, and then immediately smooth it back out so that I can reread it again.
How could she do this? How could she just leave? I know she’s upset, but it should be my choice how to deal with my family — and I want her here by my side.
“God dammit,” I say, to no one in particular.
I grab my phone out of my pocket and hit her number again, but once again, she doesn’t answer and after a half a dozen rings, it punts me to voicemail.
“Celia,” I bark and then pause. I have no idea what to say to her, but I know I can’t say it on the phone. “Don’t go anywhere,” I tell her in the message. “Just, whatever you do … promise me you’ll stay put, okay? Wherever you are.”
I hang up and then open up the web browser. I type in six words and then I’m on the phone again:
Flights from Chicago to New York.
23
Celia
Hmmm, what goes better with vodka? Snickers or Mars bar?
I weigh my options carefully and then pull both chocolate bars and a can of Pringles out of the hotel mini bar, just to be safe. As an afterthought, I also pull out a second tiny bottle of vodka. Clearly one isn’t going to cut it.
How did tonight go so horribly, spectacularly wrong? Me and my big fucking mouth. It was one thing to have feelings for Jace. One thing to consider telling him about said feelings. Another thing entirely to blurt out in front of his brother that this whole engagement was fake.
The look on Trent’s face when he came out of the private room and overheard us talking in the vestibule… I’ll never forget that look for as long as I live. Anger and surprise and … disappointment.
I know Jace already feels like a failure and a fuck-up in his brothers’ eyes. And here I’ve gone and made everything ten times worse. I don’t know how he’s going to fix things with them now — not after I’d wrecked it so irrevocably.
There’s no way I can face any of them at the wedding tomorrow — and I know it’s better if Jace just stays and speaks to them on his own. Maybe he can tell them that I was dying and my last wish was to go to a strangers’ wedding?
I shake my head, wiping a fresh round of tears from my eyes, and crack open one of the little bottles of vodkas. It’s barely more than a shot but goddamn does it burn when it hits the back of my throat. I chase it with half the Snickers bar and a handful of barbecue Pringles.
I had intended to get on a flight tonight, but both airlines I tried told me they were booked. The earliest they could get me on a flight was tomorrow afternoon. Since there was no way I wanted to have to face Jace tonight, I had gone downstairs to the front desk instead and begged them to find me a new room. Now I was on the sixth floor, just a few floors away from our original room.
Jace didn’t have to know — it was better if he thought I was gone. Then he didn’t have to worry about me. He’d called a few times, but that was probably just to find out where I was. Once he sees the note I’d left, I figure he’ll stop calling. He’ll see that this was for the best.
I turn on the television and flick around until I find a Pawn Stars marathon and settle in. I finish off the second little bottle of vodka and the Mars bar and by that point I’m feeling disgusting on top of sad. Oh, if only Jace could see me now, I think bitterly.
When the fourth episode of Pawn Stars finishes and the channel switches over to an informercial for a bizarre exercise device called the Ab Rebel, I click off the television. I turn off the lamp beside the bed too, hoping I’ll be able to sleep, but instead I just lay there and stare up at the ceiling.
I feel like I just picked up a handful of sand and watched every last grain slip from between my fingers. Things with Jace had been … well, even though they’d been fake, they’d been perfect somehow. When he held me in his arms, when he kissed me, when we compared childhood scars and when we laughed and when we ate cold eggs at the buffet downstairs — those things had felt real. They had felt staggeringly, heart-stoppingly real.
But no. And even if they had been — even if Jace felt an inkling of what I felt — I had blown it. He’d never want to talk to me again, not after how I screwed things up so badly for him.
I fumble in the dark and grab my phone off the nightstand. As soon as I pick it up, the screen light comes on, nearly blinding me. I know the phone hasn’t rung, but I still have to check.
But no. There are no new missed calls.
Jace had called twice earlier, and left one message, which I hadn’t listened to. As I expected, the calls had stopped right around the time I figure he would have gotten back to the hotel. Which means he saw my note and realized I was right, and that he was better off without me here.
Which is what I wanted.
Right?
Ugh.
