Page 13 of The Heartbreak Hotel

Ten

“Stop worrying.” I say this to my sister knowing full well it’s not something she’s humanly capable of. “I’ve already got a booking.”

“From who ?” She’s video calling me as she walks, Manhattan a gray blur behind her. “They could be a serial killer. They could be a squatter. What kind of person books a heartbreak retreat , Lou?”

“The kind who wants help, Goldie.” We stare at each other through the pixels. “The kind who doesn’t want to bury their feelings.”

“Okay.” She rolls her enormous eyes. Goldie has cartoon eyes, baby deer eyes, fringed in impossibly long lashes I wasn’t lucky enough to inherit. “So this is about me now?”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “You said it, not me. And the hosting platform does some kind of background check. No one’s going to be a serial killer.”

“No one ever thinks anyone’s going to be a serial killer.”

“Goldie, I need you to trust me on this. I’m going to make it work.”

“And I’m helping!” Mei shouts from across the living room. She’s in pajama pants and a silk blouse, laptop balanced on her knees. Her company agreed to let her work remote until November, and she’s been fielding video calls all morning.

“And Mei’s helping,” I echo. We screamed, standing together in the kitchen, when the first booking came in a week ago. This was actually going to happen . “She even got one of her media contacts at The Denver Post to run a story about it.”

They sent a photographer up yesterday, a guy in his forties who took pictures of me standing on the front porch and leaning over the kitchen sink and fluffing a pillow in the Juniper Room.

I was proud of the photos, when he sent them to me.

Each of the guest rooms that I’ve spent the last couple weeks so carefully curating: the Aspen Room’s iron bedframe and antique framed postcards; the Pine Room’s double beds and thrifted coatrack; the Lupine Room—small but mighty—with its Turkish rug and wicker bookshelf.

The story runs tomorrow, a week before my permit goes into effect. No turning back now.

“Okay, but who’s the renter?” Goldie presses. A car horn wails behind her. “Do they seem normal?”

“Very,” I assure her. “Mom of two who’s recently divorced. She’s staying four nights.”

“When does she arrive?”

“My permit starts October first, and she shows up the following weekend.”

Goldie hesitates, and suddenly she’s inside—out of the sidewalk chaos and into the marble-walled lobby of her law firm. She brings the phone a little closer to her face. “Did you tell Mom?”

In my peripheral vision, Mei turns to look at me. “No,” I say. “I haven’t heard from Mom since July. Have you?”

“No,” Goldie says. She steps closer to the wall, out of the flow of people returning from lunch. “I just didn’t know if you’d given her an update on Nate or the house or any of it.”

As a general rule, I don’t give my mother updates.

Mom tends to claim space in our lives when she needs something and hardly ever else, so I learned to stop sharing myself with her years ago.

When enough time has passed I’ll start to feel guilty about it—I always do—but I’m not there yet.

I was nine when Goldie graduated from high school and started at Ohio State; her scholarship covered housing, her meal plan, all of it.

It’s been a long, long time since Mom’s had a vested interest in either of our lives.

And besides—she loved Nate. I don’t want to hear her lament the loss of him.

“I haven’t,” I tell Goldie. “And I’d rather you didn’t, either, if you talk to her.”

“You know I won’t,” she says. Goldie doesn’t carry the same guilt I do about avoiding our mother.

“Well, her home and auto insurance draws next month,” I say. “So we may be hearing from her if that becomes a problem.”

Goldie sighs. “And if we do, we can send her to voicemail.”

This is the game we play: Goldie reminding me that I can ignore Mom the way she does. I won’t do it, but she likes to pretend that I could.

“I know,” I say.

Goldie glances at something across the lobby, then back at me. “I’ve got to get back up there. I love you. Don’t get killed by the divorcée.”

“I’ll try not to,” I tell her, but she’s already gone.

I wake up on Tuesday to voices—angry ones, floating up from the garden.

I can’t make out what they’re saying, just the rumble of someone unhappy, then the gentler lilt of someone trying to soothe them.

When I pull back the curtain just far enough to peek down, all I can see is Joss.

She’s in a sun hat and long sleeves, spade in one hand.

