Hotel Ruby (14 page)

“I want to know everything about you, Audrey,” he whispers near my ear. “I want all of you.”

My head spins, drowning out the world as I slide my cheek over Elias's, pulling back to look at him. His eyes
are heavy with desire, his skin pink and alive. I thread my fingers through the back of his hair, our lips about to crash together in the most wonderful way.

Elias knots his fist in the fabric of my shirt, like he can't wait a minute longer. He leans in, but just before his lips touch mine, the phone rings from across the room. The sound is like an alarm bell, and instinctively Elias and I jump apart.

It rings a second time, longer and louder, and I have to cover my ears. Elias bolts up from the couch and crosses the room, his posture rigid. He grabs the receiver, shooting me an apologetic look. “What?” he asks into the phone. His skin pales, and he lowers his eyes. “Yes, I know.”

Outside the sun has risen, barely breaking over the trees. I was too busy nearly making out to even notice. The spell has been broken now, and it suddenly
feels
like six in the morning. The cinnamon has left a chalky aftertaste, and I want a glass of water.

“I have to go,” I whisper, pointing to the door. Elias shakes his head no, his mouth working like he's about to ask me to stay, but I turn away before he can.

“Yes, I understand, Kenneth,” he snaps into the phone. “Yes,” he says again, sounding resolved. The door clicks when I close it behind me.

The hall is empty and quiet, and I know this is the walk of shame—wearing last night's clothes as I slink back to my room. What I don't expect to find is Catherine striding off
the elevator in a glamorous dress, her hair wilting pin curls. She stops dead in her heels and stares at me. Her eyes flick to Elias's door, then back to me. Her lips tighten, and for a moment I think she's going to attack me.

I mentally review everything I was ever taught about self-defense. Thumbs in the eye sockets, knock out the knee. But who am I kidding? I've never been in a fight in my life. My threat to kick Catherine's ass if she hurt my brother was complete bullshit.

“Have a nice night?” she asks instead.

I open my mouth, but I honestly don't know how to answer. To my silence Catherine responds with a laugh and turns to walk back onto the elevator. You have got to be kidding me. I'm going to have to ride the elevator with her.

Elias's room is only four doors down. I could go back there. Then again, I don't want Catherine to think she can intimidate me—even if she does. And ew, she's been sneaking around with my brother all night, I hardly think she's in a position to judge.

I exhale and then walk into the elevator and press the button for the thirteenth floor. Catherine turns to me immediately, and my nerve evaporates. I could confront her—tell her to leave my brother alone. But that would make me sound kind of crazy. I'd rather my brother be the only one who sees me like that. I fake boredom to avoid talking to her, picking the clear polish off my fingernails.

“When do you leave again?” Catherine asks, sounding wistful.

“On Friday,” I say, and turn to her. Daniel was right, she does have skin like porcelain. I can't help but think about her and Elias, wondering how I measure up. “We have somewhere to be,” I continue. “Daniel and I are going to live with our grandmother.” I want to take back the words the minute they're out of my mouth. The vulnerability in them is painful.

Catherine gives her head a little shake. “No,” she says simply. “No, you're not.”

A chill climbs up my arms, clutches my throat. Her statement is more scary than sincere, and when the elevator doors open, I can't get out fast enough. The minute I'm in my hallway, I expect her to follow me, but she glances at the floor and then at me.

“Night, Audrey.” She smiles and takes a step backward in the elevator, disappearing behind the closing doors.

I
wake with a start, the night having bled into morning, into afternoon. I see the bottle of muscle relaxers on my nightstand, and I rustle the comforter sliding over to grab it. I glance at the label again and then shake my head before dropping the bottle into the trash can with a
thunk
. I'm an idiot. My cell phone is nearby, and I pick it up and pull it back into bed with me. The screen says I have no service, not even to check the time, but at least it's turning on now. Weird because I haven't even charged it.

I fall back into the pillow, and a haunting sense of loss comes over me. My fingers shake as I tap the photos icon and find the album titled “No.”

To deal with my grief I took all of the photos of my mother, or ones that reminded me of her, and put them in a separate album. I couldn't bear to delete them. Instead I labeled them “No” so that I'd be able to stop myself from staring at them. From dripping tears on my screen. From breaking down in math class because I'd accidentally seen her smile—wide and genuine.

“Don't do it,” I tell myself now, afraid of the flood of memories that will follow. My thumb hovers over the
album, hovers over my past. “Don't see,” I whisper.

I'm not sure how long I sit, frozen, before my hand starts to cramp. I drop the phone onto the bed and cover my face, my body jolting from holding back my cry. But it's a new day. As Ryan said after the funeral, “Every day's a gift, Audrey. Don't waste it.”

I still, Ryan's voice whispering in my ear. It wasn't fair, the way I treated him. He deserved better than me; I think even he knew that. But he loved me, and we fight for the things we love even when they're bad for us.

“You're just going to leave?” Ryan asked, perched on the edge of my bed while I packed. He kept his head lowered, as he had since the night of the party. He'd gotten a concussion, the bruise still heavy over his brow. He was suffering headaches, blurred vision in his right eye. Doctors weren't sure when (or if) it would go back to normal. Even after all that he couldn't let me go.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked him. “Run away? I told you, Daniel and I are going to plan something soon. I'll call you. I'll let you know I'm okay.”

“And if I'm not okay?” Ryan asked. I turned from my closet and met his eyes. He looked so sad, so goddamn sad, and all I wanted was to disappear—set him free. But I was too selfish for that. I walked back over to where he sat and paused in front of him, looking down. I put my hand on his head, and he leaned in to rest his cheek against my stomach, his arms around my waist.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was already gone. “I love you,” I lied. Because I was too weak to tell him the truth: I had stopped loving him months ago, and even if I escaped Nevada, I wouldn't be coming back for him. He would never see me again.

