Chapter Sixteen
Luke
When we pull up to the lobby of a hotel, with its navy exterior, rounded walls, and shiny shingles reminiscent of fish scales—and, oh yeah, an enormous neon YOU’LL SEA sign above the front door—the driver’s words all make a hell of a lot more sense.
The VACANCY sign rattles against the door as we step inside the lobby.
“Oh,” I mutter. “Oh.”
The facade of this building was a laughable understatement compared to what’s inside.
The walls of this lobby are floor-to-ceiling fish tanks.
Every last inch of this dimly lit interior is bursting with under-the-sea themed shit. And wacky-for-no-reason shit. Framed mermaid portraits line the wall to our left. Portraits, as if the mermaids are sitting in ancient chairs and posing for a sixteenth-century oil painter. “Am I exhausted, or is this—”
A laugh tears from Cassidy’s mouth. “This is the most incredible place I’ve ever seen.”
“Do you need a list of places to go see after this? Because if the You’ll Sea hotel is the most incredible place—”
She howls with laughter and clutches my arm to keep from keeling over. Her face flushes from the exertion. “I—I—I am so tired.”
My chuckle is low. Until she said it, I hadn’t even registered the burning behind my eyes or the heaviness in my limbs. I’ve superseded tired and gone straight to dead man walking. But there’s also a strange lightness in my body, like I’m floating on air and nothing can hurt me. “This is probably where we’ll die.”
Cassidy’s attention shifts to the walls. “Dang, look at those fish tanks. I bet those are saltwater tanks. I don’t know much about fish. What do you think?”
“I think I’m not surprised they have open rooms. Some people are really scared of—”
A sinister laugh chimes through the tiny space. My heart clenches, and I jump sideways, nearly knocking Cassidy to the ground. I steady her before swiveling to the wall.
Instead of a cuckoo clock spitting out a bird, this monstrosity spits out a shark head. The rest of the clock is painted to look like a shark’s body.
When I regain the smallest shred of composure and glance at her, her lips are pursed together like she’s trapping another laugh.
She fails, and it spills out like a carbonated drink overflowing. “You good?” she finally says, breathless as she cups her cheeks. “Gonna make it through the night?”
“Depends,” I snap. “You think they have these in the rooms?”
She nods toward the desk. “Only one way to find out.”
A tiny silver bell sits in the center of the pink counter. Ring for service.
Instead of smashing it with an open palm, Cassidy presses down with one finger. The chime is muted. “What color would you say this counter is?” she muses.
“Color of a hospital kidney pan.”
She winces. “That’s…sinister. I was going to say tickle-me-pink.”
Therein lies the fundamental difference between my and Cassidy’s worldviews.
An older man with more hair above his upper lip than on his head ambles out of a back room. He lifts a meaty arm in the air. “How’s it going? You two looking for a room?”
The ease between us falls away in an instant.
Cassidy looks my way. “Financially, sharing one makes the most sense…right?”
I drum my hands against my thighs. “Your card, your call.”
“How much is a room?” she asks.
The mustached man clicks around on his computer. “We’ve got two left, both suites.”
“You are not paying for two suites,” I say. “I’d rather sleep on the floor.”
She rolls her eyes, but her neck works as she swallows. “I guess we’ll take whichever one is cheaper. On a budget and all.”
My stomach twists thinking about nighttime Cassidy. I can almost imagine her sprawled out on her stomach, feet in the air, playing a solo round of Bang, Marry, Kill: Dessert Edition to pass the time, laughing at her own answers.
Or stretching in the new yoga pants she loves so much and couldn’t resist talking about.
I think my irritation and exhaustion have signed a pact to take me down, because this is the last thing I should be thinking about right now.
She eyes the man. “What comes in that room, for sleeping purposes?”
“It has a clamshell bed and a pull-out loveseat.”
“What the hell is a clamshell bed?” I blurt.
He gestures at the lobby by way of explanation. “It’s a clamshell, my guy. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
As if that clears things up or makes any goddamn sense.
After we pay, while Danny DeVito’s long-lost twin stalks off to the back room to find our key, I steal a look at Cassidy. “What are the odds the clamshell bed is an actual clamshell that closes and suffocates you while you sleep?”
“We’ll see. And to be clear, that’s sea, with an a.”
That we will.
…
The door to room thirteen opens with ease, and a frigid draft escapes the room.
We move through a dark, tiny foyer, past the bathroom door. Cassidy deposits the Walmart bags on the ground. I try not to think about how disgusting hotel floors are since she seems unbothered.