The garden is in full, frantic bloom: frothy zinnias and towering Russian sage, nearly shoulder height and arcing toward Joss where she stands on the stone path.

Next month, when October sets in and the nights get frosty, the flowers will start to pale.

But for now, they’re as arresting as the voices rising up to my bedroom.

Another hand waves into my field of vision—a male one. A familiar one. One that may have recently crushed my own hand beneath it on an espresso machine.

It’s clutching something. Joss takes it, and when I squint, pressing my nose to the glass, I clock it as a copy of The Denver Post , open to the article that ran yesterday.

Henry’s voice rises again, his pointer finger appearing to tap the photo on the page.

Me, on the front porch, beneath the headline New Estes Park Bed & Breakfast Offers a Soft Landing for the Brokenhearted .

When Joss glances up at the bedroom window, I suck in a breath and retreat behind the curtain.

I scramble to get down there, yanking on a pair of ancient sweatpants and raking a hand through my hair.

If Henry’s mad about the article, he shouldn’t be taking it out on Joss.

The last thing I want to do is cause an issue for her with her boss, and why would he even bring her into it?

Why would he even be mad in the first place?

I hit the first floor in my bare feet, hardwood warm from the sunlight spilling across it.

The back door to the garden is open, screen letting in the morning breeze.

Mei must’ve left it like that before heading into town—she told me she was getting up early to go on a walk. The microwave clock says it’s 8:22.

“…not here, Joss.” Henry’s voice is clipped. “Of all places, in this house—”

I push open the screen door, its hinges whining conspicuously, and his mouth snaps shut.

Both of them freeze, faces turned toward me.

Henry is in running clothes—a gray shirt ringed in sweat, blue sneakers, shorts that hit midthigh and give me a clear view of the faint, yellowing bruise on his knee.

He pushes sweat-damp hair off his forehead and says, “You’re awake. ”

“Yes.” It occurs to me that I’m not wearing a bra, and I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s going on?”

Henry snatches the article out of Joss’s hands and points behind me. “We need to talk inside.” He casts half a glance back at Joss, who says, “I don’t see the big deal.”

“Joss.” Henry’s voice is nearly a snarl, and I tense as she lifts her chin and holds his eyes. “Please.”

“You’re overreacting,” she tells him, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. She looks at me before turning toward the garden shed. “Lou, don’t worry about him.”

Joss has been tending to this house forever—long before I came into the picture.

Maybe one day I’ll have the same resolve when it comes to our shared boss, but right now, when Henry turns his gaze back on me, I feel like I’m in big trouble.

I think of the poison dart frogs, the blue of his eyes, the way meeting them feels like having the wind knocked out of me.

Henry says nothing, just jabs his finger toward the kitchen again. His cheeks are pink, stubble scraped along his jaw, shoulders tensed under the thin fabric of his shirt. Inside, the door wheezes shut and he slides the newspaper toward me across the island.

“We didn’t discuss this.”

“Press?” I say. When I meet his gaze, he doesn’t blink. “I’m just trying to drum up bookings.”

I edge toward the living room as casually as I can, reaching for the throw blanket on the back of the couch. When I wrap it around myself to hide my barely covered breasts, Henry’s eyes track the movement like a cat—quick and unblinking.

“Not press,” he says as I lower myself onto one of the island stools. He stays standing, rigid. “?‘The Comeback Inn’? ‘A haven for the heartbroken’? You told me this was going to be vacation rentals, not some kind of rehab.”

“It’s not rehab ,” I say on half a laugh. Henry does not crack a smile. If anything, his lips press into an even more sinister line. “It’s just a—” I hesitate, and Henry’s eyebrows hike upward. “A soft place to land.”

“A soft place to land,” he repeats. His voice is different—not the gentle rumble he used with Custard, not the carefully restrained tone that so offended Nate. This is something new, something scraped and unchecked. “Meaning what?”

I force myself to hold his gaze. “A safe place to come and heal.” His eyes flick back and forth between my own, like he’s searching for something he understands. A muscle jumps at the corner of his jaw, sharp and angry. “I’m good with heartbreak.”

Henry blinks. “You’re good with heartbreak.” His eyelashes are long and dark, almost pretty against the austere set of his face. “Because you’re a therapist?”

