“Calm down?” I say, venom tinting my words. “I can’t be around you now, Daniel!”
And I can’t even go to my own goddamn home now, come to think of it. It’s too late and I don’t really want to be with Ian and Tasha. I don’t feel like discussing the reason for my voluntary exile with anyone. I need to be by myself.
“You want me to book you a room somewhere?” Daniel offers, compromising.
At least he seems to comprehend the severity of my resolution. My eyes shoot to his and in the calmest, dimmest voice I reply, “Don’t you dare. I don’t want you to do anything for me.” I stare at him pointedly. “You’ve done enough.” And as I start dialing, looking for hotels near work, I hear him mumble wearily, “You walking away is getting old.”
My eyes fire up in rage.
I could seriously strangle him right now.
“Perhaps you screwing up is what’s getting old,” I counter, darting a piercing look at him over my shoulder, and resume putting another shirt into my suitcase, with my phone still tucked between my ear and shoulder
.
He steps away
.
As I confirm my reservation with the Ritz, Daniel returns to the room
.
Just to add to my growing irritation, there are hardly any available rooms in the city because of some international medical convention
. The Ritz again? What an end to this night
… The morose irony doesn’t escape me
.
After inching closer for some time, Daniel ends up sitting next to my suitcase, making it tip with his mass on the mattress. He grabs my hand and pulls me so I'm standing in front of him.
“Look at me, Hales.” His voice is thick with distress. I shift my eyes to meet his and dig into my lips in annoyance.
“What?” I snarl.
“Hales, we broke up. I thought you’d never change your mind. I was crushed. The thought of losing you devastated me. I was bitter and hurt and drunk and yes, acting impulsive, without really thinking, or thinking vindictively. At the time it seemed like something that might make me feel better.” The tail end of his sentence wears thin as he tries to overcome my hostility. I counter his stare with a combination of anger and disgust.
“It meant nothing. I regretted it mid action.” A sour repulsion finally stops at my mouth at the vision he's conjured in my mind with the word “action”, and I have to swallow hard.
“I know it’s something that’s hard to overlook, but again, we weren’t together.
It meant nothing.
If I could, I would go back and change it.” He sighs, almost defeated.
I remain silent, sawing the hell out of my lips. Tears start to pile at the corner of my eyes and I blink them away.
“What I am asking is please don’t take too long, and Hales…” His thumb grazes my knuckles and a shiver goes through me, a shiver of sadness fused with anger.
Why did he have to go and do that? I don’t want to leave now. I want to roll into a fetal position and have him wrap himself around me, make it all go away, tell me it's just a very, very bad joke. But I know full well that when logic kicks in again, and when I think about everything with a clear mind, I’ll want him far away from me
.
“I’ll think about it. Just let me be for now.” My small voice, in addition to clear sarcasm, holds frustration, resentment, and a sense of sour loss. We just got back together. Finally I was in the comfort zone where maybe we’d be okay.
“Why does it feel like you're really leaving?” he says, walls shaking gravely, following me to the door.
“Because I'm stepping out of this house,” I say. I want to say, “I need time away, I need to think, I just need to be alone,” but keep silent. I don’t want to make him feel any better, to give him any hope.
Why should I?
Perhaps he’ll feel at least half the pain and betrayal I feel right now if I don’t. I will not make this easy on him. He doesn’t deserve it.
“Christ, Hales.” He slams his hand against the wall and I jump at the loud thump it makes.
I just look at him with tapered eyes, fighting not to move a muscle; I hold my expression blank and mumble, “Goodbye.”
Driving down quiet streets to the hotel, I feel like I'm driving into chaos, yet again. Inner chaos. There is a song crying over the speakers about how love is not a victory march, but a cold and broken hallelujah.
“A cold and broken elegy is more like it,” I snarl to my pain-filled eyes that look back at me via the rearview mirror.
“Don’t take too long… Why does it feels like you’re really leaving?” Daniel’s words echo in my head.
Chapter 15: Mrs. Stark?
“Good evening Mrs. Stark, and welcome to the Ritz Carlton.”
