Page 63 of Their Last Resort

“Why do you look sad? You didn’t have to stay with me.”

“No,” I rush out. “It’s not that. I just kind of regret not going to get something sweet.”

“You want something sweet?” He sets down the remote on the dresser and turns toward me. Already the cogs are spinning.

“Yeah. You?”

He tilts his head back and forth like he’s letting the idea roll around his brain. “Yeah, I could do something sweet.”

So it’s decided then.

“Get your shoes,” he tells me.

We head for the second-floor vending machines. I know that somewhere in the world there are newfangled vending machines that accept Venmo and retinal scans, but Siesta Playa has the old-timers that take coins and cash and complain about walking five miles to school, uphill. I have no cash on me because I never carry cash. I’m a card girl. Cole’s only got a twenty, and the machines only accept one-dollar bills, so we make a pit stop down at reception, and Cole has them break it and give him change. All quarters. We need a bag to carry them all.

I’m already excited about what candy I’m going to buy, but when we arrive at the second-floor vending machine, we find it’s been totally cleared out. Everything is out of stock save for a desiccated Honey Bun wedged between two rings.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Everything? They goteverything?!”

We both know who did it. One of the preppers got it in their head that we weren’t going to provide them three meals a day, I bet. He’s probably running some underground snack cartel out of his hotel room and charging people exorbitant prices.“Listen, I don’t make the rules. You want the M&M’s or not?”

“What do we do now?” I ask, turning to Cole.

We can’t give up. My sweet tooth is aching.

“Downstairs, near the gym,” Cole says with no further explanation. There’s no need. I know he’s thinking of where another vending machine is.

Lo and behold, that one’s cleared out too.

“What the hell!” Cole erupts.

He’s as mad as I am now. I don’t even suggest giving up and going back to the room. Either we get candy or we die trying.

We both look at each other and say, at the same time, “Twelfth floor.”

The twelfth floor has been undergoing renovations for the last few weeks because of water damage caused by a leak. No guests are allowed on the floor, but we are. We take the stairs up from the eleventh floorand push open the heavy door. Cole looks both ways, determining whether the coast is clear. Then we traipse right through the construction site. Considering it’s after dinner, the crew’s probably gone anyway.

Down at the end of the hall, we find a gloriously full vending machine beaming at us with all the light of ten thousand suns. Snack food glistens inside.

We make it rain on that machine.

I’m not sure if Cole planned on spending his entire twenty bucks on junk, but we do it. Hell, we probably could have cleaned out his entire wallet if this thing took larger bills.

It’s a tedious process deciding exactly which snacks we need. You can’t be hasty about this kind of thing.

“Hold on,” Cole says, frantically reaching out for my hand before I can key in the code for a Butterfinger. “We already have a Hershey’s and Reese’s. We’ve filled our chocolate quota; now we need something fruity or sour and then something salty.”

“Oh my god. Yes. Duh.” I can’t believe I was so close to leading us astray. What is this? Amateur hour?

“Okay, regular Skittles or sour Skittles?” I ask.

Cole looks at me, his eyes narrow subtly, and then he begins counting. “One ... two ... three—”

“Sour,” we say together.

Zap. It’s like Cupid’s arrow just struck me square in the heart. I’m surprised I don’t topple over.

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