Checking Inn (14 page)

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I just need to be alone right now,” I say after he releases my arm.

“I’ll come by your house later to make sure you’re okay,” he says, but I shake my head.

“I’ll be fine.  I just want to go to bed.”  I do feel sleepy.  I am just so tired.

His jaw tightens and I can see the argument building behind his eyes, but my mother comes up and puts her hand on his shoulder.  “I’ll check on her later, Ben.  You go and deal with Stephanie.”

He looks from my mother, back to me, and eventually nods.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say to no one in particular and open the door, heading for my car in the parking lot.

My whole life: it was all a lie.  I built my father up to be this mystical being that was forever smiling in my head, ready to catch me at the end of the banister rail.  When all this time he left because he couldn’t keep out of other women’s beds.

I thought it was her fault.  I never blamed her, but deep down I always thought if my mother had just tried a bit harder, if we had kept the house a little neater, he would never have left.

I feel like everything I have ever known is just a figment of my imagination.  I didn’t really know him at all.

Which is why I need to go and find out if I have convinced myself of something else as well.

Greg isn’t home when I get to his apartment in the city a few hours later.  It’s just as well; this whole thing will probably be easier if I don’t have to figure out if he is lying through his shiny teeth or not.  I’m going to look at the facts and let them speak for themselves.

I bring my clipboard inside– honestly right now I feel like it’s the only stable thing in my life– and I am determined to write down anything that looks remotely suspicious.  Then, I am going to go home, drink a whole bottle of wine (maybe two because, by God, I deserve it), and figure this whole thing out.

I use the spare key he gave me in case of emergency– this alone took me two years to get, and it’s only because he slipped in the shower a few months ago and broke his arm, that he eventually caved.

His apartment is immaculate, which usually makes me gleeful, but when I look around all I see is a hollow shell of a home.  There aren’t any pictures of us anywhere, even though I printed one from our first date and put it in a nice frame for him for Christmas.  He told me the frame didn’t go with his décor so he was looking for another one. 

It was black.  What doesn’t black go with?

I grab my pen from my purse

No pictures of me anywhere.  Even though I have been told I am extremely photogenic and have a nice nose.

Standing here, looking around, I’m starting to remember other things about our relationship.  I remember the time Greg took me white water rafting.  I don’t swim very well and I didn’t really want to go, but it was one of our first dates and I couldn’t say no.  Also, I read a guide on white water rafting and watched multiple Youtube videos, so I thought I was prepared.

Well, I wasn’t.  The first time we got to one of the rapids our raft was bouncing all over the place and my helmet fell over my eyes.  I took my hands off the sides of the boat to fix it just as we hit a huge rock, and I went flying out.  I went down the rapids with just my life jacket and helmet, and was tossing all over the place, struggling to get my head above the water.  I felt something tugging me down and kicked feverously until I heard Greg yelling.

“Jesus, Kate, stop kicking me!” I opened my eyes to see him in the raft, trying to hold onto my life jacket, and trying to keep me above water.

I was so relieved I started to cry.  When I finally got back into the raft Greg frowned at me.  “I thought you said you knew how to raft.  Why did you let go?” he asked as though he was mad at me.

Like it was a choice I made to go down the rapids and get my legs and arms all scratched up when I don’t even know how to swim properly.

“
What?
” I asked, my temper simmering in my eyes through my tears.

He must have seen me recoil from his angry tone because his scowl was quickly replaced with a smile.  “It’s okay,” he said, putting his hand on my arm as though he decided to forgive me.  “Maybe rafting wasn’t such a good idea.  Let me make it up to you, okay?”

He never did make it up to me, though.  Come to think of it, he’s never really made anything up to me.

I make my way into his bedroom.  I’m not sure why exactly, but I started in Samantha’s bedroom, so my gut is telling me that whatever I need to find will be in here.

I go to his nightstand and open the drawer, but the only thing inside is the latest bestseller from Tom Clancy, and his reading glasses sit on top.  My hands desperately want to rip out the last page of his novel so he won’t know how it ends, but I decide that’s too spiteful.  It would really drive him crazy, and plus I don’t know if my suspicions are even true yet.  Instead I pick up my pen.

