“Yes.” The answer comes out quiet, almost in a whisper. “My mother loves Disney, so I have to take her to that fucking place every year. The happiest place in the world, right?” Bringing my hands up to my face and rubbing them, I say, “Her hands were all over me.” Looking at her now straight in the eyes, I continue, “Little by little, they kept going up and up, and I was trying not to make a scene. Since your date was going so well.” She glares at me. “But when she tried to open my fly, I was out.”
“That’s why you went to the bathroom?” I nod my head at her question. “You take your mother to Disney every year?”
“Yeah.” Opening the fridge and taking a water bottle out, I say, “Goodnight.” Walking away from her, I head into my room and close the door softly. I untuck my shirt from my pants, and then I unbutton it as I contemplate throwing it out. Bringing it to my nose, I smell her bitter musk all over it, so I toss it on the bed. Then I hear a soft knock on the door. Walking to it, I keep my hand on the handle. “Who is it?” I smile at myself.
“Who in the hell do you think it is … Ursula?” she answers, obviously not laughing at the joke I just made. My hand turns the knob, and I open it, and I see her there. Her bare feet on top of each other and her hands in front of her as she fidgets with her fingers. She looks at me, her gaze roaming from my eyes to my neck to my chest and slowly coming back up. She doesn’t say anything to me, her fingers just twirling while she fidgets. “Um, I guess I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“Really?” Shoulders back, I cross my arms over my chest.
“Yeah. I may have, you know”—she rolls her eyes—“not been …”
“Nice?” I fill in the words for her. “Compassionate?” She moves her eyes away from me, crossing her arms over her chest in irritation. “Insensitive? I mean, I could go on and on.”
“Okay, fine.” She throws up her hands. “I should have been more sensitive to your penis groping.”
“It’s a good thing I’m good at dodging.” I smile now, watching her shake her head as she groans. “Her hands were wet and clammy and skeletal.”
She throws her head back now and laughs. “Okay, how is this? For the remainder of the tour, I will not date.” I look at her, watching the smile on her face as she reaches out her hand to shake. “Deal?”
I reach out, taking her small hand in mine, and shake it. “Deal. But let’s also mention how you dating and us going to a place where I haven’t had the opportunity to scope out could be a recipe for disaster.”
“Now”—she pulls her hand away from me—“I need to shower and order room service.”
She walks away from me, going to her room. “Didn’t you eat?” I ask her. “I saw you eating.”
She stops midway through her room and comes back out, and we are now face-to-face again. “Did you watch me?”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes, putting my hands on my hips. “You were sitting right in front of my face. It was you and Henry and his bald spot.”
“He does not have a bald spot.” She laughs.
“He totally has one. I think he uses spray paint and also”—I walk to the phone and pick it up to dial room service—“he checked out my junk in the bathroom.” She gasps out in shock while a woman answers the phone. “Can I get two cheeseburgers with fries and a salad.” She tells me it’s going to be thirty-five minutes. “Food will be here in thirty-five minutes; go take your shower.”
“Who the hell is eating the salad?” She glares at me.
Holding up my hands in surrender, I say, “I didn’t know if you wanted healthy, so I ordered it just in case.”
“Good answer, Brian,” she says, turning and going into her bedroom and shutting the door. I look at my watch and decide I have enough time for my own shower, so I head to my room and close the door. After my shower, I grab a pair of shorts and slide into them, then towel dry my hair. I walk back into the living room, but I’m not expecting to see her sitting on the couch watching television. Her hair is piled on her head, and she’s washed her makeup off. She looks over at me, and I see she’s wearing a black T-shirt with gray pants. “Did you not bring shirts in that carry-on?” she asks me and then turns back to watch the movie playing on the television.
“Does me being shirtless bother you?” I smirk at her, sitting down on the opposite side of the couch.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she huffs out. Tossing the remote to me, she lies down on her side in the fetal position. “How much longer?” she asks, and there is a knock on the door.
“Now,” I tell her, getting up and walking to the door. When I open it, the man comes in with a huge tray and places it on the dining room table. I sign the paper, and he leaves. Kellie gets up from the couch and comes over to the table. “Do you want to eat here or on the couch?”
“Here is good.” Pulling out a chair, she sits down on it and grabs one of the plates with the silver dome on it. She places it in front of her and pulls off the top, making an “aaahhh” sound. “Is there ketchup?” she asks while she looks at the big tray, and I hand her the mini bottles of ketchup. She opens it and grabs a knife to stick inside itand spread on her bun. I sit down in front of her, grabbing my own, and when I finally bite into it, she is already on her third bite. “I’m starving.” Right before she takes another bite, she asks, “What is your favorite food?”
“I don’t know.” I answer when I finish chewing my bite. “I eat just about anything but sushi.”
“Really?” She sounds surprised. “So if you were on death row and you had to choose a last meal, what would it be?”
Grabbing a couple of fries, I think. “Probably steak. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. Have you?”
She nods her head. “Yes.” Like it’s an obvious answer. “Pasta from Italy, almond croissants from Paris”—she uses her fingers to tick off the items—“also macaroons from La duree”—I shake my head—“and Chick-fil-A.”
“Why would you be on death row?” Grabbing a napkin, I wipe the grease off my hands, then lean back in the chair.
“I don’t know.” She rolls her eyes. “I mean, if it’s anything, it would have to be me killing my husband if he cheats on me.”
“Why is he cheating on you?”
“Because he’s stupid and wants to die.” She cocks her head to the side. “Obviously.”
I throw my head back and laugh, and she just smiles when she gets up and gets a water bottle. “I’m off to bed,” she says to me, and I just nod at her, then watch her walk into her room and shut the door. I clean up the mess on the table, then turn off the lights and the television before I also head to bed. I leave my door open so I can hear if she needs me, but the next day, I hear a creak and look up from the bed to see her pulling the door closed.
“Sorry,” she whispers, “I didn’t want to wake you with noise.”
“What time is it?” I ask her and then turn to look at the red numbers on the table side clock. “It’s six a.m.?”