I hesitate for half a breath. It’s not true, quite yet—not until I pass the NCE. But I can tell it’s what he needs me to say. I think of that moment, back in his office, the worried line between his eyebrows. Trust me. “Yes.”

“And there was no other angle you could have chosen?”

I bite my lip. Henry doesn’t look away. Outside, a squirrel trills in the garden. “I know this one best.”

His hands are pressed flat on the counter, half covering the article, one thumb on my printed face. His voice softens, hardly enough to notice. “Because of Nate.”

Because of my mother , I think. But it’s too much to admit—and given what Henry saw between Nate and me the last time he was here, this makes its own kind of sense.

“Yes,” I say, and Henry’s eyes drop from mine, down to the article framed between his hands.

They’re big, his hands, his fingertips pressed white against the granite.

“And because my friend just went through a breakup, too, and I feel like I have the experience—”

“With breakups,” Henry says stiffly. The muscles in his forearms flare, like he’s barely holding himself here. He looks back up at me. “That’s what this is about? Come stay here to get over your ex-boyfriend?”

I flinch. He makes it sound silly and small. But nothing about the way I grew up—nothing about Mei sobbing on my couch—has been little. It’s been enormous. It’s been big enough to knock both of us out entirely.

“I’m picking up on your tone,” I say coolly, “and I don’t appreciate it. Recovering from a broken heart isn’t trivial, whether you believe it or not.”

Henry clenches his teeth, the corners of his jaw sharpening. “No,” he says, and there’s wavering heat in his voice that betrays something hidden. Something he hasn’t shown me. “It’s not trivial.”

I straighten my spine, force myself not to look away from him—from those dangerous, inescapable eyes. “Then what’s the problem, Henry?”

“The problem, Louisa, is this isn’t what we discussed. I don’t want my house full of—of—” He breaks off, and his chest rises. He draws breath like he’s drowning.

“Sad people?” I say. The line forms between his eyebrows. “Whether I host other people here or not, it’s going to be. I’m going to be.”

Silence hangs between us. On the counter, Henry’s hands have uncovered my face. I stare down at myself—that smiling, self-sure person who was gripped by this idea and knew it was the right one. Who felt so much more confident than I do now, faced with this man who can’t seem to stand me.

“And I’d rather use that energy to help other people through their pain,” I say finally, “than sit here boiling in my own. If I need your permission to do that, then I guess this is me asking for it.” When Henry doesn’t immediately respond, I keep going.

“You told me to run with this. You said that you didn’t want to be involved.

What else do I need to check with you?” My voice is rising.

It feels good to be angry, so much better than being sad.

“Do you want to approve the guest list? The check-in procedure? Should we go back to the breakfast menu? Should I call you every time I—”

“No,” Henry says softly. He stands up, nudging the article across the counter toward me like he doesn’t want it anymore. In the quiet that falls, I realize I’ve been yelling at the person who holds my entire life in the balance. He could cut it all out from under me anytime he wants.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Henry’s shoulders are up around his ears.

He rolls them out, blinking slowly, like he’s unwinding something inside himself.

“That wasn’t—I got carried away.” He opens his eyes and looks at me through dark lashes.

Something’s softened—just barely—in his gaze. “That wasn’t professional.”

One corner of Henry’s mouth twitches upward. On anyone else, I’d call it a smile. “You never are, are you?”

I bite my lip, face warming. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” he says. When he draws a deep breath, it sounds like he’s bracing for something. “You don’t need my permission. I got carried away, too.”

Oh. I shift on the stool, unsure what to do with his apology.

I think of his voice, just moments ago, threaded with an unfamiliar anguish: It’s not trivial .

And the way he moves in front of me now, like he’s a little embarrassed.

His cheeks are still pink—not from his run anymore, maybe. From this conversation.

“I’ll get out of your way,” Henry says, starting around the counter. “I need to get to work. Proceed with your heartbreak hotel.”

“It’s not—” I start, but the way he glances back at me over one shoulder makes me realize he’s kidding. Henry Rhodes, making a joke.

I lift a hand in farewell. He opens my front door.

I think, Who broke your heart, Henry?