I drop the phone onto the unmade bed and resume pacing, the narrow aisle from the window to the bathroom door not nearly enough room to burn off my growing panic. My fingers drum a beat on my thigh as I move, keeping time with the rapid pitter-patter of my heart.
The new room I checked into should be spacious enough, with its king bed, sitting area with a small couch, and desk by the window, but a sense of claustrophobia claws at me.
My suitcase sits half unpacked near the dresser, and takeout containers form a small cityscape on the desk, remnants of meals I forced myself to choke down. Coffee cups with rings of dried liquid mark the passage of sleepless nights.
Papers spread across the desk in uneven stacks, a mixture of Quinn’s progress reports, accommodation forms, and committee meeting minutes, the only evidence of my attempts to maintain normalcy. A red pen sits uncapped, dried out from being forgotten mid-grade two nights ago when Carson’s texts began their midnight assault on my resolve.
I unlock my phone and check for notifications.
Nothing.
The knot in my stomach tightens.
My reflection fragments in the darkened television screen as I pass, a man unraveling thread by thread. I straighten a lampshade that doesn’t need straightening. Align the hotel notepad with the edge of the desk. Small, useless tasks. Nothing accomplished.
I rub my palm over my face, stubble rasping beneath my hand where I haven’t bothered to shave. The desk chair creaks as I sink into it, pulling Quinn’s file toward me. The words swim on the page with the reminder of what hangs in the balance.
My refusal to attend the faculty function as Carson’s Omega wasn’t defiance. It was the last scrap of self-preservation I could muster after months of calculated erosion.
Should I resign from all my committee positions? Blake had offered to hire a liaison to handle the situation with Quinn’s accommodations. At the time, I believed it was part of the position they hired me for, and since I wasn’t tutoring her full-time during the day, it was the least I could do.
But if I remove myself from every obligation at Pinecrest Academy that doesn’t involve picking Quinn up and dropping her off…
The hotel room grows darker as evening deepens, but I don’t bother turning on more than the single desk lamp.
On my nightstand, the alarm clock’s red numbers flip to seven fifty. At this time, on a Friday evening, Emily and Jared will be playing cards or watching television. Grady might be there, too, a glass of wine in hand, as has become his habit.
They were okay before me. They will be okay without me.
But I don’t want them to be, and the last several days after ending things with Emily have given me time to consider her words and reflect on my actions. Does my isolation really protect those I care about? Or does it only hurt all of us?
The truth settles in my stomach like lead.
I pick up my phone again, thumb hovering over Emily’s number before I lock the phone without sending a message. What could I say? I miss them? I wake reaching for Emily’s warmth? The silence in this room suffocates me more with each passing hour?
That would just open both of us up to more hurt. No, I need to figure my shit out before I can hope to have anything resembling a real relationship.
Three knocks at the door cut through my thoughts. Ordinary, unremarkable. Housekeeping perhaps, or a guest with the wrong room number.
But uneasiness creeps through me as I turn toward the door.
The digital clock reads eight thirty-five now, over an hour having slipped by unnoticed. It’s too late for room service and too early for the drunken neighbors I’ve come to expect around midnight.
My heartbeat accelerates with each step toward the door, though I can’t explain why.
“Who is it?” I call, my ear to the wood.
No answer comes, and when I check the peephole, it shows only darkness.
Cold spreads through my chest.
I slide the security chain into place before turning the handle, opening the door the few inches the chain allows, and the gap reveals a familiar figure that stops my breath.
Carson stands in the corridor, his sandy hair brushed back in neat waves, dressed in a pressed charcoal suit and periwinkle tie for the party I was meant to attend with him.
Gray-green eyes meet mine through the narrow opening, his expression placid as a frozen lake. “Leif, I believe we need to talk.”
I scramble to close the door, but Carson’s hand shoots through the opening, palm slamming into the wood with shocking force. The chain strains as he pushes, metal links stretching until one pops free from the wall with a spray of plaster dust.