Mended (Connections, #3)(96)
“Hello?” Christine answers.
“Christine, it’s Ben. Ben Covington. How are you?”
“Ben.” Her voice breaks. And although I know she already knew I was alive, her surprise is still genuine. Her professionalism quickly returns. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Good. That makes two of us. Can we get together and talk?”
“Yes, I’d love that. Unfortunately I’m out of town until Friday afternoon, but I can meet that night. What do you say to Novels at seven?”
“Great. I’ll be there. See you then,” I say before hanging up.
I’m almost back to the motel when a flash appears in front of me. Fuck me—the paparazzi found me already. I’m not in the mood for their shit, but game on. I weave in and out of stores until I find one with a back door. Once I lose the douche bags, I hightail it to the fleabag motel.
Not feeling nearly as tired anymore with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I pour a drink. I flick on the TV, which surprisingly works, and make my way to take a shower. A few stray hairs in the bathroom make me hate my life even more. I glance at myself in the mirror. What the f*ck have I done with my life? I’m twenty-seven, staying in a shit-bag motel with no money and nothing to look forward to. I stand in silence and ponder my decision, questioning this supposed new start of mine.
A few hours later, I’m struggling to get some sleep when a disturbance from next door gets louder. Male, female, I can’t tell—the voices are muffled, but the act is undeniable. The lack of light through the broken blinds clues me in that it’s either really late or really early. I roll over and cover my head with the pillow, but can’t fall back asleep. After a few minutes, I turn back around. The moans and groans are gone, replaced by quiet whispers that can still be heard through these paper-thin walls. I stare at the plaster peeling from the ceiling and watch the fan blades moving around as I try to stop my mind from thinking about how I ended up here. It wanders and I mentally scold myself for allowing any form of self-pity.
I jump out of bed to grab another drink and my journal. I run my fingers along the lines of the page and then let the ink bleed upon it. I write about Australia, how sweet life was there. I write about the upcoming trial. I even write about finding a place to live and calling Christine for a chance at a new job. When I’m done, I close the journal and set it on my lap. New journal. New beginnings. New life. I eventually drift off, spending the rest of my first night back in California alone in a fleabag motel.