Page 14 of Room for Us

Just like that, the only sound is running water. I light a few candles, then throw a bright pink bath bomb in the tub, watching it fizz and wondering why I feel guilty for telling off a figment of my imagination.

The next forty minutes are spent chin-deep in steaming pink water that smells like guava, mulling on thoughts of my upcoming guest. Short-term resident? Renter? Whatever. It doesn’t matter how I label him. For a thousand dollars a week, Mr. Hart can be whatever he wants to be.

When I called him this afternoon to finalize his reservation, the conversation was only marginally less awkward than our first. My second impression was the same as my initial one. A bit stuffy. Arrogant but polite. Probably spends more time in the mirror than most women and likes to have the upper hand in relationships—aka he’s a control freak—because deep down he feels like a failure. Since he’s dropping 6k to hang out in a small town for a month and a half, he clearly has cash to burn.

There are two things I like so far about Mr. Hart. His money and his voice. It’s a really good voice. One of those rare baritones that melt butter and lady parts.

Not that my assessment matters. Or that I’m required to like him. Or he, me. I’m lucky he gave me another shot after how I botched that first phone call. Thinking about how unprofessional I was—mistaking him for Chris, accusing him of pranking me—reignites the sting of embarrassment. I acted like an immature idiot.

I’ll make it up to him. He requested laundry service and daily room cleaning as a part of his package, and I plan on knocking his socks off with the highest quality service he’s ever had. Expensive chocolates on his pillow, fresh flowers daily, and a delicious gourmet breakfast every morning.

Five-star Yelp review, here I come!

Please let Mr. Hart be normal.

I need normal.

I sink deeper into the water, letting it cover my nose and mouth, then farther still, all the way under. Eyes closed, hands braced on the walls of the tub to keep myself submerged, I listen for my heartbeat.

There it is.

I can’t feel it, but I can hear it.

Still beating.

9

“But why not?” whines my daughter. “I mean, it’s not like I want to go to Idaho, but I still want to go.”

Hiding my smile, I repeat for the tenth time, “You can’t come because you have school, and because this isn’t a vacation. I have to write a book.”

Daphne groans, a sound so layered and rich with meaning it negates the need for language. Biting back a smile, I toss my toiletries into my duffel and zip the bag. Then I plop down on the bed next to my pouting progeny and put my arm around her narrow shoulders.

“How about this? Instead of me coming back to see you in a few weeks, you can come see me. Your first plane trip all by yourself for a weekend trip to see Dad? How’s that sound?”

Her eyes narrow. “Can we ride horses?”

“Of course.”

“Then I guess that sounds okay.”

“That’s my girl.” I squeeze her shoulders and plant a kiss on her head—her cue to squirm away from me. “I’ll talk to your mom. I’m sure she’ll be fine with it as long as you keep up with your homework.”

Daphne rolls her eyes to make sure I know she doesn’t give a shit, but I can tell she’s excited at the prospect of doing something mature like flying alone. Some days I’d love to rewind her to four years old, when her focuses were acquiring new toys and eating as much Nutella as possible. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy this age, too. The way she tries on and casts off personality traits as she hunts for herself.

But no matter how she changes from day to day, week to week, or year to year, she’s my little girl.

“You’re doing that thing again, Dad. It’s creepy.”

All I was doing was smiling at her.

I laugh. “I love you, kiddo.”

Arms crossed, she juts out a hip. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

“That I do.”

Standing, I grab my duffel and glance around my bedroom one more time. Not that I’m forgetting anything. All I really need is already packed—my laptop and a few changes of clothes. Weekly laundry service is included during my stay at the inn, and anything else I need, I’m sure I can pick up in town.

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