Nothing hidden in his bedroom drawer. 

Also, his glasses have a small scratch on the left lens. 

You just never know what might be important.

Frowning I look at the other flat surfaces around the room, immaculately uncluttered, and shake my head.  I’m not going to find anything here.

Sighing, I walk past the bed in hopes I might have better luck in the living room or bathroom when I see his closet door is open a crack.  I pull the door the rest of the way and enter the walk-in closet, which is just as neat as the rest of the house.  It’s not as nice as Samantha’s, but it is still nicer than mine.

He doesn’t deserve a nicer closet than me.

I run my hands over his shirts and one accidently falls off the hanger onto a heap on the floor.  I contemplate leaving it there, but know that Greg would probably suspect someone has been here if I do.  He would never leave one of his shirts like that.  I bend down to pick it up and I see a bright red photo box on a shelf below his pants.

Sitting on my heels, I put my clipboard down beside me and take the box off the shelf.  Setting it on the floor in front on me, I shimmy the top off and toss the lid aside.

Sitting on top is a card with hearts and sparkles on the front.  

“Remember on Valentine’s Day you said we could do all my favorite things?”

I open the card and the message is 
“My favorite thing is you.”
  Samantha’s name is signed.

I move the card to the side, so I can see what else is inside.  It is full of pictures of the two of them.  Some are from when they were in high school, but I know some are only from a few weeks ago.  I bought Greg the red sweater he’s wearing in one where they are kissing and standing in front of a waterfall.

I guess she knew how to white water raft better than I do.

I lift the top few pictures and my eyes widen.

Apparently they also liked to take pictures of themselves when they weren’t wearing any clothes at all.

I throw everything back in the box and shove it back on the shelf.  I feel like I am outside of my body as I casually pick up my clipboard and make my way back to the front door.  My body feels numb, and my mind has wandered off somewhere far, far away.  A million thoughts should be going through my head right now; I should be making lists of everything this means.

Nothing.  I feel… nothing.

As I reach for the handle to the front door I pause and open the door to the hall closet instead.  Greg’s shoes are neatly lined up in rows and there, in the middle of the fourth row, is a gap where the pair of shoes is missing.

It’s silly.  Seeing all of those pictures should have sent me over the deep end.  But standing here, looking at the spot where the missing shoes should be– the shoes Ben found in Samantha’s hallway closet– something inside of me finally snaps.

He would never keep anything at my house because he said he was afraid Maggie would chew it.  I am going to find his most expensive pair and give them to Maggie for Christmas.

After picking out a fine pair of Italian loafers, I quickly make my way back into his bedroom, open his night stand, and rip out the last page of his book.

The bastard will just have to suffer.

Twelve

You know what’s a funny word? Tequila.  At least, I’m finding it hilarious right now.  I lost count after seven shots, but I think I've had a lot. 

My clipboard is beside me in Joe’s Tavern.  I ordered it a martini a little while ago, because I’m not the only one who’s had a trying week.  My lists just haven’t been the same lately, and I think my clipboard has noticed.  I just got back from the dance floor, which I am proud to say I made myself out of a spare piece of plywood I found outside.  Stanley, who is always in our town’s one and only bar, is doing a pretty good rendition of Flashdance considering we just played vodka Ping-Pong for an hour.

I called Tracy an hour ago to come and have a drink with me, but so far she’s only had coffee and keeps trying to convince me to let her take me home.

“Tracy, look at him go!”  I yell over the music and begin to sing.  “
I’m gonna live forever.”

I point my finger at Tracy and wait in anticipation.

“
Fame.
”

“
BABY REMEMBER MY NAME!
”  I slip off my stool for the last note and am thrown into another giggling fit.

“Kate, do you think you’re nearly ready to go home?”  She puts her hand to her forehead. “I’m starting to get a pretty nasty headache.”

“Oh, I think you just need another drink.”  I wave to the bartender, Mike, who looks at me and rolls his eyes.

