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Destelle walked over to me and laid her hands on my shoulders. “You’re not a bad person,” she said, gaze serious. In her shoes, she was nearly as tall as me. “You aren’t a bad person, because you feel bad about it. Mean people don’t feel bad about the crappy stuff they do.”
“Like my parents.”
“Like your parents,” she agreed hesitantly. “And even if you didn’t feel bad about it, they deserved it. Maybe thatmakesmea bad person for thinking it, but they did. After the way they’ve treated you your entire life, they deserved a flipped dessert table and then some.”
Destelle reached up and smoothed the palm of her hand down the side of my head, like I was a little kid she was looking after. Even though we’d grown a part, went in our separate directions of life, now that we were back together, the connection of our friendship was still there. While most times, growing up, I’d been the one to comfort her. The tables turned now, and she finally got her chance to comfort me in return.
Comfort. To Nancy, it’d been sarcasm and quips. To Sumner, it was holding my hand. To Destelle, it was petting my head. It looked different for each of them, and I let myself feel it. Instead of pushing away the emotion, instead of hardening my heart to it all, I allowed myself to accept Destelle’s touches, and I allowed it to comfort me.
“Do you think you could take me somewhere?” I asked her. “I don’t have a car, at the moment.”
“As long as I can also take you shopping,” Destelle said, scrunching her nose. “Because you look like you’ve done the walk of shame.”
I looked down at my wrinkled pantsand rumpled shirt, giving my head a shake. “Fine, but nothing fancy. Something… inexpensive.” The words hurt my soul.
And the next words Destelle uttered as she looped her arm through mine stabbed me with the biggest dose of irony. “How about Walmart?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Itapped my fingers along the counter of the Bayview Hotel’s front desk, trying to tell myself that even though I felt horribly out of place, I didn’t look it. The denim jeans I wore were a looser fit than I was used to—apparently, according to Destelle, tight-fitting jeans wereout. While my suit pants never usually were that tight, it did feel strange to walk in a pair of wide-legged pants that my legs had so much room in.
Or maybe it was the fact that they were denim jeans to begin with, since I probably hadn’t worn a pair since childhood.
The T-shirt I wore had a logo of a band I didn’t recognize on it, and Destelle had tied it into a knot at my stomach. “Maybe it’s time you discover a new style,” she’d said helpfully. “Maybe this could be your new thing!”
It was not. And I had a new note to self: Destelle was no longer allowed to dress me.
But she did buy the clothes, so I shouldn’t have been complaining.
“Ma’am,” the lady at the front desk said to me, drawing my attention back. It was strange to be regardedthe way she looked at me now. There was no discomfort or fear in her gaze like the staff at Massey Suites always wore. There was no goo in her eyes of someone who needed to impress a woman in a fancy suit. No, to her, I was just some random young adult who’d waltzed into the lobby, dressed like a college kid after a night of studying. “If you don’t have a room number, I’m afraid I can’t place a call for you.”
“I know his name. Sumner Pennington. That’s not enough for you to look through the system?”
“Do you have a phone number the booking would be under?”
I’d left my phone back at Nancy’s since I didn’t have service to place any calls. “No.”
“A birthdate?”
I blinked. I truly didn’t know Sumner’s birthday? “No.”
The lady gave me an awkward smile. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. Company policy.”
What I should’ve done, in hindsight, was grab Sumner’s number off my phone and use Destelle’s to text him. It didn’t occur to me until now, with Ms. Gatekeeper over here, and Destelle had already left. “You’ve got this,” she’d said right before I shut the passenger door.
I did not, in fact, have this.
“What about Aaron Astor?” It was lame that I knew his birthday and not Sumner’s, but I’d had longer to bounce it around in my head.
She began typing on her computer. “There’s no listing under Aaron Astor.”
“What about Vivienne Astor? Malcolm Astor?”
The lady’s expression was already knowing when she asked, “Do you have a birthdate for them?”
I closed my eyes, fighting for patience.
“Margot?”