The Promise(91)

He gave me a squeeze. I gave him one back, then I hauled my ass out of the bed.

Since starting my job, I’d been traveling a lot, seeing as my territory was half the continental United States, so I had a system. When I got to my hotel room, I always unpacked. Made myself at home. Made sure everything was where I needed it to be when I might need it because I was working with reps and doctors, and schedules could get fucked. I didn’t want to be digging through my suitcase to find my three-tiered jewelry bag in order to locate the right earrings when I should be out the door to make a meeting.

This had the added benefit of enabling me to get ready relatively quietly (nothing I could do about the hair dryer), behind closed doors in the bathroom, only coming out to sort through the closet in the light of dawn to pick one of my business outfits and shoes.

When I did, I saw Ben on his side in the bed, one hand shoved under the pillow, one arm thrown wide, covers down to his lat, hair a mess, locks having fallen over his forehead.

I did not think in the shower. I did not process what I’d done or what I was doing. I didn’t begin the Herculean task of trying to understand my panic or what I did to Ben five months ago.

I got ready.

But staring at him in the bed, my mind jumbled, turning, twisting, so much rushing through it at once it was like when you picked up a book and put your thumb tight to the edge of the pages and let loose, the entire book flying across your vision in seconds. But through that, you had to find one line. You had to.

Your life depended on it.

I got to the end of the book, turned to the closet, and grabbed my dress and shoes. I took them to the bathroom, put them on, accessorized, re-sprayed my hair, and spritzed with perfume.

Done with that, as quietly as I could, I packed up the bathroom. Going out to grab my suitcase, I carried it in the bathroom and went back out to grab my clothes. I took those in. I packed. And not using the rollers because it would be noisy, I carried it back out and set it by the door.

I walked to the bed, again taking in all that was Benny Bianchi lying in it, and nabbed my phone. I walked back to the closet to get my blazer. I grabbed it, shrugged it on, pulled my hair out of the collar, then got my light trench from where I’d thrown it on a chair, my purse, the keycard, and my computer bag. I walked to the door, put out the “do not disturb” sign, and walked down the hall toward the elevators in order to go to the registration desk to check out.

In other words, when that book flipped in front of me, I’d found my line.

* * * * *

I went to Ben’s name on my phone and hit the button to connect.

I put the phone to my ear and waited. It rang several times, and I knew it did this because Ben’s jeans were in the bathroom. It also went to voicemail.

Too far away to hear.

I should have thought to put his phone on the nightstand.

I didn’t think of that so I disconnected, searched for the hotel on Safari, found it, and connected.

“The Belvedere, how can we help you today?”

“Can you ring me up to room four thirteen?”

“Of course. One moment.”

I heard nothing. Then I heard clicks. Finally I heard rings.

“’Lo?” Ben’s drowsy voice said.

“It’s your friendly wake-up call,” I stated chirpily. “Time to get your ass out of bed and out of that room or I’ll have to pay for an extra day.”

“Baby.” Now his voice was drowsy and amused.

I liked the drowsy and amused so I went for more.

“Of course, I wouldn’t be paying for it, my company would, but momma don’t play that way with her employers.”

I only had amused—rumbling deep amused—when he asked, “Momma don’t play that way?”

“Yep,” I answered.

“Baby, there are a lotta things you are, but street is not one of them.”

“I can totally do street.”

“You could, if your dad was not Italian but African American. That not bein’ the case, you cannot.”

“Are we gonna squabble about whether I can do street or not?” I asked.

“No, seein’ as I gotta get my ass outta this bed before your company has to pay the extra day you won’t be usin’ this room so we don’t have time since that’ll take a year.”

“Right then, to finish that particular discussion, I can so do street.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, but it still rumbled with amusement.

“Okay, I gotta get to a meeting.”

“Cara.”

At his sudden change in tone, I stopped dead, standing in the hallway of a medical office building.

“What?” I whispered.

“Bag packed, by the door.”

My heart tripped, but my mouth spewed attitude. “Well, I’m not trustin’ you to pack for me. You’d totally fuck it up.”