I closed my laptop, convinced I needed to do something to clear my head. My empty whiskey glass sat on a napkin on the coffee table, and I rested the laptop beside it, then walked into the bedroom.
The room was the same size as the sitting room it shared a wall with, a king-size bed in the center of the room and a long dresser in front of the window. I walked past the TV at the end of the bed and toward the dresser, where my suitcase now lay. I pulled the red curtains back a bit, staring out at the parking lot below. There was a family—husband, wife, and two teenagers—walking toward the hotel. Farther back, a man was loading luggage into his trunk and another man was leading a goldendoodle on a hot pink leash.
The sky had begun to cloud, and I couldn’t help feeling giddy over the idea of a storm. Nothing made me happier than thunderstorms, particularly when I was writing. Nothing made me feel more at peace.
I shut the curtain, pulling my shirt over my head and placing it on the bed before stepping out of my flats and unzipping my skirt. I folded my dirty clothes carefully, resting them on the nightstand with a mental note to have them sent down for dry cleaning.
On the opposite wall of the window, there was a door which, I assumed, would lead to the bathroom. I twisted the handle, pleased to see I was right. There was a claw-foot tub in the center of the room with black fixtures to match the tile in the walk-in shower to my left. A wooden bathtub tray was affixed to the sides of the tub, complete with a bottle of wine, a stemless wineglass, three washcloths wrapped with twine, a tea-light candle, a regular-sized candle, and a cellophane-wrapped bath bomb.
I shut the door and began to draw a bath, studying my bare body in the mirror above the built-in dressing table to my right. My body had changed so much in just ten years. Not just the wrinkles or the scars from my cesarean, but there was a softness to my curves now.
At eighteen, I’d been all sharp angles and bony limbs. Now, I was filled out. I was a good forty pounds heavier than I’d been before, but the weight suited me. It was the weight of happiness, I thought. A sign that I was accepted and loved, just as I was. Why, then, back in this place, was I second-guessing everything?
Why did I feel the need to pinch the lumps on my hips or cringe at the stretch marks on my thighs?
I hated the way being back here felt.
I hated that it brought back every insecurity and worry I thought I’d left behind.
I pushed the thoughts from my head, dipping my hand in the water to be sure it wasn’t too hot before stepping in. I eased myself into the bathtub slowly, sinking down with a loud sigh. The warm water seemed to soothe my every worry, practically erasing them in an instant.
I poured myself a glass of wine and lifted the candle, studying its label. It was from a small candle company in Midland, Ontario, according to the label, which also claimed the scent was Monkey Farts. I twisted the lid off, lifting it to my nose with a grin, and inhaled.
It was obvious the familiar banana scent I’d smelled throughout the hotel had come from these candles. I moved things around, searching for a way to light it to no avail. When I got out, I’d have to request a lighter.
In the meantime, I held the wineglass with one hand, resting my head on the edge of the bathtub, eyes closed. I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt so at peace as I did in that moment, even as I fought to ignore the worry in my chest.
Why should I feel worried, after all? I was not who I was back then. Not anymore. I’d clawed my way to happiness. Acceptance. If not from the people I went to school with, from the rest of the world.
We’d never had money growing up. I’d been teased for my outdated clothes and the purses Jamie had handed down to me, but now I could buy anything I wanted. I was the only one of my classmates who’d achieved fame to such a degree. The only one with a television show in production and another book currently optioned for film. The only one who traveled the world freely with my family, loving every minute of it.
The popular kids had severely underperformed in comparison to me, so why should I feel the need to impress them? In the end, I guessed it was easy for everyone to fall into who they’d been in high school. The formative years, and all that jazz.
Still, I’d never have been able to afford this room then.
I stared around, taking in the luxurious bathroom with a sudden weight off my chest.
I’d done well.
I was a good person.
None of it was my fault.
I closed my eyes, sinking farther into the water until it was above my shoulders. I brought the wineglass into the tub, resting the bottom on the surface of the water and dropping it below just an inch, then bringing it back up. I watched the glass bobbing almost rhythmically. The alcohol in my belly had begun to make me feel tired.
A sudden rapping at the door caused me to jolt, the red wine sloshing into the water. I placed the glass on the tray carefully and reached for one of the folded towels on the edge of the dressing table to dry my hair.
I wrapped my hair in the towel as the knocking came again. Who could it be? I hadn’t ordered anything, and I’d paid for my drink… Hadn’t I?
No, Sam paid for it. But it was paid. That was what mattered.
Who else could be at my door? I scooped up the folded robe that lay next to the stack of towels and pulled it on quickly, careful not to slip on the marble floor as I reached for the handle and made my way out of the room and back to the carpet which led into the sitting room.
I neared the door, my heart thudding in my ears, both from the alcohol and fear. I was used to traveling alone, so why was I so jumpy? It was most likely just a member of the hotel staff delivering towels or something of the sort. I leaned forward, pressing one hand to the door as I peered through the peephole, and let out a breath of relief.
“Sam?” I asked, pulling the door open.
“Hey, I, oh—” He stopped, a surprised gaze traveling down the length of my body, then back up. I folded my arms across my chest, tugging at the edges of my robe.
“What are you doing here?”
He raked his hand through his hair. “Sorry, I, uh, I thought I’d see if you wanted to join me for dinner. I didn’t mean to interrupt…”
“You aren’t. I mean, you are, but…” I sucked in a breath, recalibrating. “I just had a break from writing and thought I’d relax in the bath.”
“Ah, okay. Well, do you want me to join you? Er, I mean, sorry, do you want to join me?” His face matched the signature ruby red of Hotel Lilith, and he chewed his lip nervously, wincing. “I can wait a while.”
I fought back a smile. “I really would love to, but I should get back to writing soon. Rain check?”
His hope visibly deflated. “Come on, Cait, we only get a few days together and then who knows when I’ll see you again. I miss you. I thought you’d want to catch up.” He glanced over my shoulder and into the room, his eyes searching for something behind me. “Unless you have company? Is he here?”
“No, it’s just me.” I sighed. “Okay, fine, you win. Give me a few minutes to get ready.”
He smiled, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe with a dry chuckle. “Yes! Okay, just call me when you’re ready.” As he started to turn away, I found myself missing him already. He was right, we just had a few days together. The book could wait. I’d be able to write when we got back and, besides, if this story was like all my others, getting out of the house to clear my head was sure to help my writer’s block.