Page 31 of The Heartbreak Hotel

Twenty-Four

Mei opens the front door before we’ve even gotten out of the car—Shani and Alfie, Nan, me carrying a sleeping Quinn.

“There you are!” she calls. She’s in sweats and a cropped T-shirt, wet hair brushing her shoulders. “I’ve been texting—I came home and everyone was just gone.”

“It’s been quite the afternoon,” Nan says, patting Mei’s arm as she passes her in the doorframe. “I think our young friend Quinn has the right idea—I’m headed up for a nap.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, hefting Quinn up the front steps.

His head lolls against my shoulder. “Shani’s dog got bit by a spider and we had to take him to see Henry, and Quinn’s been on my phone the whole time.

” I gesture back at Shani, who’s carrying Alfie.

“This is Shani, who’s checking in today and already got way more than she bargained for. Shani, Mei—my best friend.”

“Hey,” Mei says, reaching out to pet Alfie’s head. “So sorry you went through that.”

“Thanks,” Shani says. She still looks a little shaky. “I’m just so glad Louisa was here—she knew exactly what to do.”

“Yeah.” Mei smiles at me. “She usually does.”

“Let me put Quinn down,” I say as all three of us cross the threshold. “And then I’ll show you to your room, Shani, okay?”

She nods, and I get Quinn tucked into my bed.

He melts willingly into the mattress, rolling onto one side, burrowing his head into the pillows.

Then I show Shani up the stairs and into the Spruce Room.

It takes all of my willpower not to stare at the door of the Lupine Room as we pass.

Molly’s room—stamped with the memory of Henry tugging me through the door, his body framing mine, his hands on the bare skin of my back.

“Sounds like I missed a big day,” Mei says as I come down the stairs. She’s filling a glass of water from the fridge and I widen my eyes at her, shaking my head. She doesn’t know the half of it.

“Nuts,” I say. “I’m so glad her dog’s okay—can you imagine? ‘Heartbreak Retreat Kills Beloved Dog.’?”

“I mean, it wouldn’t have been your fault,” Mei says. “But yes.”

I drag a hand through my hair. “How are you ? How was your night?”

“It was good.” Mei smiles softly. She tips her head toward the back door. “Want to chat on the porch?”

I follow her outside, dropping onto the couch on the back deck. The sun’s still high in the sky; it bakes honey-yellow over the garden. I’ll tell Mei about Henry, I’ll have to—the secret is already fizzing in me, frenzied, desperate to be free.

“We went to RiNo and bopped around and it was honestly, just—” Mei looks at me, letting out a breath and dropping her shoulders. “Nice. To have fun, and forget about things, and be back home and not have it feel terrible.”

I nudge her knee with mine. “I’m so glad. I told you it would be good.”

“Yes, yes.” She waves her hand. “You’re always right. But, look, it did really get me thinking.”

I raise my eyebrows, and she says, “I should probably think about going back. You know, for good.”

“Really?” I try not to let my voice betray my disappointment. Just a couple days ago, she told Goldie she wasn’t ready to leave. I want Mei to feel better—of course I do. But I don’t want to lose her, either.

“Yeah,” she says on an inhale. “It’s been so good to be here and spend all day with you and just, like, disconnect from the life I had with Andy. But it’s still my life, too. Last night reminded me Denver wasn’t just Andy—there’s a lot of other things I love there. I can’t keep hiding.”

“You haven’t been hiding,” I say. “You’ve been healing.”

Mei tilts her head back and forth. “If I’m honest with myself, I think it’s been both.

” She reaches for my hand, sensing without me having to say anything that this news is hard.

“I’m so glad I could be here for this, Lou.

You’re making something really special here.

” She squeezes my fingers. “And I’m only ever an hour away if you need me. ”

“I know,” I say quietly. I squeeze her hand back. “I’m going to miss you, but I’m really glad you’re feeling ready for this.”

Mei tips forward and bumps her forehead against mine. When she leans back again, she says, “Thank you.”

“When will you go?”

“The weekend, maybe.” My heart drops. “So I can get back to work in the office on Monday.”

“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile. I know she can see how fake it is, and she pulls me into a hug.

“You got this, Lou,” Mei says over my shoulder. And then, something that’s never been true: “You don’t need me.”

Mei leaves on Sunday morning, with lots of hugs for me and even more for Quinn.

Watching her go feels like being halfway up a rock wall and unclipping my carabiner.

I’m not done here, and now I’m left to make the rest of the climb without my support system.

Quinn and I stand in the doorway and watch her car roll down the driveway.

