Pushing all the regrets away, she tucked her hands into her oversized hoodie and walked down to the first floor. In the back of her mind, she knew this was her last adventure. She tried to convince herself otherwise, to believe there would be other opportunities, but she knew the truth. Steven would be too busy with his internship for the next few years, and once she got started with her “real” career, there would be no time for her, either. Yes, this was her last hoorah, one she had planned to take with her boyfriend; instead, she was stuck here with Tristan.
She continued past the royal blue doors to the long corridor, taking in the white paint that had a yellow hue that showed its wear. They’d traveled only a day, yet reminders they weren’t in California were everywhere. She loved it. She loved the age of the place. The fact it showed its wear without being hidden behind a million layers of paint.
In her hometown, the lowest priced home was over a half million. A three bedroom, two bath modest home. Women got Botox at thirty, and graffiti was covered the second after it was placed. All evidence of age or flaws were brushed under the rug and forgotten about. As if they didn’t exist.
To Samantha, it was like erasing history. Laugh lines of happiness and joy or pain that shaped a person to who they were. Painting over this stuff was like sand blasting a Cathedral—criminal. But when she took in a lung full of crisp clean air, she let it all go on an exhale. The money, the perfectionism, the facade of a perfect life. And she took in the refreshing, exhilarating air she couldn’t get in Los Angeles. Fresh, somewhat cool, and without even a trace of smog.
She continued into the main office, where the scent of perfume and dust made her clear her throat. Glancing around the room, she looked for any sign of life, and locked eyes on a little old man sitting at the counter. He wore an oversized brown sweater and wool-lined slippers propped high on the wooden desk. He was fast asleep, peaceful, with deep wrinkles that formed crevices all over his face, and he didn’t show any signs of waking up.
Not wanting to disturb him, she carried on down the hall where a propped up sign with red removable letters told her the breakfast menu: bagels, cream cheese, and fresh fruits.
Perfect.
She made it to the bar, where the factory cut pineapple and too ripe bananas were left on the counter. She wrinkled her nose, then moved to the end of the counter and pushed down two bagels into the shiny red toaster.
It was peaceful here. So quiet she could hear herself think. She filled a mug with steaming coffee, sat down at a nearby table, and picked up a discarded copy of the Salt Lake City gazette.
They’d made it to Utah. She smiled at their progress, and some of the tension from her shoulders eased away. Rocking back in her chair, she enjoyed the quiet, and then a moment later, ate her bagel in solitude, while reading the classifieds and snickering about an old woman who owned one-hundred-and-one cats. Attached was a photo, slightly underdeveloped and dark. All you could see was the little woman’s white fluffy hair, surrounded by nothing but fur and eyes.
When she was done with her meal, Samantha wrapped up the last bagel in a white paper napkin and filled a brown cardboard cup with coffee to bring to Tristan. It was nearly ten now, and if he wasn’t awake by now, he would be very soon.
With the bagel tucked into the pocket of her hoodie, she tapped gently on the door to his hotel room.
There was still no movement, no running water, nothing to indicate he was even awake. She tapped again, heat creeping up her neck, but she took a deep breath and immediately knocked louder. “Tristan, it’s me. I brought you breakfast. Open up!”
Nothing.
She looked down to the parking lot, seeing his Mustang still parked below, and knew she was about to lose it. She headed for her own room, placed the breakfast on the nearby table, then rid of every last drop of patience, began pounding on Tristan’s door.
“Wake up you lazy bastard! Wake up, or I swear to God I’ll beat this door down with my fists.”
A large boom sounded from inside the room, and Samantha smiled with satisfaction as she continued to pound. “That’s right,” she whispered. “Get up you lazy ass—”
But before she could finish her sentence, the door was yanked out from under her. She stumbled forward, barely able to catch her footing, and slammed face first into warm, solid, skin.
She froze, because the glimpse she caught on the way down wasn’t one she ever thought she’d see. It was a very large, very bare, and very “Good morning” version of Tristan Montgomery.
“Please tell me you’re not naked,” she whispered, but it was mostly to herself, because she didn’t really need him to answer. She squeezed her eyes shut, took one step backward, and turned around.