My breath catches in my chest as she flips the lights on. Only a black light could make this reveal more dramatic.
The round clamshell bed, with its imposing clam frame and dangling pearl-shaped lamp, isn’t even the most surprising thing in this room.
That honor goes to the set of jellyfish tanks embedded in the walls, flanking the bed. The jellyfish lazily float along, without any awareness whatsoever that their home is a hotel room where people almost assuredly get freaky as hell on a clam bed.
On the topic of freaky: a beech wood cabinet filled with undersea-themed dolls and stuffed animals greets us on the far wall.
This place really is a tourist attraction.
The dolls watch me, their beady black eyes following me as I take a few tentative steps.
And when I turn, I discover the mirrored wall.
And I see Cassidy in the mirrored wall, as she discovers the mirrored wall.
We stare at each other for a full three seconds.
She lifts her hand and starts rattling off fingers. “Score card time: one mirrored wall with bubble decals, one wall with wet sea ghosts and a clam bed, one doll wall, and one surprisingly normal wall with TV. Did I miss anything?”
“Wet sea ghosts?”
“Jellyfish.”
I blink a few times, still watching her in the mirror.
Her hands move to her hips. “Tell me you don’t see it.”
“Yes, I understand. Wet sea ghosts.” I shake my head. It’s like her brain has a feature that automatically takes everything and makes it ten times more interesting. “You are something else, you know that?”
Her brows pull together. “You’ve said that before.”
“It’s the truth.”
She gazes at me, expression inscrutable. “What does that mean? ‘Something else.’ What’s the baseline?”
“I—” My mouth snaps shut at the challenging look on her face. “I’m sensing there’s a right and a wrong answer to this. And I’m not sure I want to risk getting kicked out of this room if I get it wrong because it’s cold outside and I’m scared of the shark clock in the lobby.”
“Never mind.”
I cock my head to the side. “Does that offend you, or—”
“Forget I mentioned it. Really. My head is killing me and I’m going to take an irresponsibly long shower.” She struts toward the bathroom, snatching all the Walmart bags she dumped on the ground in the foyer. She drops one on the ground halfway between us. “Here: jeans, T-shirt pack—I will take one of those shirts, it’s a four-pack—toiletries, assorted man things.”
Before I can say anything else, she slams the bathroom door.
She was right about one thing: we both need sleep. Lots of it. We’ve reached the unpleasant side of slap-happy. We’re one misconstrued comment away from her actually slapping me in the face.
I turn around and stride toward the mini-couch and set to work transforming its final bed form.
The sound of the shower vibrating the wall pumps me with an unsettling jolt of energy. I make it about ten seconds before I succumb to the visual stirring to life in my brain: hot water cascading down Cassidy’s naked body, droplets clinging to all the best places. Her hands moving over slick skin as she washes the day away.
When my imagination takes a dangerous turn, visualizing all the spots on her body those hands might linger, I flip on the television to drown out the thoughts.
A contented sigh leaves my mouth when I land on the channel playing Family Feud.
After an unreasonably long time, the shower switches off.
My pulse picks up as I glance at the mirrored wall separating the bedroom from the bathroom.
Cassidy emerges a minute later, her wet hair in a knot on top of her head. Her face is flushed a deep pink, like the shower was too hot for her skin.
And her face is where I keep my attention.
Not on her bare stomach or her sports bra. Not on everything that white sports bra is protecting.
Not on the dips at her hips that make my palms sweat, or the tight black pants, which thanks to the mirrored wall, I can see from all angles.
I blink away, chastened.
She glides across the room and perches on the round bed. Her hand moves to her neck and her eyes shut.
“Are you okay?”
“Beginnings of a migraine. Sometimes they come for me when I don’t get enough sleep. Or caffeine.” She digs her fingers into the delicate slope where her neck meets her shoulder. “Other times, they just happen for no reason, which is a real treat. I thought the shower would help, but it didn’t.”
I cross my arms as Steve Harvey asks his feuding families for a reason a kid might get grounded in the background. “Do you take any medications for that?”
“No. I don’t have health insurance, so I avoid doctors.” She takes a labored breath, and her exhale is a hiss. “I know you’re probably thinking, Why doesn’t she have health insurance? I’ll get it soon, I just haven’t. I work a lot of odd jobs.”
“I’m not thinking that. What do you usually do to help your headache?” I take a slow lap, racking my brain. “My mom uses a heating pad for just about every purpose. Would something like that help?”
“Sometimes I can head it off. Fall asleep before it really takes hold. But now that it hurts, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to, because I get anxious that it’ll get worse. Then I lie there thinking about it…” She hangs her head in defeat.