If looks could kill, the young man in the black suit with the golden nametag in front of me would be cruising the streets in a hearse, headed for the nearest morgue.
Mrs. Stark?
I gape, annoyed, at the enthusiastic, polished clerk who is, luckily, shielded behind the front desk.
“Here is the key to your room. Your in-room spa treatment is scheduled for eight A.M and a light dinner will be brought to you shortly. If you need anything else, please dial zero for reception.”
“Sir?” I say, wanting to stop his bubbling speech.
“Yes, Mrs. Stark.”
Urgh
.
“How did you know I was, hmm, Mrs. Stark?” I almost choke as I utter these words. “Don’t you need some sort of identification?” I raise an accusing, dubious eyebrow.
“Mrs. Stark, your husband was very explicit with his instructions and requests.” Mr. Ginger’s naturally pink cheeks turn a deeper red
.
Oh boy, I guess he was the one who had the pleasure of speaking to my alleged husband, and I know just how explicit my “husband” can be.
I now feel slightly sorry for the guy.
I can’t believe Daniel took the liberty of messing with my reservation.
“I'll just need your signature here, Mrs. Stark...” He draws my attention to a document, pointing with a pen to my name as it appears above a dotted line:
Hayley J. Stark
. I can’t help the smile forming on my face as I see the bold black letters on the white paper and repeat it silently in my head.
Hey there, time to let your backbone play center stage in this spineless mollusk you’ve become where your fictitious husband is concerned, instead of humming the freaking wedding march.
And yet I sign as Mrs. Stark, biting away my goofy smirk.
Well, it’s not like Daniel can really see me
.
During the elevator ride to my room I think about how I just want to take a long, steaming shower, to get this chaos off my skin. When I swipe my key card and the tinny green light blinks on, I shove open the heavy door and remain frozen at the room’s threshold for a long moment.
What the hell have you done, Daniel?
Wasn’t I explicit enough when I told him
not to interfere
?
Swanky doesn’t even begin to describe the extravagant opulence in front of me. Surveying the surroundings I realize “someone” has upgraded my humble booking to an enormous goddamn suite.
At the freaking Ritz!
Overbearing psycho. As if all this pampering would help. If he had only kept his pants intact, he wouldn’t have to go through all this waste and trouble.
Tired, annoyed, and somewhat gloomy, I fight gravity as I get into the shower, after a short chat with the nice server who brings me my very unnecessary 'light dinner'.
It’s around 1:30 am…
I shake my head.
Closing my eyes, letting the comforting water ease my mind, I try hard not to think.
My phone chimes with an incoming message as I'm tucked into the unbelievably comfortable, god-sized bed, about to close my eyes in hope of a stress-free sleep, at least in the short hours remaining before I need to wake up for work.
Daniel: Believe me Hales, I am more sorry than you think I should be.
This short message brings me down and makes tears sting my eyes. I don’t reply.
Perhaps I should remind myself that this purgatory does have an expiration date, and only I hold the key to make it stop.
Chapter 16: Cryptic Messages
Morning rolls in, bringing with it a vile migraine due to lack of sleep. I shuffle around getting dressed, but before I can make a cup of coffee, a knock at the door thwarts me from puttering about any further.
Who the hell?
With basic lingerie as my only articles of clothing I shrug on one of the thick, snuggly robes from the bathroom and head over to check who could be knocking at my door at this hour, which, in my opinion, is too early to be even considered legal.
“Room service.” A smiling set of white teeth attached to a short blonde bursting with energy greets me. For a moment I gaze at her, puzzled.
“Uhm, I didn’t...” I begin, but stop, realizing that no, I didn't order any breakfast but that yes, someone else had done it for me. I frown and roll my eyes at the notion, then notice that the confused server thinks I just rolled my eyes nastily at her. I hold my finger up signaling for her to wait a moment, and sprint to bring her a ten dollar bill from my purse.
“Thanks.” I shove it into her hand as I take the breakfast tray from her. When she glances at the money she tilts her head and flashes me a radiant smile.
