Page 46 of Happy After All

“No,” I say. “I don’t really have the money for that. Anyway. I need to go back.”

I walk out to the parking lot quickly, and I block greetings like a champion, waving but not inviting further conversation. I’m shaking when I start the engine. By the time I’m halfway to the Pink Flamingo I realize I have no music on. I didn’t plug my phone in. I’m just drivingin the silence, letting the sound of my tires on the road and the wind whipping past the vehicle fill the car with a monotonous hum and rattle through my body.

I pull into my parking spot and get out. I’m walking into the courtyard when my phone rings. I look down at the screen.

Chris.

It still says his name just like that. Not Christopher Weaver. Or That Asshole You Used to Date, or Don’t Answer, which would have been helpful.

Chris.

Like he calls me all the time. Like he’s the only Chris it could possibly be.

“Fuck.Fucking.Fuck.”

“Are you okay?”

I whirl around, and there’s Nathan. Standing there in front of the pool gate, looking genuinely concerned, but I realize I just screamed obscenities right in the open in my own motel, which is a family establishment.

I can’t even be cool. I can’t keep up my mystique. I can’t lie.

“My ex is calling me,” I say.

“Are you going to answer it?” he asks, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“No,” I say. “I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to him so much that I moved to the desert. So there you go.”

“Why is he calling you?”

“You know, I’m not even sure you would believe the story if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Why?”

“Are you going to tell anybody else?”

It kills me that he knows I won’t. “No,” I say. “I don’t want to tell anyone else. I’m not even really sure I want to tell you.”

He stands there, looking at me, knowing, clearly, that I’m going to give in. I’m going to tell him.

“You know we’re doing this Christmas thing.”

“You mentioned that.”

“He is going to be a featured speaker.”

“Why?”

The logical question. Nathan is very good with logical questions.

“Because,” I say. “He is the prince of cheesy Christmas movies. In fact, quite literally. He played a prince in one.”

I’ve succeeded in shocking him. His face, normally either a scowl or carefully blank, actually shifts.

“Oh no,” he says.

“Yes.”

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