Page 70 of Rare Blend
Ethan and the man chat a bit more. Once we’re back to driving, Ethan apologizes.
“Sorry you had to wake up like that.”
“I’m the one that’s sorry. I wasthatperson, falling asleep on you. And now we’re going to be stuck here for the night.”
He turns up the dial on the heater. “I’m not upset about any of that. I would be more upset if I was all the way back in Red Mountain hearing about you having to find some roadside motel in the middle of a snowstorm, completely alone.”
“I’m a big girl. I’m perfectly capable of figuring things out on my own.” I can’t help the attitude that slips out of me. I don’t appreciate being underestimated simply because I’m a woman. And I just woke up from a nap, which is when I’m at my bitchiest.
“That’s not what I mean,” he says gently. “Of course you’re capable, you just shouldn’t have to do it alone. I’m glad I came.”
Warmth surrounds my body, and it has nothing to do with the heater. I shouldn’t have snapped at him. He’s been nothing but sweet lately, going above and beyond anything any other guy has ever done for me.
He takes the exit to Roslyn. I’ve passed the sign countless times but have never actually ventured into the town.
“Cute town,” I comment as we drive through the main stretch.
The town looks like it has a bit of a magical flare as the heavy snowflakes fall, veiling everything in soft white.
Ethan points to a grocery store parking lot. “I’m going to pull in here and make some calls. See if we can find a couple of rooms for the night.”
While he does that, I send some texts to Hillary and my dad, updating them on the situation. I also fire off an email to the HR rep who sent me the interview invite, warning them that weather may prevent my ability to get to the interview and that I will update them if I’m no longer able to make it.
“I was really hoping Suncadia would have vacancies,” Ethan says. “But they’re all booked up and so is the rest of Cle Elum. I called a few hotels here in Roslyn and they all directed me to the Huckleberry Lodge. I called them and they have one room available. So, what do you think? Stay there or drive back and see if we can at least make it to Ellensburg?”
I look around, watching the snow fall heavier by the minute. “Let’s try the huckleberry place.”
Ethan types it into the GPS, though we soon find out that wasn’t necessary, since it’s down the road.
The Huckleberry Lodge is everything you would imagine a crappy roadside motel to look like. In fact, I’m surprised it’s not calledThe Bates Motel.
“Sure you don’t want to try Ellensburg?” Ethan asks, his face scrunching as he looks at the ramshackle building.
“With the luck we’re having so far, we could end up at a shittier place than this. Let’s stay here. It can’t be any worse inside.”
Ethan leaves me with the engine running while he runs to the front office to take care of the check in. When he returns a few minutes later, he moves his truck in front of the room marked with the number eighteen. While he unloads our bags, I go inside.
I was wrong. Somehow, the inside is even worse. The carpet is an interesting shade of brown, shaggy and worn, and the wallsare paneled. I feel like I’ve stepped into the 1970s, and not in a good way. Taking a deep breath, I’d guess that was also the last time it was properly cleaned.
“This place is a dump,” Ethan says behind me, rolling in my giant suitcase.
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
In the distractions of getting here and the snow and the detour, I’m now realizing I’m going to have to sleep in this room with Ethan. I’ve slept in his bed and I was napping in the car with him an hour ago, so it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it feels like a really, really big deal. There’s something so intimate about beds and changing into pajamas and brushing your teeth alongside someone. It’s all very couple-y, and we are not a couple. We’re friends.
Thank God there are two beds, because I wouldn’t let an animal sleep on this carpet, let alone a person, so we would’ve definitely been stuck sharing a bed. My face reddens at the thought.
With my head down and gaze averted, I claim the bed furthest from the door. If this happens to be one of those murder motels, at least I’ll get a fair warning when the killer goes after Ethan first.
I sit on the bed, fully clothed with my legs stretched out in front of me. Even like this, I can smell the musty bedding, feel the itchy fabric rub against my leggings. I only brought skimpy choices for pajamas because Hillary keeps her house as hot as a sauna. Thinking about all this bedding making contact with my skin somehow makes me feel even itchier. Meanwhile, Ethan is working on latching the door, pulling it, making sure it’s actually locked. I watch as he moves the lone chair in the corner and wedges it under the doorknob. I can’t help but smile, because it’s exactly what I would’ve done.
Brandon used to make fun of my obsession with locking doors. When we lived together, every evening I would run through my routine of checking the doors and windows, making sure they were all locked. That’s how I grew up. It’s not like we lived in a bad part of town or there were ever incidents that made us question our safety, but my dad made it a habit to lock up the house before we all went to sleep and it always made me feel safe. As an adult, I carry on with that practice. Brandon grew up with nannies and vacation homes—or as he would put it, “comfortable”—meaning the thought of someone breaking into his home in the middle of the night never even crossed his mind. I’m glad Ethan is a lock up the house kind of person. I feel my shoulders relax knowing we’re safely locked in here for the night, even if it means being in this shitty room, pretending I’m not wondering what Ethan sleeps in.
“Mind if I use the bathroom first?” Ethan asks, cutting through the silence.
“Nope, go ahead.”
He rifles through his bag and pulls out what I’m assuming is his toiletry bag. I can’t stop my mind from the journey it’s now on. Will he shower? What body wash does he use? Will he shave or brush his teeth?Gahh!This is too intimate.