“Have a great morning, Mrs. Stark,” she says happily, and leaves. I shake my head at the tray in my hands as I set it onto the table in the sitting area of my insanely posh suite. A smile sneaks onto my lips when I notice the coffee mug. Tasting it, I can’t stop my smile from stretching further.
Just the way I like it.
Halfway into my caffeine dose my phone disturbs me; I check the screen and my face twists.
“I said I needed time,” I say sharply, not bothering with any greeting.
“Boy, you're moody,” Daniel says in his morning lazy, husky voice. I can just imagine him still in bed, disheveled and sexy as hell, perhaps scratching his crazy morning hair, or that six pack of his.
I shake my head. I shouldn’t be drooling; I am pissed.
“No, I'm not moody.” My irritation returns and quickly swells. “As amazing as this revelation might be to you, there are times when I'm not too eager to put up with your crap.”
“I see,” he responds. I can hear him shift on the other end.
“You can’t even begin to fathom the magnitude of how hurt and mad I am, Daniel. You really fucked up, big time. You know what, let’s just not talk now.” I sigh.
“Fine.”
And we end the call. Not a moment passes and a message lands in my phone.
Daniel: Hales, believe me I can fathom the magnitude of how hurt you are, and as I’ve mentioned before, I regret this more than you think I should.
The next knock at the door startles me from going through my emails, and also makes my heart jump high en route to my mouth.
Could it be him
?
“Coming,” I say as I walk over to check who it could possibly be this time.
“Good morning. I here for you morning treatment,” says a fleshy lady, her words rolling through a thick Russian accent.
I’d forgotten. The reception
clerk
mentioned something last night about a treatment scheduled for this morning. Studying the masculine lady in front of me, I stop myself before rolling my eyes this time.
She looks me over and strides in without a formal consent, carrying a folded massage bed under her arm as if she were clutching a morning newspaper.
“Undress,” she commands, and a survival alert pops up in my head telling me to run for my life.
“It’ll, err, it’ll have to be just half an hour,” I stutter quietly.
She pouts her lips and nods disapprovingly. Perhaps it’s better to be late to work than to upset this Olympic shot-put champion.
Amazed by how gentle her touch is, I let myself finally relax and enjoy the welcomed pamper. I take in a rich indulging breath. Resting my eyelids I absentmindedly summon the most horrifying scene to my head. A steamy session between Daniel and a perfect body, blurred face woman makes my stomach nervously agitate.
“Sorry,” I manage to say to the lady above me, before running with one hand over my mouth and the other trying to cover my hanging lady parts to the en suite. In my haste to vomit my bowels into the toilet I don’t even close the door behind me.
“You davai? You okay, lady?” The short cut, fair haired face appears at the door frame of where I am kneeled oh-so-gracelessly on the floor in front of the toilet. I take a deep breath, highly self-conscious at my disadvantaged position and nod.
“Pregnant?” Her accent rolls the terrifying word. My eyes tear open, flashing to look at her.
Goodness Gorbachev, NO, are you nuts?
Just as I try to find a way to get the burly androgynous out of the room, as massage is the last thing on my mind right now, she growls, “Pregnant, no massage!” Serving my excuse on a silver platter. I bob my head timidly, with an awkward simper, affirming. She observes me and shakes her head exasperated, mumbling something in her mother tongue under her down coated lips. Folding the bed she continues murmuring to herself, things that even in her enigmatic language don’t sound in my favor. At the noise of the closing door I lift myself up and stagger to wash my face. Staring at my reflection in the mirror I frown, pissed as hell.
“Jerk,” I direct to my ass of a boyfriend, shuffling to the bedroom to get ready for work.
When Ken doll Josh, aka boss, concludes with the last of my tasks for the day, he suggests we go out for coffee to further discuss the coming trip to the Maldives. Content at the needed distraction, especially being this exciting topic, I gladly comply and even offer that it’ll be my treat.
“I need you to iron out all the loose ends with the photographer and the stylist til the end of the week. I want everyone to confirm the dates and time tables before we send out the official agenda.” He takes a bite of the cheesecake in front of him; I nod as I put it all down in my tablet then turn to take another sip from my recyclable cup.