You're Invited(4)

The new driver got in and we pulled out. He turned the air-conditioning up all the way, and I shivered, though of course he didn’t notice.

I miss Joe. I know it’s silly to miss the limousine driver who picked me up once a month, but it was nice to start off the night with a kind face. And he never adjusted the air-conditioning without asking me. I thought about asking the new driver to turn it down, but I rubbed my arms instead. It felt awkward to ask. I’ll tell him if I really start to freeze.

It took about forty minutes to reach the Winchester if LA traffic behaved itself, which it did tonight. Thank goodness.

I stared out the window for a while. The buildings looked like sleek, slippery giants as we cruised by, their windows a million eyes that saw everything. I shuddered, pulling out my phone instead.

I usually don’t check my phone when I do this. The whole point is to switch out of my normal life and into, well, into something, or someone, else. But I had seen the time on the little digital clock that glinted at the back of this limousine—8:41 p.m., and it annoyed me a little. This wasn’t a good number at all. No patterns. No repeats. No signs from the universe to let me know that things were going my way.

I sighed to myself. Of course all of this was bullshit. Of course this weird obsession I have with the time doesn’t mean anything. But I knew that distracting myself was the best option right now.

Opening Instagram and scrolling through was a muscle memory. My fingers had found their way there before my brain even registered what it was doing. And I always ended up on her posts.

Her most recent one was from just a few minutes ago. It was still early morning in Colombo, where she lived. Where I used to call home. The post was of her leaning in close to the camera, her finger held to her perfect, full, pink-painted lips like she was asking me to shush.

Exciting news coming soon! the caption read, and of course the crowd had gone wild.

I scrolled through the Omg, you have to tell me and the Are you pregnant? comments, but of course she gave nothing away.

Maybe she was pregnant? Wouldn’t that be something? Maybe she decided to break one of the many unwritten social rules of being a Sri Lankan woman and was going to have a child without being married.

Or maybe her charity, Pink Sapphires, was announcing something big? That seemed more likely. She was always working with underprivileged girls—giving them opportunities they wouldn’t have otherwise been able to dream about. Enriching their lives. Being their savior.

I commented from my account ForestFern23—The suspense is killing me, Kaavi!

Then I scrolled through her feed, looking for any other signs or hints about what the big news was. But of course there was nothing. Just perfect pictures of her looking perfect, being perfect. Pictures with the girls she helps, pictures from her dad’s gem business, which she is geared to take over, pictures brunching and on the beach and living her best Colombo 07 life.

I forced myself to turn my phone off and take a deep breath. I needed to focus on the night ahead of me, not fixate on what Kaavi was up to, a million miles away in my hometown.

I took another deep breath.

And another.

But her post still stayed with me, a pebble in my shoe.

Perfectly lined pink lips. A secret just behind them.

Shhh! Exciting news coming soon.

It was 8:55 p.m. when the limousine pulled up to the front of the hotel—double digits again, thank goodness. See, I had nothing to worry about after all.

I waited for the doorman to open my door before I glided out. A soft breeze fluttered around me and I shivered again. I was still cold from the car ride.

I didn’t make eye contact with anyone in the quiet, dimly lit hotel lobby on my way to the front desk, not that anyone would be interested anyway. This was Los Angeles, not Colombo. Anonymity and discretion were part of the lifestyle here, if you wanted it, even though I was nowhere near as rich or famous as those who craved it the most.

“Clara White—I believe you have a key for me?”

I didn’t make eye contact with the young woman at the reception either. I could feel her studying my dress, noting that I came directly from the front doors and not the restaurant, that I was clearly being left a key by someone who wasn’t walking into this building accompanying me.

I looked at the time on my phone. 9:00 p.m., on the dot. See, there was nothing to worry about. Things would go my way this evening after all.

“You’re in room 587,” she chirped. I balked at the number. So unlucky. It made me think of the Instagram post again.

Shhh! Exciting news coming soon.

What in the world was she about to announce?

The receptionist passed over a heavy antique key tag. It was part of the Winchester’s charm—the open disdain for the modern. It was what he liked about the place.

Him. That’s who I should be focusing on right now. Not her.

The old brass elevator doors swung open, and thankfully, no one got in with me. I checked my makeup in the mirrored wall. My lipstick had bled out slightly on my lower lip, and I fought the automatic response to fix it. He liked me slightly messy. I had never been perfect. That was why he wanted me.

I was early, but that didn’t stop me rushing, my black heels clicking down the hallway, the sound reverberating off the gilded mirrors that lined the walls. I don’t know why I even bothered with the spiky stilettos that caused me so much discomfort. They’d be off by the time he got there.