Page 89 of Seeds of Christmas

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I sit there for another moment, key card in my hand, staring at the numbers.

Opposite end of the hall from 132.

Maximum distance.

We pass each other in the hallway. Don’t make eye contact.

The motel carpet is beige and worn. The walls are that generic cream color that’s supposed to be calming, but just feels sad. There’s a vending machine humming at the end of the hall, and somewhere a TV is playing too loud.

It’s depressing.

Everything is depressing.

On my way to get some fresh air, I pass Carter again. This time, he doesn’t move to the side fast enough and we nearly collide.

“Sorry,” I say automatically.

“It’s fine.” He shifts the equipment case to his other hand. “You okay? That one’s heavy.”

“I’m fine.”

“Right. Fine.” He moves past me, and I catch the scent of his soap. The same smell that was all over that couch we shared. The same smell that was on the blanket I folded this morning.

My throat gets tight.

I keep walking.

On my way back in, Carter’s door is closed. I stand in the hallway staring at that closed door.

I could knock.

I could say something.

I could try to explain.

But what would I say?

I’m scared? He knows that. I’m sorry? That’s not enough. I don’t know what I’m doing? That’s painfully obvious.

I go into my room and close the door.

Lock it.

Stand in the middle of the generic motel room and finally let myself cry.

Quietly.

Because I don’t even get to have this. I don’t get to be sad about a situation I created. I don’t get to mourn something I killed myself.

This is what I wanted.

Distance. Safety. Protection.

So why do I feel like I’m breaking?

18

CARTER

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