Page 76 of Desserts for Stressed People

There’s nothing around us but buildings, and road signs inform me we’re about to leave the small town the bar’s in. The city is too far to get there walking, and Alex never answered my text.

“I’ll call someone to pick us up,” I say. When he chuckles and walks away, I stride after him. “Where are you going?”

“There’s a hotel a minute from here. I’m going to sleep.”

“You’re unbelievable. Were you going to leave me alone by the side of the road at night?”

“Are you alone by the side of the road at night?”

“No,” I say, to which he shrugs. I roll my eyes and insist, “What about your sister?”

“My sister has a noisy toddler and a chatty husband I don’t dislike but can’t deal with after the week I’ve had.” Throwing a glance at me, he tilts his head. “Come to think of it, you two would get along.”

Am I really that talkative? With a sigh, I stalk after him. “So we’re just going to sleep at a hotel?”

He points ahead. “No, we’re not just going to sleep at a hotel. We’re going to eat a kebab at the place across the street from it, possibly drink a beer.Then, we’re going to sleep at a hotel. I don’t know about you, but I slept twenty hours in the last five days, and I’m not waiting by the side of the road for your boyfriend to drive across the city and drop me off at my apartment in two hours.”

I follow him until he turns right and we face a small white building with gray smudges across the façade. The neon sign that reads “hotel” blinks to life then quickly dies again. If this place is as scary on the inside as it is from the outside, I’d rather take my chances with the jazz bar bathroom.

An old man at the reception welcomes us with open arms. “Shane! What brings you to these parts?” he asks from behind a wooden counter. I must say, this place isn’t as bad as one would think.

Shane squirms under my inquisitive look. “Hi, Arnold. We need a couple of beds for the night.”

“Oh, sure. Are your parents out of town?”

“No. I was passing by and got a flat tire. I haven’t seen them.”

Arnold talks Shane’s ear off, telling him how much his parents miss him and he should visit more often, and I take it all in. Shane is from here. This small town that I’ve probably been to twice in my life, simply passing through. His sister lives here, and so do his parents. That’s how he knows this place so well—probably how he knew about the train schedule too.

“We have a twin room. Separate beds.”

Shane grunts his disapproval. “No. Two rooms. Double, single. Sleeping bags. Penthouses. It doesn’t matter, but two of them.”

I doubt this place has penthouses, and I can’t help but feel offended he’s being so rude about this. Am I so repulsive that the thought of spending the night in the same room turns him back into Mr. Asshole? We won’t share a room, but I’m also not diseased.

“Sure, sure. I have the two rooms on the top floor available. The suites.”

“Sounds great.” Shane passes Arnold his card, and I take mine out, but he moves his hand to stop me. “Company account.”

As soon as Arnold gives us our keys, we make our way out of the hotel and across the street. We order a kebab and a beer, then sit at one of the white plastic tables out of the small food kiosk. Everything is dark and silent, except for a couple walking their dog and a little 24/7 supermarket whose neon light makes a buzzing noise.

“What’s your sister’s favorite dessert?” I ask, interrupting the silence.

Drawing in a deep breath, he looks in the distance. “Green cake.”

I giggle. “Green cake?”

“That was her favorite when she was a kid. Now, she says it’s strawberry shortcake, but I know it’s still green cake.”

When he bites at his kebab, I grin. There’s a glimpse again. A rare sighting of Shane-the-baker.

“What?” he asks, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a napkin over his lips. When I don’t answer, he insists. “Why are you staring, Heaven?”

“Nothing.” I pick at the meat poking out of the wrap. “Your sister mentioned that you and your parents don’t get along?”

His shoulders tense as he looks in the distance, and my heart cracks a little. I wish he was as open with me as he is with Nevaeh, as psychotic as that may sound.

“Me and my dad.” He fidgets with the cap of his beer, flipping it back and forth with two fingers. “My parents don’t get along. They always fought a lot, since we were kids. My sister and I argued more than once over whose fault it was that they were screaming.” He brushes some hair off his forehead. “When I turned fourteen, my mom told me we were moving out. Riley and I packed a quick suitcase and off we went.”

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