Funny Feelings (44)

“Meyer,” she croaks when I open the door to leave. I pause, but can’t bring myself to turn around.

“Meyer. I think you’re the only person I’ve ever been—ever been smart with. You’re the only relationship I’ve made the smart choices with. And… I don’t want to ever lose that. I want to be smart with you.”

I nod, hearing all that she means without saying, even as my heart deflates faster than the balloon hat.



I’m feeling way too fucking sober again by the time I get back to the casino floor, and head back to the bar.

Not long after, when I’ve remedied this thoroughly, I stumble onto the strip, and the first thing my eyes see is a neon sign.

I’m feeling pretty fucking stupid.





18





NOW





FARLEY


I get back to my room and flop onto my bed like a starfish, bring one hand to touch my lips before I scream-squeal into my palm. I lose track of time, lying there like that, until dizzy thoughts become languid, and I remember that I need to get ready to meet up with Kara and Shauna.

I decide to head down to the hotel bar to fetch some shower-wine and a water, humming the whole way like an idiot. I think I twirl on my exit.

But when I complete my pirouette off the elevator, the stupid grin plummets, because in steps Meyer, back through those revolving doors, looking furious. He stomps my way and I freeze to the spot.

“W-What? What are you doing here?” I look down at my invisible watch again— really, I need to start wearing one— “Aren’t you on a plane?”

“I’m not.” He’s flushed and breathing hard. “On a plane, I mean.”

“Then what—”

“Well, for one. I forgot my bag.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. Well, don’t forget it again,” I try to laugh. It comes out as a high-pitched heh.

“And two.” Another step. "I want to kiss you again. And I want to do it well. I want.” He mutters a curse under his breath, runs a palm over his beard. “I want to stay. I wanted to tell you that. I just—wanted to say the words to you and tell you. I’ve stopped myself from saying shit before and—fuck—I just didn’t want to do that again. You can tell me to go, and I’ll go, and nothing will change, Fee.”

My heart drums a leaping staccato. “Yes. I’m— I want that,” is what I say back, even though there’s so many more words in my mind, important things that I know I need to say but can't manage to push out.

“You want me to go?” he says, his voice clipping at the end, stating it more than asking.

“No—No. I want you to stay.”

And the next moments don’t go by in a flash, they go by painfully awkwardly because when you make big declarations without forethought, you don’t think about having to wait for an elevator. Or seeing both of your reflections in the shiny doors with their wide-eyed expressions. You don’t consider that you might hop onto that elevator before he remembers that he needs to grab his bag from the concierge, hopping out at the last second and leaving you to ride up to your room alone.

You don’t think about the state of your hotel room or how you left the Do Not Disturb sign on it, which means that it still reflects what an utter pig you are the moment you walk in. And as you cover the bloody tampon trash in the garbage can with half a roll of toilet paper, as you shovel clothes into the closet like a dog digging for a bone, and as you hide the disturbing amount of skincare and makeup on the counter (which you fear will be the thing that ultimately reveals how you turn into troll at night, thus destroying the only shred of feminine allure you barely maintain) you definitely don’t think about keeping your phone on you because he might not actually know your room number.

I have no idea how long he’s been calling by the time I hear it vibrating, but when I do I answer in a breathy panic, “Room 1148.”

“Okay,” he says before he hangs up.

I look at the bed, the last frontier, and scramble to make it.

I specifically avoid a mirror, knowing I’ll obsess and spiral further, choosing instead to sit on the edge of the bed and study my hands; the rings I always wear that once belonged to my mom. A band of opals and one with two tiny diamonds on a skinny gold band. “A square and a pear. They don’t match, but they sure look good together,” she’d say.

It reminds me of the last time Meyer and I were in a hotel room together. The feel of his teeth sliding up the flesh of my finger… the pinch-pull of it and the heat of his mouth. How angry and terrified I was with myself over how desperately I wanted to kiss him, how I wanted to tell him everything. Like how he’s made me a better person, how he’s given me the strength to do that for myself. How I don’t even think lemon things are my favorite but that I order them because they make me think of him, in some small, silly way. How, after losing my Mom, I’d been so miserably lonely until him and Hazel.

But when I could hardly stay upright, I didn’t trust that it wasn’t also the alcohol making me see what I wanted to see in his eyes that night. How just the thought of saying or doing something that could scare him away was enough to make me shove it all down again.

My head snaps up when the door opens, happy I snuck the latch in there so he only had to push it, saving myself from further greeting awkwardness. I watch him as he flips it back and lets the door click shut before he returns it to lock, the sound ricocheting throughout the space. He braces his palms on the frame a moment before he turns around.