“What about your parents? Do you ever go home?”
“That’s not… that’s not really an option for me.”
He hugs me close. “Add me to the list. You can always catch your breath at my place.”
I love the feel of his arms through his soft, clean shirt. He kisses me hard. I can feel the ridges his teeth make through his lips. And then it evolves and he’s kissing me everywhere like he’s trying to memorize me. We have lazy sex with the TV and all the lights on.
When it’s over, that itch I get to escape is so diluted I can barely feel it. I rest my head on his chest. He’s watching Billy Madison. I like hearing him laugh from the inside. I feel myself fall away without trying to stop it.
* * *
I wake up startled. I’m not sure what sets it off. A dream that disappears when my eyes open, or my body rejecting sleep. My cheek is damp against his chest.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says, and I wonder if his mom says that to him. “You were zonked. And you drooled.”
“Sorry,” I say, wiping the puddle from his chest, feeling my cheeks burn.
Justin laughs. “Don’t be sorry.” He smooths my hair and lets me rest on him again, rubbing my back absentmindedly. The movie has switched to something with Jim Carrey that I haven’t seen, but I can’t keep my eyes open long enough to watch any of it. It’s the best sleep I’ve had in years.
— Chapter 38 —
In the morning, Justin makes coffee in the machine on the dresser. We lay the map across the bed and figure out our route. Florida for sure, but we have to decide which part. Justin wants to go to Weeki Wachee to see the mermaids. It seems kind of ridiculous, but really, why shouldn’t we? That’s what a vacation is, to the best that I can tell. Driving to see what there is to see without any other purpose.
I’m always careful about my expenses. I have money saved. Two hundred, plus the extra forty I always keep hidden in my guitar case. But when I hesitate on Weeki Wachee because we don’t need to go all the way to the left side of Florida to get to warm water, Justin jumps in with “I’ll even pay for gas. Don’t worry about it.” So really, there’s no reason not to see the mermaids.
Justin goes downstairs to check out while I brush my teeth and dry my hair. I’m supposed to meet him at the car, but a few minutes later the room phone rings and it’s Justin saying, “Can you come down here?” So I leave my stuff in the room and sprint down the stairs to the lobby, because his voice sounds desperate and the elevator is probably slow.
There’s a manager at the desk looking stern. Justin is red-faced, hands shaking.
“My dad canceled the card,” Justin whispers in my ear. “Declined the charges. Manager says he might arrest me.” He looks like he will break into sobs at any moment. He hands me the bill. The movies were pay-per-view, not regular cable. Plus room service. Plus tax. It’s a hundred and thirty-seven dollars.
I want to shout at him about calling me into it. I’m terrified they’ve already sent someone to the room and they’ll take my guitar. But Justin gets messier by the moment. He looks young, defeated, and I realize that he is not equipped to handle this.
I put my hand out to shake the manager’s. It throws him off, which is the point.
“I’m so sorry for this misunderstanding,” I say, using my best waitress voice. “If you could give us a chance to go upstairs and make a phone call, I’m sure—”
“I’m afraid we can’t allow—”
“If he calls collect, can he call from the lobby? It’s just a misunderstanding.” I smile sweetly. There are other people in the lobby. I can tell Justin is embarrassed to have witnesses, but it’s our asset. The manager won’t want a scene, and as long as I use a calm and reasonable voice, he’ll look terrible if he loses his cool.
He allows Justin to use the courtesy phone in the lobby, next to a mauve couch and a table with a vase of fake flowers. The manager and I stand at the corner of the desk, watching him. Dial, wait, hang up, dial. Justin’s dad denies the first three calls but accepts on the fourth. Justin wipes tears from his cheeks as he talks, cupping the phone to his mouth for privacy.
The manager shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His name is Brian. It says so on his name tag. He sighs. I smile at him, cool as a cucumber, and settle into the silence. I’m okay with quiet, but chances are he’s not, so again, I have the advantage.
I study his face and make up his life. He was probably kind of cute in high school, when girls could still dream about him being something more. Button nose, brown eyes, reddish-brown hair that’s starting to grey at the temples. Freckles. His chin will disappear soon. Divorced, definitely. Long enough that the pale band on his empty ring finger has tanned up again. Ex-wife is pretty in an Ivory soap and water kind of way. Two kids, who would rather not go to his sad apartment on weekends. He’d rather not have them there and wonders what kind of person that makes him. That’s why he drinks. Late at night, after he gets home from work, microwaves a Salisbury steak, when the talk shows turn into reruns, he snorts a line or two off the glass coffee table he rents from one of those lease-to-own furniture places. He will never own that coffee table.