Fiction Friday 001: The Stay

(The beginning of) a hotel short story.

Welcome to Fiction Friday, a newsletter containing original fiction that in the form of chapters, excerpts, and full short stories. Some of these entrees may be half-cooked, some may have already reached their dead end, and some could be serialized for future editions. Until we sort that out, please just enjoy with an open mind.

This week’s entry is something I wrote in 2022 with no outline attached to it. Left open to go in several directions, I truthfully haven’t decided which (if any) direction I’d like to take it in. It’s been edited, adjusted, re-edited, and chopped up more than I’d like to admit, so please disregard any grammatical errors, continuity issues, or general poor grammar. That being said, enjoy!

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“So what brings you here?” he asked through a wall of suitcases separating them in the elevator.

Barely noticing someone was attempting to converse with her, she looked up from her phone as his words began to settle in. While she could have made the brief two-floor trip unimaginably uncomfortable, she instead went with an answer that wouldn’t give her a reputation among the valet drivers.

“Just a quick jaunt to clear my mind.”

“Fair enough.”

And then she sighed.

As he swiped them into her room and offered to put her suitcase on a stand, she attempted to brush him off in the most polite way possible. With really no plans to leave the room over the weekend, he could dump her suitcase into the clawfoot tub for all she cared.

With a slip of a two-dollar bill and an exchange of rushed pleasantries, the heavy door nuzzled shut as she fell face-first into the bed linens. The only noises that remained were the churning of the pool below her balcony and the air conditioner attempting to cool the room to her desired 66 degrees.

She had never been to Lake Como but it had everything she imagined Lake Como would have — wind-blown trees that looked like they were painted by Hasegawa Tōhaku, ornate statues by the pool that appear as though they should be in a museum, and rich women wearing sunglasses drinking champagne by the bottle yet seemingly not looking drunk at all.

Not realizing at first, it eventually hit her that her somewhat private balcony was the crow’s nest of the pool. Not only could she see directly into the rooms across from her, but she could sit back and people watch without really revealing herself. Bundled in the hotel-logo’d robe with her bottle of water next to her, she did just that.

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Losing a friend is never something you can prepare yourself for. People plan on losing their parents. Others experience loss from a young age and never see it let up due to the ongoing vacancy in their lives, while the select few make it through life with their loved ones reaching their full life expectancies without batting an eye.

Paige, until now, was the latter. Her father, Hugh (and she called him that), was in good health despite his recent back surgery. It was more preventative than anything but everyone secretly knew he was using the winter to rehab before returning to his summer home and accompanying country club. They spoke on the phone as often as his $1,500-per-month allowance hit her bank account, though there was never a situation where she wouldn’t pick up should he decide to call.

Her mother, Kennedy, acted like one but mostly skated on her name in life. After getting her MRS degree in 1966 from College of Charleston, she found herself doing what she thought she loved in life: gossiping, lunching, and anything else that shouldn’t have a -ing after it. That is, until she and Hugh separated in 2008 and finally divorced in 2010. Her parents would always joke about being “Christmas/Easter” people at church while Paige grew up, but never in her life did she think that schedule would be the only times she’d speak to her mom through her 20s and 30s. But even that was too often.

Kennedy lived 90 minutes up the coast while Hugh’s winter residence was just a 35-minute drive with light traffic. She thought about it for most of her five-hour flight. Most people her age with parents still alive would be flying across the country to visit them. In her mind, however, the last thing she wanted was for them to know she was near.

No part of her wanted them dead, but she also couldn’t shake the idea that their current existence felt somewhat trivial in relation to her. While she’d sometimes attempt to identify with orphaned children, she was also smart enough to know where she stood: her father loved her both emotionally and financially, and she oh-so wished her mom would choke on a cocktail onion. Not so she’d die, but just so she could at least experience what death might feel like so she’d be willing to reassess some of her behaviors in life if only for that brief fleeting moment before your heart actually stops.

But Sophie.