I drop the phone back on the nightstand and sling my arm over my eyes. My eyes are still damp from crying, and I can feel my eyelashes wet against my skin. I take my arm away and then stare up at the ceiling of the dark hotel room some more. I stare for a long, long, long time. By the time sleep finally comes, the sky is turning the same shade of pink as the dress I’d been wearing at a dinner that seemed forever ago now.
I’m jolted awake just a coup
le of hours later by the brash ring of my phone, and then the crash as it vibrates its way across the nightstand and onto the floor.
I reach down for the phone and scoop it up. Once again, the light from the screen blinds me, but I squint to make out the time. Jesus, it’s not even eight in the morning yet.
I look at the call display. Jace. Seeing his name there, spelled out in blinding white letters, guts me. Why is he calling me so early? Or so late? Is he okay?
My mind immediately starts turning through every horrific possibility — that he stayed out all night getting drunk, that he’s hurt, that something happened to him after I ran off last night.
Even though I don’t want to, I hesitantly tap the phone to answer it.
“Hello?” My voice is still hoarse with sleep, despite the adrenalin coursing through me.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in bed.”
“Open the damn door. I need to talk to you.”
My heart races. If he came to find me, then maybe … maybe he doesn’t completely hate me.
I throw my legs over the side of the bed and creep over to the door. I stand there for a moment, trying to see if I can hear him outside the door. There isn’t a sound.
I’m wearing the world’s tiniest pajamas, so I open the door only a crack, peering out into the silent hallway.
My heart sinks. He isn’t there.
“Where are you?” I breathe into the phone.
“I’m standing outside your door,” he says impatiently.
Confusion rushes through me. I open the door again, throwing it wider this time, not caring if I’m putting on a show for my neighbors. I look both ways down the hall. No Jace.
“No you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Trust me. I had to slip your doorman a hundred bucks just to let me up.”
My doorman? My …
Oh. God.
“You’re in New York?” My voice is barely more than a whisper. I don’t want to believe it.
“Yes, I told you, I’m right outside your…” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?”
“I’m in Chicago,” I mumble. “At our hotel.”
“Your note said you were going to New York.”
“I tried, but I couldn’t get a flight.”
“I, apparently, did not have that problem.” His voice is filled with bitterness.
I close the door and slump against it, letting myself sink all the way down to the floor.
Jace is in New York, chasing after me.
I’m in Chicago, hiding from him.
And the wedding is today.
24
Jace
Of all the stupid, impulsive things I’ve ever done in my life, flying off to New York to chase after Celia has to rank number one on the list. Stupider, even, than lying about the fact that I had a fiancee in the first place. Stupider than convincing a woman I’d met at the bar to pretend to be my betrothed. Stupider than every other stupid decision.
Because this time, I’ve really blown it.
If there was any chance of Trent forgiving me, it’s gone now. If I don’t show up to the wedding today, if I don’t at least make an effort to apologize about Celia, he’ll probably just cut me out completely. Tell Mom that he tried but that I’m still the irresponsible liar I was ten years ago.
I press the phone against my ear. I can hear Celia crying softly on the other end of the phone but I have no idea what to do about that right now.
“Listen, I’m going to hang up now,” I tell her. “I’m going to call the airline, see if I can get another flight out this morning. If I can get something fast, I can still make it in time for the wedding.”
“Okay,” Celia whispers. “Jace, I’m really…”
“We’ll talk about it later.” I don’t mean to cut her off, but I’m already thinking about how I’m going to get back to Chicago in time. I’m already doing the math in my head — the wedding isn’t until three. Factor in the time difference, and I have plenty of time to get back there. Right?
“Okay,” Celia says again. “I’ll let you go then.”
“Hey,” I say, before she hangs up. I stare wildly around the hallway outside her apartment. I have no idea what to say to her right now. “I’ll keep you posted, okay?”
“Thanks.” Her voice is barely a whisper, and when she disconnects the call, it’s almost as if she just faded away.
I lean my head against the door of Celia’s apartment and then punch my fist against the wood.
“Fuck!”
The word echoes through the empty hallway. I hear a door open behind me and a little old lady with curlers in her hair pokes her head out. She glares at me.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “You ever just have one of those days?”
Her frown intensifies and I shrug in apology before stuffing my phone into my pocket and heading back towards the elevator.
