The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(68)
“Rachel, you’ve only been here two days,” Mom says. “Don’t jump at the first apartment or the first job. Take time to rest and heal.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You’ve never been wired that way, but … Anna had it right,” she says. “You’ve experienced a loss—more than one—and you need to grieve. You don’t always have to be the strong one. You’re allowed to fall apart.”
“I don’t want to fall apart. I want the universe to bend my way for once.”
September
CHAPTER 24
Taarradhin
Arabic
“the act of coming to a happy compromise where everyone wins”
“The toilet is clogged. Again.”
The problem with being the overnight manager of the Atlantic Waves Motel in Dania Beach is that there’s no actual overnight staff to manage. There is only me, sitting in a tiny office behind a bulletproof window. There’s a metal vent for talking, and a shallow scoop for checking people in and out of the motel. Some guests stay for months, others stay a few hours, but nothing is my business unless it needs to be. The Atlantic Waves is the kind of old-school place where Sam and Dean Winchester might hole up while solving ghostly mysteries on Supernatural—except our rooms weren’t styled to look old and out-of-date. They are old and out-of-date.
I’ve applied for management positions at a few of the luxury and boutique hotels in Miami, but so far I haven’t heard from any of them. It could be that I’m a pariah, tainted by my encounter with Peter Rhys-Blackwell. Or it could be that no one in South Florida cares about my role in creating a small brew hotel in Ohio. I’ve been offered housekeeping jobs from Pompano Beach to Homestead, but I don’t want to send Maisie to day care for eight-hour stretches. Maybe someday I’ll be able to jump ship. Until then, I hang up the office phone, grab the plunger, and head to room 15.
The one good thing about working at the Atlantic Waves is that there’s never a dull moment. Complaints about clogged toilets and malfunctioning cable TV. Complaints about the air-conditioning being too cold or not cold enough. Complaints about noisy neighbors in the next room. Complaints about the traffic on Federal Highway. Complaints about the homeless guy who sits on the edge of the dry fountain in the parking lot. So there’s not a lot of time for me to think about Mason.
Except every morning, just before rush hour, as I’m making the twenty-minute drive home, my brain always goes there. I miss him with a longing that makes my chest ache. It feels exactly like panic, but it’s really the biggest sadness I’ve ever felt. I consider calling him daily. At least once a week since I returned to Florida I’ve said, “Hey, Siri … never mind.”
I don’t know where to put all that leftover love.
I don’t know how to go back to the way things used to be.
I don’t know how to go forward without him.
If there is such a thing as rock bottom, I’m pretty sure I’ve hit it.
* * *
Although I haven’t worn business clothes since I was fired from Aquamarine, I dress my best for mediation, in a black pencil skirt, a white blouse, and a textured gray blazer. I style my hair in a sleek, low bun, and right before I’m ready to leave for the mediator’s office in Coral Gables, I slip on a pair of black sling-back pumps. Brian’s best suit is ill-fitting garbage, and today I feel petty enough to revel in that knowledge. The universe may not be giving me what I want, but I’ll look damn fine not getting it.
I meet April in the parking lot, and we walk to the conference room together.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Too many feelings to pick just one,” I say. “But I guess I’m okay. I’m ready.”
“I’ve spoken with the Schroeders’ lawyer and they want him to speak on their behalf,” she says. “It’s not uncommon, but you don’t need my permission to speak for yourself. The mediator is not a judge, and she does not make the decisions. She is there to keep the negotiations on track rather than letting them devolve into a battle.”
Brian and his parents are already in the courtroom with their lawyer, a balding man named Thomas Mortimer, who is taking notes on a yellow pad. Rosalie busies herself, rummaging through her purse, while her husband gives me an uncertain smile. Brian doesn’t make eye contact, but he looks uncomfortable sitting there in his awful suit—not like a man fighting for custody of his child—and I feel bad for him. I wish I could tell him that none of my decisions were meant to hurt him. I wish I could apologize for assuming he didn’t care.
April leans toward me, her voice barely above a whisper as she says, “That young man is unhappy. I hate to exploit that, but … there’s something not right here.”
We take our seats across from the Schroeders, with the mediator at the head of the table. She tucks a strand of silvery-gray hair behind her ear. “Welcome, everyone. I’m Amy Sheridan and I’ll be your mediator throughout these proceedings. Remember, this is not court. I am not a judge. You will be working out the details of the time-sharing and parental responsibility agreements. I’m here to keep the ship pointing in the right direction.”
She looks at Brian, then at me. “I will be asking each of you—or your lawyers, if they are speaking on your behalf—to state your case so I can get full understanding of your situation. Mediation is not a therapy session or a place to air grievances against each other. It is meant to help you find an equitable solution without having a judge make the decisions for you.”