Page 41 of Until Next Time
“It’s positively delightful.” I deadpan.
She giggles.
“So, bad news, good news.” I add, resting my arm across the back of the bench seat. Birdie stares at me blankly, and after too long a pause, she begins waving her hand in a slow circle, as if to tell me to keep talking.
“Bad news, they’re closing down the highway because of the flash floods. Good news, there’s a motor lodge about two miles up the road.” I sigh, rubbing my hand across the stubble on my face, thinking that I’m definitely overdue for a shave.
“Shit, I’m so sorry Dawsen. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have dragged you into my errand running, and now I’ve gone and trapped us here. I feel so terrible.”
“Not a chance I’m letting you take the blame for weather, Birdie. And there’s no way I would have let you do this without me anyways, so please release yourself from any of the blame you’re putting on yourself. If anything, I’m sorry you’re trapped here with me and driving you in this storm.”
The cab of my truck is mostly quiet with the faint hum of Birdie’s playlist, and the sound of rain clattering against the steel of my truck. It’s peaceful, and the reality of Birdie Banks and I having to share a hotel room tonight is setting in, and I am all too ashamed about how grateful I am for this storm.
Birdie just smiles at me, our eyes lock, pulling us together into some sort of mutual understanding and all she says is, “Okay.”
I pull my seat belt across my wet clothes, lock in, and head for the motor lodge without another word. I reach forward and turn the volume knob up a few notches. “Dark Blue” by Jack’s Mannequin spills out of the speakers and we both turn to look at each other.
“I love this song” She says, smiling.
“Me too.”
29
Birdie
When Dawsen said ‘Motor Lodge’ I don’t really know what I was expecting. Maybe a roadside motel that had questionable carpet and televisions from the 80s, but this place is actually swanky. I mean, it probably had questionable carpet at one point, but this place is newly renovated, and the rooms are covered in dark stained shiplap, cozy lamps are lit on the reclaimed wood side tables. The beds are layered with white and cream blankets and a large knit throw hangs across the bottom of the bed. The decor is cozy cabin, meets rustic modern. I love it. What I don’t love is the way Dawsen has went dead silent and awkward since we were told the only room available was a queen suite. Even though this place is cute and renovated, I use the word ‘suite’ very loosely. I assume the only difference between a suite and astandard room is that our room has a tiny dinette table in the corner with a mini fridge buzzing beneath the window.
“Do you want to shower? You’ve got to be freezing your ass off in those clothes.” I say, trying to break the tension, and feeling weird that he is being all weird.
“Yeah, probably a good idea.” He says, starting to feel around his pockets, emptying the contents onto the dresser.
His cell phone, wallet, pocket knife, and a couple sticks of very soggy, misshapen gum sticks.
“If you want to throw your clothes out here, I can run them down to the laundry room and dry them for you. I noticed it’s only a couple doors down.” I say, hiking my thumbs over my shoulders in the direction of the door.
“Yeah, that’d be great actually.”
We stand there, facing off in an awkward silence for a few beats. I’m assuming both of us just unsure of how to act. This is my brother’sthoughtfulbest friend. Whom I’ve loved ever since knowing of his existence. And here I am, in a motel room with him standing in front of me in soggy clothes, with a shower just feet away that he will soon be in.Naked. And I will have his clothes. And I’m his best friend’s little sister. Who has roped him into a day long favor that turned into a slumber party. What a turn of events.
“Alright, well I’ll just go shower. You feel okay heading down the hall alone?” Dawsen asks, with almost a pang of worry in his voice.
“Yeah, I’ll just go start the dryer and come back. And I’ll bring your shank with me.” I tease, leaning forward and grabbing his pocket knife off the dresser.
“Atta girl.” He says, winking and disappearing into the bathroom. My heart sinks at the damn wink, and before my thoughts can spiral at the “atta girl” comment, the door clicksopen just enough for him to reach his arm out, wet clothes clutched in hand, waiting for me to grab them.
“Thanks.” I say awkwardly as I grab the clothes and head straight for the laundry.
* * *
I put Dawsen’s clothes in the dryer and took a lap around the property. We got the last available room, and it’s evident that this place is booked up. There’s a faint buzz of 90s country music playing on the speakers that line the property, and the covered common areas are humming with a few families, chatting and laughing. The rain hasn’t let up, and the sound of it against the metal awnings is almost peaceful sounding. There’s a small restaurant attached to the motel—it’s neon signage is reflecting on the rain soaked pavement. ‘Hal’s Hideaway’ is written in a western font lit up in bright neon.
I decide to head back to the room before Dawsen gets worried and has to come chase me down in his birthday suit. The more thought I give that though, that’s a situation I wouldn’t mind so much.
* * *
I slide the key card into the door and wait for the light to turn green before pulling the handle down and letting myself in. Click, here I come.
I walk in and see the bathroom door swung wide open, steam pouring out like this is some porno. How hot was his shower anyways? I’ve never seen a bathroom steam like that in real life.