As I ride back down to the lobby, I try to work out a plan. I’ll find a coffee shop or something, somewhere I can make a few calls. Hell, maybe I should just go to my apartment. At least I have beer there. And I could check on Steve, make sure my buddy from the bar has been feeding him okay.
I’m just stepping out of Celia’s building when my phone rings. I glance down at the display, thinking it’s going to be her again, but it’s a Chicago number.
Trent.
Shit. I have no choice but to answer it so I jam the button and press the phone to my ear, ducking into an alley so I’m away from the traffic and can hear better.
“Hey,” I say hesitantly. I have no idea what to expect.
“Where are you?”
“What do you mean?”
Trent huffs out a breath. “I mean, where are you? We were all going to get ready together. There’s a photographer coming at noon.”
Shit.
“Uh, I went out to get a haircut. I thought you were pissed at me?”
Trent sighs again. “I am pissed at you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you here. You’re my brother, after all.”
“Right.” I swallow.
“Look, just text me when you’re back from your haircut or whatever. I’ve got a shot of Jack Daniels with your name on it.”
I smile. “Sure. Yeah, sure, man, I will. Won’t be too long.” I hope.
“Good.”
I hang up the phone and shake my head. Now I’m really determined to get back there in time for the wedding.
I don’t want to bother going all the way back to my apartment, so I duck into a little cafe and call up the airline, the same one that had been able to get me out here so quickly last night.
Unfortunately the woman on the other end of the line tells me they don’t have any flights until the evening. I do the math and realize that even with the time difference, I’d get back to Chicago too late for the wedding.
“Are you sure there’s no way you can get me on an earlier flight?” I beg.
“I’m sorry, sir. You could come out to the airport and we can put you on standby, or you can try another airline. Otherwise the evening flight is the only option.”
I disconnect the call without saying anything and then slam my phone down on the table. Half the skinny assholes in this stupid hipster cafe glare at me. God, I hate this city sometimes.
I look up another airline, and try them, and then I try a third and a fourth. Everyone I talk to says the same thing: nobody has available flights until the evening.
I hang up after the sixth airline lets me down. It’s starting to look like going out to the airport and trying to get on standby is my only option, but given how airlines overbook these flights these days, I’m not very optimistic about that option.
Still, if it’s my only chance, I’ll take it.
I text Celia to tell her I’m going to head back out to the airport and try to get on standby. I don’t hear anything back right away, but maybe that’s for the best right now.
I step out of the cafe and am about to try to flag down a cab when a thought cr
osses my mind. A stupid, ridiculous, impulsive thought — but impulsive seems to be my middle name these days.
I stick my hand out and a cab pulls up almost immediately. I hop into the back seat.
“I’m going to need to make two stops,” I tell the driver. “First to 47th Street. Then the airport.”
I have to get to this wedding — but there’s something else I need to do first.
25
Celia
I pace back and forth in the hotel room, my phone pressed to my ear. I’ve called every airline I could find, trying to find anyone who can get Jace here this morning. They all tell me the same thing — no flights until tonight.
My phone pings and I look down to see that I have a text from him. My heart leaps for a second, until I read it and realize that he isn’t having any luck either.
This can’t be happening. It just can’t. I had already driven a wedge between him and his brother when I had let it slip that we weren’t really engaged. If he misses the wedding because of me — well, there’s no way he could ever forgive me. I’m sure of it, because I’m pretty sure there’s no way I’ll ever forgive myself either.
“Argh!” I hurl my phone against the wall in frustration, hard enough to leave a tiny dent in the striped wallpaper. I throw myself down on the bed, not caring that I probably look like a toddler having a tantrum.
After I punch the mattress enough times that my stress is somewhat alleviated — and I’m feeling mildly ridiculous — I sit up. I’m still wearing my pajamas, and my hair is in a tangled rat’s nest. I should have a shower. I should call more airlines. I should try to do something — anything — productive right now.
Instead I decide that the only thing I want in the world is to talk to my best friend.
I climb off the bed and go fish my phone out from behind the desk, where it fell. I navigate to Rori’s contact info and hit the call button, praying she’ll be up this early on a Saturday but not caring if I wake her up.