The memory turns my stomach and I force myself out of bed to take a hot shower, as hot as I can handle. I'm ashamed of my behavior. Sickened by the pain I must have inflicted on Ryan. But I couldn't make myself love him anymore, no matter how much I wished for it. No matter how many nights I cried over it. I was the worst thing to ever happen to him.

The shower rains down on me, and my tears are washed down the drain. When I step out from behind the curtain a while later, the cold air is refreshing. Revitalizing.

I take my time getting dressed, putting on makeup, blow-drying my hair. It's all robotic, a way to avoid thinking. But when I'm finished and look in the mirror, it might just be the prettiest I've ever looked. The Hotel Ruby doesn't have hard water like Phoenix. My hair is smooth, my skin soft and creamy. I smile before I even realize.

My keycard's on the dresser, and I grab it before going downstairs. Last night's dinner with my father was a bit of a nightmare, but today is a new day. And I don't plan on wasting any more of those.

The restaurant is crowded when I make my way through the tables toward my father. The room buzzes, and as I pass, I overhear a couple talking about “the ballroom” in a hushed tone. I almost stop to ask for details, but my father notices me and waves. I smile weakly, surprised that he looks downright cheery to see me.

“Hey, kid,” he says, resurrecting a nickname from my childhood. “How'd you sleep last night?”

“Uh . . .” I trip into my chair, lost for a response. He's wearing a collared shirt and jacket, more business than casual. He must have gone shopping, because even at his best my father wasn't this formal. I hardly recognize him.

When I don't speak, my father leans into the table, lowering his voice. “I'm sorry about dinner last night,” he says sincerely. “I've been on edge, but now I want to make it up to you and your brother. We're still a family, Audrey. That won't ever change.”

I'm about to double-“uh” when a server appears at my side. It's not Tanya, but instead Warren from the rooftop. He smiles at me, small and private, as he flips over the glass in front of me and pours water. His coldness tells me our meet-up was secret, even from my dad.

“What I'm trying to say,” my father continues like I'm listening, “is that I haven't always been the best father, and for that I'm sorry. I'll be better.”

I'm so completely thrown by his behavior; I can't say my true feelings on the topic. He owes us a lot more than
an apology. But for now I force a smile. “It's okay, Dad,” I tell him. “I haven't made it easy for you.” He seems content with our mutual apology, but what I really want to say is, “You abandoned us. And when we leave this hotel, you plan to do it again. How is that being better?”

With a shaky hand I take up my glass of water and sip. The silence between me and my father extends into awkward, and I need to fill the space somehow.

“How was the party in the ballroom?” I ask. “People seem to be talking about it.”

The chair creaks as my father sits back, his eyes shining. “The party was wonderful,” he says in a quiet voice. “Things have changed, Audrey. For the first time I know we'll be all right. The three of us together. You'll see.” He pauses, and a shadow of melancholy crosses his face. I can't quite place it, even though I'm sure I've seen that expression before. “I hope you'll see.”

There's a thumping in my chest, an impending sickness at a thought I can't reach. I'm glad my father is optimistic, but I'm not going to buy into the idea that we'll be a happy family by sundown. I'm more cautious than that. I take a sip of water and wait for my nausea to fade. When it does, I talk again, steering us toward lighter topics, trying to shake the uncomfortableness that's sunk into my skin.

“What did you wear?” I ask. “I doubt you packed your Armani suits.”

He chuckles, warming considerably. “I did leave those
behind,” he jokes. “My polo shirts didn't fit the bill, so the hotel sent up a suit. This, too.” He pulls on the lapel of his jacket. “They've practically given me a new wardrobe.”

“That's nice,” I say. “Maybe mention I could use a dress or two.”

“I will. And,” he confides, “I met your brother's latest obsession at the party. Cathy is . . .” He widens his eyes.

“A psychopath?” I offer, repeating Elias's description.

“I'd say intense. Sociopathic, possibly. I could be wrong.” He lifts his hands in a shrug, and I find myself smiling. The weight lifts from around us for the first time since my mother died. Figures that Dad and I would bond over my brother's terrible taste in women. Speaking of my brother:

“Have you talked to Daniel today?” I ask.

“Not since last night. He left the party early. He and Cathy seemed to be having a fight.”

“Daniel was at the party?” I scoff. “What the hell! He told me he wasn't going.”

“Language,” my father reminds me, and then raises his finger to the server to indicate we're ready to order. “Daniel didn't want to be there,” he continues, partly distracted by his menu. “But I'm guessing he was dragged. Either way, it was nice to see him in a suit instead of a filthy sweatshirt. The ladies certainly seemed to appreciate it, as well.”

“Overshare,” I mutter, and glance at my menu. But I'm not in the mood to eat anymore. Daniel said he wasn't
going to the party, that liar. How is it that both Daniel and my father are invited to a party and I'm not? What sort of bizarro world is this?

Warren arrives and my father quietly orders a club sandwich. I order the crepes. I put my elbow on the table and rest my chin on the heel of my palm, looking over at my dad. I still can't believe he went to a party last night. Then again, the socializing could be the catalyst for his change of heart. He wants to be a better father; he seems more confident, less in mourning. Who knows, maybe things have changed. He might not take us to Grandma Nell's at all.

“How did your night go?” my father asks. “I didn't see you wandering the halls, so you must have found some form of entertainment.”