It’s been parked out front since I started the Comeback Inn, and the street feels empty without it.

“Don’t be sad, Lou-Lou,” Quinn says. He wraps an arm around my leg, hugging it sideways. “We’re doing tattoos today, remember?”

“Yeah,” I say, ruffling a hand through his hair. I ended up not telling Mei about Henry—it didn’t feel important, after our conversation on the back porch. But he’ll be here in under an hour. “How could I forget?”

It’s quiet in the house; I don’t have anyone else checking in for another couple of days, and Shani’s mostly kept to herself since Alfie’s accident.

Nan spends a lot of time reading in her room, or going on walks downtown.

So as Quinn and I set up for tattoos in the kitchen, we play his favorite Disney music and pretty much feel like we have the house to ourselves.

Henry rings the doorbell when he arrives, and Quinn goes running. I have bowls of water and clean towels set out on the counter. I reach to straighten the stack of tattoo sheets, feeling a great wave rise in me: tingling, enormous, threatening to swallow me whole. Henry, Henry, Henry .

“Hey, Quinn.” His voice carries down the hallway, and when I look up he’s crouched in front of my nephew with his elbows propped on his knees. Henry’s in jeans and a dark gray T-shirt. His eyes find mine, and it tugs deep in my belly. “Do you have any tattoos yet?”

“No, we waited for you!” Quinn says, reaching out to rest his hands on Henry’s shoulders. Kids are amazing—the way they accept intimacy. It’s a testament to Goldie’s parenting, I know, that the world feels so safe to her son. “How many are you gonna get?”

Henry stands, putting a hand on Quinn’s head as they turn toward me. “How many are you going to get?”

“ Twenty! ” he cries, then giggles hysterically.

“I don’t know about that,” I say. Henry lifts Quinn into one of the island stools like he’s done it a hundred times before—like Molly used to sit here, maybe, while he made dinner. Then he comes around to me, his hand rising to the small of my back.

“Hi,” he says. I want to kiss him, but I know it would open up an entire can of worms with my sister if Quinn saw me do it. So I only say, “Hi,” as Henry’s thumb brushes the base of my spine.

“Me first!” Quinn says, leaning over the counter to inspect the tattoo sheets. He spreads them out in a fan, considering carefully, before selecting a rocket ship and holding it up to me.

“That one?” I ask, and he nods. “Do you want to pick one for Henry and me, too?”

He ducks back over the counter, finally choosing a pterodactyl for me and what looks like a Komodo dragon for Henry.

“Like the lizard in your bathroom,” Quinn says as he hands Henry the sheet. Henry looks between us, eyebrows quirked together.

“At your office,” I explain. “We saw all the photos of your clients in the bathroom—there was a lizard.”

“ Oh ,” Henry says, lifting up Quinn’s tattoo selections to examine them. “That’s Mr.Stink, the skink.” Quinn shrieks with delight and Henry grins at him, setting the tattoos back on the counter. “Good choices.”

“Now me.” Quinn thrusts his arm over the counter, and I peel the backing off the rocket ship to apply it to his bicep.

Henry asks him about home while I wet the tattoo with a towel: where he lives (New York City), if he likes school (yes), if he has any pets of his own (not yet but Mom says when I’m ’ponsible enough).

It’s unstitching something in my heart, listening to them.

I imagine Henry with his daughter, here in this house.

Younger and lighter. The way he must have been with her, the way I know him to be: gentle and sturdy and kind.

I pull away and Henry takes Quinn’s wrist to examine the tattoo through the paper.

They crane toward each other over the island, their heads ducked close, Henry talking about space and stars and the vastness of the universe.

So much to explore , he tells Quinn. Maybe by someone like you .

I lean in to blow on the tattoo, and feel Henry turn to look at me.

All three of our faces are inches apart, like children telling secrets at a slumber party.

He nudges my hip with his. I feel a sadness I can’t quite name: holding a grief that isn’t mine, that I didn’t know about, that happened in my happiest place. I peel the paper off Quinn’s tattoo.

“Me next?” Henry asks, when Quinn flexes his arm in the space between us.

“Yeah,” Quinn says, his eyes flicking to me. “Can I do it?”

“Of course,” I say, a little too thickly, and pass him the Komodo dragon. Henry looks at me, his eyebrows twitching together. That line there and then gone, the one I already know so well: I’m worried .

I shake my head and curl my hand around his thigh below the counter. My feelings about this aren’t his to hold, the way it pushes on my ribs to imagine him living through this. We’re here, now—I make myself focus in on it.