Page 2 of Happy After All

Sometimes I wonder if I’m repeating the same dynamics here. Trying to fit in somewhere that doesn’t really need me. Where I’m not really wanted.

Though, dealing with standoffish strangers isn’t the same as a distant father.

From February to now has felt like a trial run for a new life. Like I’m working on a pitch for a book and not the book itself. Nothing has felt all that deep. Nothing but the weather has been scorching.

Until this man walked into my motel and I’m torn between the urge to sit in the wonder that desire might still exist inside my body, and the horror that I’m this easily pulled out of my Amelia as a Work in Progress Project by a (very) handsome face.

“I guessed,” I say. “Not a lot of people checking in this time of year. The other reservation I have today is a family.” I don’t know why I feel the need to offer all this information. Even as I do that, I realize I wouldn’t if he weren’t so gorgeous.

Becausehe’s handsome, I feel the need to try to make it clear I’m not responding to his looks (I’m really not)—I’m just a professional. So very professional.

I assume he’s the kind of attractive that gets a lot of reactions all the time, not just from motel owners in small towns.

“Great,” he says. I’m not sure why he says that. His tone doesn’t make it sound like anything isgreat. He doesnottry to smile.

I’ve been so caught up in how handsome he is, I didn’t notice that he looks ...

Unhappy. Angry. Definitely not excited to be here in any way.

“The Hemingway Suite,” I say.

“What?”

“Room thirty-two. That’s what you reserved.”

The corners of his mouth tense, then relax, and a crease appears between his brows and just as quickly goes away. Then he almost smiles. “Right. Of course. It has a desk.”

“Yes,” I say.

I hold up the keys, which are physical keys, and I feel like there’s a certain charm to that. At least, I tell myself there is because my budget hit its limit four months ago.

In reality, I need to update. I’ve already had guests lose keys or take them, and it’s just such a liability. I want a new, electronic system, maybe even a system that can allow guests to unlock doors through an app. But that’s a dream for down the road when business picks up a little bit.

He looks at the keys as if they’re more a nuisance than anything retro or charming. Then I pass them to him and our fingers brush.

I feel . . . something.

The heat from his skin, the roughness of it. It’s like static electricity against my fingertips. I thought that part of me was dead, I really did, until right this minute.

I look at him, at his dark-green eyes. I don’t think he feels anything, and I feel a rush of what I tell myself is relief.

What would I have done if he’d responded to the invitation my body is issuing without my permission?

The answer is nothing. Because the truth is,hespecifically isn’t the worst man to walk into my motel.Anyattractive man would be. I’m not going there, I decide.

I can’t go there.

I’m just six monthsafter. There was abefore. I was a different person before, and I had a different life. I had different dreams. I was planning for a different future.

I made a vow to myself that until I’d had as much time in theafteras I’d had in thebefore, I needed to keep my focus squarely on myself, my new life, my friendships, my writing, the Pink Flamingo Motel. All the things I’ve dedicated myself to in the time since.

If I don’t focus on that, I might run away. Back to LA. Or, God forbid, back to Bakersfield.

No. I’m not running. I chose this, even when it’s hard to remember that. I’m committed to trying to last at least a year.

“I’ll show you to your room,” I say, because the reminder of why I’m standing there talking to him is one I desperately need.

“I think I can find it.”

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