Page 29 of The Heartbreak Hotel

Twenty-Two

I wake up to the doorbell. My face is hot, tingling like I’m on the verge of breaking a sweat.

I blink up at the ceiling and register that I’m in the living room, flat-backed on the couch, streak of morning sun searing across my cheek.

I swallow, and it dislodges the memory of what happened last night: Henry in his daughter’s bedroom, Henry’s warm body under my hands, Henry kissing me on the front porch and walking to his car under the silver moon.

I couldn’t share a bed with Quinn, after that.

Couldn’t fall asleep with his little-kid breaths puffing into the space beside me, his small hands reaching for mine.

Couldn’t fall asleep at all, really. My nervous system spent all night in overdrive—I felt like I’d run a marathon, like I was perched at the ledge of myself, poised to fall.

My mind wouldn’t quiet. Henry’s daughter, Henry’s ex-wife, Henry’s house full of pain and memories that I’ve spent years walking past without knowing.

Henry, Henry, Henry. The lines of his body, so different from Nate’s. I’ve been inside out, with wanting you.

But it’s an unfamiliar woman, wearing a full face of makeup and a BabyBjorn with a shih tzu inside.

“Uh,” I say, and her eyebrows rise. I squint against the sun. “Hi. Good morning.”

“I’m Shani?” She poses it like a question. “I’m supposed to be checking in?”

I pull a hand through the mess of my hair and try to regain my composure. I’m wearing an ancient pair of sweatpants and an enormous T-shirt, no bra. I summon a smile. “Hi, I’m so sorry—check-in is at four on weekdays.”

“Four,” Shani repeats, glancing at her watch. The dog tracks the movement before looking up at me. “There’s no way I can get in earlier?”

“I need to prep your room,” I tell her. And take a shower. And feed Quinn. And calm the fuck down. “But we could do, like, noon? There are some nice coffee shops in town, if you want to grab breakfast?”

“Um—”

“We also, uh—” I force myself to sound more authoritative. “We don’t take pets here. I’m so sorry. It’s in the rental listing.”

Shani blinks at me. Her makeup is immaculate, but I’ve been around enough sad people lately to clock the red at the corners of her eyes, the evidence of a night spent crying.

“You don’t—” She breaks off again, looking down at the dog.

It looks up at her. When Shani’s lip starts to tremble, my resolve evaporates in a puff of smoke.

“You know what, it’s fine.” I reach out and rub the dog’s head, then draw a deep breath. “If you can make noon work, I can make the dog work—as long as she’s potty-trained?”

“Oh, of course he is,” Shani says. Her eyes come to mine, shining with tears, and she takes a backward step down the front stairs. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t—I’ll come back at noon.”

“No need to apologize.” I smile again. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Lou?” Quinn calls from behind me, and I shoot Shani one last wave before shutting the door.

“Hey, bud,” I say, a little too loudly. If Goldie knew I was making out with Henry in my underwear instead of cuddling her son all night, she’d assassinate me. “How’d you sleep?”

Quinn’s standing halfway down the stairs, holding the railing in one hand and his favorite stuffed octopus in the other. His pajama set—pale yellow printed with gumdrops—has ridden up to expose the round swell of his belly.

“Okay,” he says, and when I hold out my arms he comes the rest of the way down the stairs so I can pick him up.

He’s so soft, everything about him, and when I press a kiss to the top of his head I think of Molly—even smaller than Quinn, and sicker, and gone.

Of the slope of Henry’s shoulders in the moonlight, the ripple of muscles pulled rigid and frantic along his spine. My eyes burn. “Where’d you go?”

“I was right here,” I say thickly. “I couldn’t sleep and I came down to the couch so I wouldn’t bother you.”

“Oh.” He’s extra delicious when he’s sleepy, and when his warm head drops onto my shoulder I feel his entire body melt into mine. “Can we have waffles?”

“Of course,” I say, swallowing back the tears. I turn on the TV for Quinn, and kiss him until he wriggles away from me, and head into the kitchen to unwrap a pack of Eggos.

We’re eating them on the couch when Bea and Kim come downstairs. It’s nearly nine thirty and I’ve got overnight oatmeal warming in the oven, a farewell breakfast before they head back to Denver.

“Morning,” I say, rising from the couch. Quinn waves at them before turning back to his show.

“Hey,” Bea says, smiling. “We loved the Italian place last night. Thanks for the rec.”

“Of course.” I flip on Henry’s espresso machine and pull two bowls out of the cabinet. I wonder if he’s awake yet. If he ever fell asleep. “What did you order?”

“Shrimp scampi,” Kim says, pulling out a seat at the island. “And calamari.”

“And penne with vodka sauce,” Bea adds. “I fucking love vodka s—Oops.” She glances at Quinn, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

I wave her off. “He’s not listening.” The truth is Aunt Lou-Lou is Quinn’s one-way ticket to uninterrupted screen time, and he’s much more interested in taking advantage of it than in anything Bea has to say.

“ And ,” Kim says, drawing out the syllable, “I booked a spot at my climbing gym for tomorrow. By myself.” She straightens her shoulders as she says it, sitting up taller.