“What would you do if you were home? There’s got to be something we can do.”
A few seconds pass while the hoots and hollers of a studio audience fill the room. “Berkeley does some sort of magic trick with pressure points. The ones here.” She dusts the tips of her fingers across her neck. “Will you turn off the lights?”
I flip the switch. An uncomfortable sense of urgency possesses my body. “Let me go get you some painkillers. Or a heating pad, or ice. Or do you want me to try the pressure points?”
After a few seconds, she whispers, “I don’t know. Maybe you could try?”
I sit side-saddle on the weird bed. “No problem.” My throat is bone dry as I swallow. “Can I touch you?”
“Yes. Wait—”
I throw my hands up before they touch down.
“Let me shift positions so you can still see the TV.”
A small laugh bubbles up in my throat. As if television is a priority. “Don’t worry about me.” I place my hands on her shoulder, gliding my thumbs up the slope of her neck, searching for any obvious tight spots. Her skin is soft and warm from her shower.
The deep glow of the fish tank lights casts everything in blue. Cassidy’s glowing in the dark.
I brush the wispy hairs at the base of her neck aside.
“Here.” Eyes still closed—I can see her reflection in the mirrored wall—she lays her hand on top of mine, guiding me higher. “She starts here.”
Her head gently rocks as I push into the tightness at the top of her neck. That floral smell she brought into our car earlier attacks me full force.
Definitely her shampoo. Seems she bought some from Walmart.
After a minute or so, she slides her hand over the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “Can you try here? You’ll probably feel the exact tense spots.”
I find the hard knots and press lightly with my thumbs. A beat of triumph pounds in my chest. “I feel them.”
A noise somewhere between a cry and a whimper leaves her mouth. I pull my hands away.
“No, don’t stop.”
Blood surges through me as I rush to restore my touch. The words don’t stop out of her mouth replay in my head a few more times before I can shake them off.
Inappropriately timed.
I knead the area—more gently this time, so as not to hurt her.
She rolls her shoulders back, sticking out her chest. Moving through the massage with her eyes closed. The girl is in pain, and yet I can’t keep my eyes off her in the mirror. Her lips part as I slide my fingers lower.
“I, uh…” Now would be an outstanding time to have a single interesting, and distracting, thing to say. “The Eleventh Doctor.”
“Huh? Is that a headache specialist—oh—sorry, keep going?”
I stare up at the ceiling, gritting my teeth as her oh passes through me like a cresting wave. “That’s my go-to cosplay character. From Doctor Who. It’s an easy costume. I already own a tweed suit because my boss— Never mind, the point is I wear a bow tie, and now you know.”
She rolls her head to the other side. “I’ve heard of that show. Is it fun? Going to conventions? Dressing up?”
I was prepared for a roast, not follow-up questions. “Sure. I haven’t been to one in a few years, but they’re mostly a good time. Normally I hate crowds, but this is different. It’s more anonymous. You have this one thing in common, a fandom, and you get together and nerd out about it. Uncomplicated fun.”
“Sounds really nice.”
Her voice has finally given in to the strain of exhaustion. Or maybe pain at my hand. I lessen the pressure, and she whimpers.
“Luke?”
I slow my hands. “Hm?”
“Harder. I can take it.”
Fucking hell.
I shift positions.
As requested, I drive my thumbs into her with more force, massaging the tight spots in small circles. A small, breathy sigh slips out of her mouth. “That’s good.”
I close my eyes.
Her skin is hot against my hand. My fingers slide easily over her. One of us is sweating.
Me, my palms are sweating.
Without something to look at, I’m forced to focus on her breathing. Jesus, why is her breathing so breathy?
Forcing open my eyes, I intend to stare at the jellyfish.
Because the mirror is officially a war zone. I can’t in good conscience look at the way she strains against her bra. The thin fabric is wearing me thin.
She’s a dancer. Dancers are used to wearing less clothing than the average person. It’s not an invitation to look.
I need to shorten the leash on these thoughts, and the only way to accomplish that is to get her talking. “Are you excited about the wedding?”
She shifts positions, bringing her hair just below my nose. Her back, closer to my chest. I fight with myself for a few seconds before giving up and breathing in her scent.
“More or less.”
Part of me knows I should stop asking questions. I wanted it polite and distant with Cassidy, the same way I want it with everyone. Learning people is messy. It creates the tacit expectation of caring, which is even messier.
But my logic has taken a nosedive. The impulse to learn her is winning.