With a few plastic bags, a little gas camping cooker, and a sleeping bag rolled into a ball, we walk toward the doors, and Eddie stops and looks around.
I wait, unsure what to say to make this moment less dramatic, but there is nothing to say.
It is fucking dramatic.
My tears . . . also dramatic, but I couldn’t stop them if I tried.
The last few weeks, my emotions have come to a head, and I feel completely overwhelmed and out of control.
Eddie looks up at me. “Why are you crying?” he asks.
“I got something in my eye.” I shrug, embarrassed. “You ready?”
He nods, and we walk out front, and while I order an Uber, he sits down on the concrete with all his things to wait.
“I have to book a hotel,” I mutter to myself as I quickly go through the booking website.
“Aren’t you staying in the hostel?”
“You aren’t staying at the frigging hostel,” I gasp. “No way.”
“But I have to work tonight.”
“No.” I keep scrolling through the website. “You’re never going there again.”
“Christo, I have to work tonight. I’m not letting them down.”
“I said no.”
“I’m fucking working,” he spits.
I look up, annoyed by his tone. “That’s the first and last time you swear at me, do you understand?”
He hangs his head, and we fall silent for a while.
What do I do here? I’m completely out of my depth. If I push him before he trusts me, he’s going to take off.
Fuck’s sake . . . damn this kid and his good work ethic. “Fine. We will stay at the hostel so you can work. But we are getting private rooms, and if they don’t have any, we are staying in a hotel.”
“Fine.” He sits there in a huff for a while.
“I’m going to call the hostel to get us some rooms, okay?”
He shrugs, full of attitude.
I call the hostel, and luckily, they have two deluxe en suite rooms available. We make our way around there, and I pick up the keys. We walk up the stairs to the top floor.
“This is us,” I tell him as I open the door to his room.
His eyes widen. “We’re staying here?”
“Uh-huh.”
He quietly stands beside me, looking at every last detail in awe. “That must be some fancy school you teach at.”
“Oh . . . yeah.” I wince. “About that. I’m not a teacher.”
He cuts me off. “I know.”
“What do you know?”
“You’re a cleaner.”
Unbelievable.
“My family owns a company that makes newspapers.”
He frowns.
“I’m kind of . . .” I shrug. “Well off.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have to worry about money.”
He stares at me blankly, unable to comprehend the concept.
“You’ll see.” I smile. “You can sleep in this bedroom.”
His eyes flick to me in question. “Where will you sleep?”