“He’ll be by in a minute,” I assure her. 

A bright light flashes over the bar, which means someone else has come through the door.  The windows are pretty much blacked out from all the cigarette smoke over the years, and the owner thinks it’s nostalgic not to clean them.  Usually I look at those windows and wouldn’t even consider coming inside.  But, my decisions haven’t exactly been the greatest ones lately, have they?  So, I decided to give this place a try, and it is amazing!  They have so much alcohol, and everyone is being really nice to me.  Mr. Phelps even showed me how to take the peanut out of the shell without crumbling it everywhere. 

And I will always be grateful to him for that.

Tracy turns around and I see relief written all over her face.

I turn around to see what she’s looking at, though my eyes take a minute to focus.  Ben stands behind us with his eyebrow raised, his hands on his hip.

“Detective Gable!”  I say and unsteadily get off my chair. 

“How many has she had?” he asks Tracy.

“At this point, who knows?” Tracy says, shrugging.  “I got here about an hour ago, but she was already pretty gone.”

“You called him?” I ask her, frowning. My eyes can’t seem to find where she is standing.  “You didn’t have a nice time?”

“Honey, I have to get home.  Tim is waiting for me.  Ben’s going to take you home, okay?”

I slowly drag my eyes from her face to his and turn around to get back on my stool.

“I’m not going home,” I say and try and get Mike’s attention again.

I feel Tracy kiss me on the cheek.  “I’ll call you in the morning.”

I nod and throw one of the peanut shells in Mike’s direction to get his attention.  It falls a foot in front of me and I frown.  Must have been a bad nut.

“Hey Mike, can I get a beer?” Ben asks, taking a seat on the stool beside me.

“Sure thing, Ben,” he nods and picks up an empty glass.

“I want teqweela!” I yell at him.

“I’ve already told you that if you can’t pronounce the word anymore, you’ve had too much,” he says to me, bringing Ben his drink.

“I can pronounce it!  Te–qwee–la,” I say, and my hand comes up to mouth.  “There is something wrong with my tongue.”

Mike smiles and puts a towel over his shoulder.  “I’m going to get you some coffee.” He walks away.

I look over to Ben, who silently sips his beer.

“You didn’t need to come you know,” I say, and try and sit straighter on my stool.  “I was going to walk home.”

“You wouldn’t have made it past the grocers,” he says.

“I would have,” I say indignantly.  “Despite what Mike thinks, I haven’t had too much to drink.”

He doesn’t say anything, which needles me further.

“All the guests have checked out of the Inn,” I say and try not to let my voice break.

“I know, your mother called me,” he says, still sipping his beer.

“This is probably the end.  No one’s going to come now,” I say.

“You’d be surprised how quickly people move on,” he says.  “I think you should try and have a little more faith in people.”

I snort.  “That’s the problem.  I’ve had 
too
 much faith in people.”

He doesn’t say anything and I find his silence extremely irritating.

“Let’s make a list, okay?” I pick up the napkin in front of me.  I search the area for a pen but can’t find one anywhere.  “I’ll just use my finger.”

“Maybe it’s time we got you home,” Ben suggests, and I put my finger to my lips and shush him.

“I’m making a list; I need to concentrate.  Okay, number one: my father was a dirty, rotten man-whore that cheated on my mother and left because he picked those women over me.”

Ben opens his mouth to say something, but I hold up my hand.

“Number two: I decided to date a man who put his career before me, treated me like shit all the time, and ended up cheating on me with the woman who tortured me in school.”

Mike comes and puts coffee in front of me, but I wave him away.

“Number… umm…”

“Three,” Ben supplies.

“Right, number three: my Inn, that I dedicated most of my life to restoring, is now temporarily closed for business, and unless a miracle happens, it might permanently stay that way.”

I hold up my little napkin with my imaginary writing and look at Ben.  “What do you think?” I ask.

“That’s one shitty list,” he says, nodding.

“It needs a clipboard,” I say, looking at the napkin again.  “Clipboards make everything better.”