I followed him out of the alcove of elevators. “What’s it of?”
“Not sure. It’s covered in thick canvas. We’re not supposed to remove it until the grand opening of the hotel. Look.”
He jerked his chin straight ahead. I pivoted and took in the monstrosity. The architect had gone with one-hundred-foot ceilings, which spanned the equivalent of about seven stories. Thick canvas covered something that descended from the ceiling and hit the floor.
The sheer size of it struck me, rendered me speechless, and had my eyes darting left and right to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. For the life of me, I had no clue what it could be. I wouldn't put it past Nash to mount a giant middle finger in his hotel lobby and call it a day.
The press would somehow spin it into Nash making a statement against the pervasive evils contributing to world hunger. They loved him that much.
“We’re not allowed to unveil it.” Cayden tapped the heavy canvas material. It didn’t budge. “Mr. Prescott was adamant about it.”
“Why?” I wanted to rip it off and feast my eyes. “How are we supposed to design if we don’t know what we’re designing around?”
Sometimes, I thought Nash did these things to fuck with me. Like—yeah, I’ll make this deal with you, but even when you get what you want, you’re not going to enjoy it.
“I don’t know, but it’s massive.” Cayden overextended his arms, a poorly done ballet pose. He settled for pointing from one end of the centerpiece to the other. “If anything, we need to focus on simplicity now, since the sheer size of it will take up so much attention, anything else comes off as eclectic. I’ll set up a meeting in two days to discuss. The whole not-knowing-what-it-is thing makes it a challenge, but I’m up for it. Plus, I’ve been told by Mr. Prescott that it’ll go with everything.”
I shook my head and made my way to the elevators. “I’ve got this.”
“Where are you going?” he called.
“To find Nash fucking Prescott.”
“What are you doing?” Delilah perched on a barstool, chin on her palm.
Hell if I know.
I hip-checked the fridge door closed, wondering why the hell I was doing this. Why I cared when I didn’t even cook for myself.
“Penance.”
Delilah never questioned the word, so I offered it like a Walmart rollback deal. Regularly, until its meaning dried to nothing, and still, she never said a thing.
Until today.
“Penance. Really?” She jutted her chin at the concoction on the island. “With that?”
“I’m making a fucking sandwich, Delilah.” I didn’t bother glancing at her. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re putting chips into your sandwich and being awfully defensive about it.” Her nose scrunched up, two fingers absently tracing a pattern on the island counter. “That’s disgusting, by the way. You’ve lost all street cred in my mind.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stacked a slice of bread and cut it diagonally.
“Wait.” She leapt off the stool and rounded the island to my side. Rosco perked up in his bed and sprinted after her for back up. Fucking rat thought he was the fifth Ninja Turtle. Delilah nodded at the sandwich. “That’s not for you.”
I slid it into a clear sandwich bag. “Is there a point to your existence, or have you dedicated it to irritating me?”
“It’s for Emery, isn’t it?”
My eyes snapped to hers, fingers hovering over the multi-pack of chip bags the Insta Cart shopper had delivered.
She continued, “What are you doing?”
Her question held weight beyond the damn sandwich.
“No clue,” I muttered and selected the white cheddar popcorn.
I shoved the sandwich, a bag of popcorn, and a can of vanilla cream soda into a brown lunch sack with a napkin on top. Making my way to my desk, I pulled out a pen and hotel stationary.
“What are you writing?”
“Cool it, Veronica Mars.” The pen moved fast across the paper before Delilah could force her way over here. “You’re the less shiny knock-off of Nancy Drew. Let’s not exhaust your brain, sweetheart.”
You know those multiple-choice tests they give you in college? Everyone has a different version, ranging from version A to version D.
Except the professors don’t tell you that when you take it. So, people waste their time cheating off their neighbors… only to completely fail because they copied others when no one's test is the same.
If there’s a metaphor for life, it’s that.
I bet you were the girl who bubbled in your own answers.
Nash
I read the note twice over, returned to the kitchen, and slid it into the lunch sack.
“Can we not mention anything Veronica Mars related? I can’t get over the ending.” Curiosity still brimmed in Delilah’s eyes. They darted from the bag to me, as if considering whether she could steal it. “King was ready to kick me out of the house when I spent a solid week crying at everything.”
“Cool story, bro.” I folded the top over the bag and clutched it in my grip. “You should write a book about it.”
“For the record, if I did, it’d be a bestseller. With Rosco on the cover. Who’s a handsome puppy?” She lifted the rat into her arms and pressed wet kisses all over his naked face, sans ear muffs since the construction crew had taken off a few hours ago. “Who wouldn't buy a book with this beautiful face on it?”
“Literally, everyone on this planet and any extraterrestrial life on every other planet. If you showed up on a cult’s doorstep and told them Rosco is the second coming of Jesus, they’d find a different cult to worship.”
She ignored me and set Rosco down. He ran to the mini four-poster dog bed, I still couldn’t believe I allowed in my penthouse. “Blows my mind that no one has figured out who Emery is. Yeah, she’s going by a different last name and none of them are from the area, but she looks just like Virginia Winthrop. It’s obvious to me.”
“Yeah, if you’re blind in one eye and have a field of cataracts in the other.”
“They could be twins,” Delilah protested.
“Virginia looks like Cruella de Vil’s platinum blonde sister. You’re bullshitting me, right?”
She slanted her head, staring off into space. “I think it’s the face.”
“What about it? Emery’s nose is more upturned, she has a gray iris, and her eyes are bigger. Not to mention the long black hair compared to Virginia’s hacked-off bob.”
“Hmm…”
“Hmm, what?”
“It’s just…” Delilah grinned. “You seem to notice a lot about Emery Winthrop.”
“She’s my brother’s best friend, and I lived on her parent's property for nearly a decade.”
And I’ve been in her, on her, all over her.
“Why are you two talking about me?”
Our heads swung to the voice. I hadn’t heard Emery enter, but of course, she let herself in. She had a damn key, which I should have demanded back after the shower incident. Her hoodie engulfed her, but I noticed no magic word on this tee.