She met Sophie when they were six years old. Outside of that weird patch where Paige exclusively hung out with the soccer girls all through middle school, they were nearly inseparable. There was even that time freshman year where they separately wondered if it felt like more than a friendship, but they each shook that after a game of Spin The Bottle at a lakehouse they were invited to the following summer. Sophie got to kiss the cuter of the twins, but Paige didn’t seem to mind because there was something poetic about them essentially kissing the same boy on the same night together. At least when you’re speaking to their DNA.

When Sophie got early admittance into Columbia, Paige knew deep-down that her decision was made for her. If her 4.0 and extra curriculars wouldn’t get her in, Hugh could. And they’d be roommates all four years. And they’d make mistakes in New York City together. And they’d cry in the back of cabs together. And they’d fix each other’s makeup together after. And they’d perfectly toe the line between Girls and Sex and The City while living happily ever after in the greatest city on earth.

And that’s exactly what they did.

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It wasn’t that she didn’t care (she didn’t). But she also knew that if anyone called her on it, she’d have the perfect excuse.

“My best friend, who was supposed to be on this trip with me, is dead.”

She didn’t want to deploy that should someone try to stop her from wearing her robe into the lobby bar, but she also knew she could keep it on the back-burner should she absolutely need it. Kind of like her Xanax prescription.

Unfortunately for her and the concierge who would soon be cancelling everything, the itinerary for the trip was still completely in-tact. The couples massage they’d booked (it was cheaper than booking separately and it wouldn’t be the first time they pretended to be a couple to get something) was still on the books for 9 a.m. the following morning while the more pressing issue — tonight’s 8:30 p.m. dinner reservation — still loomed.

“I’m just sneaking in to buy a bottle of wine to-go,” she said coyly while sliding by the busy hostess stand. She put her sunglasses on in an attempt to become more unapproachable (but also cover the bags under her eyes) and it seemingly worked wonders.

Unfortunately, the town where the hotel resided was sleepy enough that the lobby happy hour seemed to be the toast of the town every day after 4 o’clock. She couldn’t exactly tell why but she knew the sheer presence of people was largely comprised of locals based on attire (and tans) alone. These weren’t tans that were built over four days away from home, and you could swipe across a pair of any boardshorts and find a layer of salt on your finger from the ocean.

Sliding into the area where the waiters normally pick up the drinks for their tables, she perched her sunglasses atop her head and held her credit card in her hand even though she was going to charge it to the room. She knew the simple presence of the card would expedite the process and get her to exactly where she wanted to be: alone.

“What can I get you?”

She looked down at the wine list.

“Can I do a bottle of this Barolo to-go?”

“Are you staying on the property?”

“I am.”

“No problem — room charge?”

She slid her credit card into the robe’s pocket. “Yeah,” she confirmed, “that’s fine.”

Realizing she forgot her phone was almost worse than the realization that she forgot her charger before the flight earlier that morning. But standing at a lobby bar in a robe sounded like much more of a vibe than it was in practice. While a “vibe” certaintly wasn’t the end-goal, it was at least a way to deter everyone from caring that she wasn’t dressed up to snuff for a five-star resort of this caliber.

“Here you go,” he said while passing the bottle over the bar. “Just sign anywhere, I’m not sure why there’s not a line to sign anywhere but tip’s included so just scribble.”

She scribbled.

Turning around, her decision to put her sunglasses back over her eyes proved to be one of the best she’d made all day. It wasn’t because the setting sun was perched perfectly between the windows of the bar nor was it because of those ever-present bags.

Instead, they seemingly kept her eyes from popping out and falling completely on the floor. They disguised her enough that she knew she had at least some form of shield up from what she was witnessing, that anyone standing in the restaurant wouldn’t immediately have to give her a “Are you okay?” should they see the pure shock on her face.

There was a world where she dropped the entire bottle of wine on the marble floor, bursting it into a nebula of red wine and glass shards thus drawing every single tangible bit of attention to her. Something she wanted none of.

But in that moment, seeing that person, in that place, under these circumstances, there was only one sentence that she could fathom uttering.

“What… what the hell is she doing here?”

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