Page 36 of Happy After All

Then he moves nearer to me. Which is also on the way to his room, but he sort of purposefully arcs toward me instead of walking around the covered corridor.

I’m trying to decide what to say, but he speaks first.

“Glad you had the room free.” But he doesn’t sound especially glad or anything close to it.

I don’t tell him I often have rooms free.

I wait for him to tell me why he’s here.

Before I ever worked in a writers’ room, I was always interested in telling everyone I met I was a writer and what screenplay I was working on. Before I ever sold a book, I enjoyed talking about the progress I was making on my novel. Now that it’s my job and I do things like scrap a book because I can’t deal with glorifying any fantasies involving an ex, I have much less interest in having a conversation about it.

Maybe it’s the same for him, and that’s why he never gives me any information about what keeps him locked up in my motel for days, weeks, months at a time.

Or maybe that’s part of my problem. I’m always assuming things about him. What he feels about me or doesn’t. That we might have a common bond because we’re both writers. Or because he stays in my motel and likes how I decorated the room.

Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s another thing he didn’t choose. Maybe it’s another maddening riddle.

I wonder if there’s a chance I could answer one of them right and he might let me trot across the philosophical bridge that leads to his feelings. But I doubt it.

More to the point, I shouldn’t care.

Just because he’s hot. And tall.

“So am I,” I say.

“I doubt it matters to you one way or the other who’s staying in the room.”

He’s not fishing for a compliment or a sign he matters or anything half so charming. His tone is caustic. Enough that it surprises me.

Not that it’s the first time he’s been openly hostile to me, but still. The fact that he stopped to talk to me made me think ...

It’s really not fair. I’m making an attempt at cheer here, mainly because I have to. Yes, I’ve slipped up and I’ve been testy with him a couple of times, but he’s just checking in, and each time he’s checked in, I’ve tried. Tried so hard to start over with a clean slate. Here I am with my generic customer service cheer, and notI have pictured you nakedcheer, and he’s being like this.

His hostility, therefore, feels a bit likeI have pictured you nakedhostility.

That revelation makes my heart beat too hard. I know I’m staring. Still splayed on the lounger, a romance novel in my hand.

“I’m glad it worked out for you, because you’re such a loyal customer,” I say, and I’m not sure where I got that from because I’m not an actress and have never even had the slightest aspiration toward being one.

He is not succeeding in acting. His green eyes are far too intense.

Hard and glinting and suggesting I’m not alone in my attraction.

My breath gets shallow, my heart speeding up.

I’m not in a romance novel. I know that. I know that sometimes a guy is not your Mr. Darcy—he’s just being mean.

I don’t know his life. He could be married. Could have a live-in girlfriend, a long-term relationship. I’m assuming he’s attracted to women, but the assumption is based on observations I’ve made over the past several years, and also the eye contact just now.

I reallydon’tthink I’m making it up.

“How have things been?” He pauses for a moment. “Since the fire.”

It’s not a question about me personally, and that’s fair. Of course he wants to know how things are in the community because he’s decent, and he was here during all that.

“It’s ... still a work in progress. The Aguilars are still living here full-time, until their complex gets rebuilt.”

“That’s . . . good.”

---