“Good for you!” I reach across the island and squeeze her arm. “I’m so glad you’re doing that.”

“Yeah, fuck Peter,” Bea says, lowering to a whisper on the fuck .

In a lot of ways, their dynamic is the same as when they arrived: Bea the angry one, all vengeance and roiling rage; Kim the soft one, folded into her sadness.

But now they understand each other, and will—I hope—be better support systems for one another when they leave the house.

Kim rolls her eyes and pushes Bea in the arm. When they dig into the oatmeal, I turn away to start their coffees.

“Before we go,” Bea says from behind me, “we wanted to ask you something.”

The grinder whirs to life, and I wait until it’s finished to look back at them—hoping to all that is holy they aren’t about to ask what those noises were in the Aspen Room last night. “Shoot.”

Bea glances at Kim, like she’s nervous. Like this is a secret. A tiny smile tugs at her lips when she looks back up at me. “Are you Nate Payne’s ex-girlfriend?”

The question falls through me like cold water.

I should have known that this would happen—of course it would.

There was a time when Nate’s social feeds were full of me.

College, the years after. The shadowy outline of my face backstage at a show, our clasped hands in the garden, my name right there for anyone to see.

I should have known this curiosity would follow me.

I clear my throat. It feels jarring, to step back there after last night—my body shuddering backward in time. But it’s the truth. “I am.”

Kim’s mouth drops open. Bea nudges her in the shoulder. “I told you.”

“We recognized your name,” Kim says, spoonful of oatmeal forgotten halfway to her mouth. “But we weren’t sure—I mean. But, wow. It’s really you.”

“Purple Girl,” Bea says. It feels exactly like Nate meant it when he wrote the song: like pressing on a bruise. It’s disorienting, to think of him now. To hear the echo of his laugh overlaid with the memory of Henry’s measured breathing on my couch, the rise and fall of his ribs under my hand.

“Is that why you started this place?” Kim waves around. “The Comeback Inn?”

I swallow so hard it makes a clicking noise.

“In a way, yes.” They don’t need to know that this has been my home for four years, that I can’t afford it without Nate, that I started this place so I wouldn’t be homeless.

I volley up a bid to change the subject.

“Did you find it helpful? Any feedback for me?”

Bea and Kim look at each other again. They want to keep talking about Nate, I can feel it. But, blessedly, they let it go.

“It was great,” Kim says finally. “Seriously. We’re going to recommend it to friends. And, like, maybe come back? Next time we need to get out of Denver for a while.”

“Anytime,” I tell them, drawing a slow breath to calm my nervous system. It’s just Bea and Kim—these girls who’ve filled my house with snuggled hugs and ragged rage and such understandable, familiar sadness. There’s no danger here. “Truly.”

Bea and Kim leave an hour before Shani shows back up, which gives me just enough time to make up her bed, give Quinn a bath, and get him dressed.

He’s the one who notifies me that Shani’s arrived, calling to Nan and me from the hallway with his little face tucked behind the front-window curtains.

Nan’s having a mug of tea at the dining table, garden door open to let in the autumn wind through the screen.

“That lady’s back with her dog!” Quinn shouts, and I put down the bowl I was drying at the sink.

“There’s a dog staying here?” Nan asks, peering up at me from above a print copy of The Denver Post .

“Yes,” I say apologetically. “Kind of by accident. Are you okay with that? I should have asked.” It occurs to me that I have more guests arriving while Shani’s here and should probably reach out to them, too.

Nan puts down the paper and claps her hands, shoulders hunching up. “Of course!” She stands, shepherding me toward the front door. “The only thing this place has been missing is a dog.”

But when I open the front door, the three of us don’t get to welcome Shani’s dog with open arms. Quinn doesn’t get to rub his scruffy little head. Nan doesn’t get to coo over his smushed-up, ugly-cute face.

Instead, Shani lets out a hair-raising scream from halfway up the driveway. “Oh my god ,” she cries, scooping the shih tzu off the gravel. “Oh my god, oh my god.”

“What?” I call, yanking Quinn up into my arms and hurrying toward her. “What happened?”

“A spider just—he just—” Shani’s lifting the dog’s face to her own, inspecting every inch of him.

“He just tried to eat a spider and then he spit it out and it was huge , I mean—” She breaks off, eyes tracking over the driveway like she could find it again.

“Oh no. Oh, god, look.” She thrusts the dog’s face toward my own, and Quinn and I look at him together.

I don’t know this dog. His face could look like pretty much anything. But even I can tell that something’s off: one side of his mouth is already puffing up like a marshmallow, soft and round and wrong.

“Oh my god,” Shani says again, looking around wildly—like there just might be a veterinarian lying around somewhere. “What if he stops breathing?”

“Stops breathing ?” Quinn repeats, his voice crackling up several pitches.

“Okay,” I say, mustering the voice that I use for crisis. For panic attacks. For fresh, uncontrollable grief. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to call a vet.”

I hardly have time to think about it before I dial the number. Before it rings once, twice. Before Henry’s low, smooth voice meets me on the other end of the line.

“Louisa.”

“Henry.” I look from Shani to Nan and back again. “I think that spider you saved just attacked someone’s dog.”