Page 17 of Lovers Fate

She laughs. “Probably.”

We both knew she wouldn’t do any of those things because Rose is attracted to men. We’re just having a conversation, and I like talking to her. It was like we had been friends for years.

“Are you working tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yeah. How about you?”

“Yep, I need money, and it’s the only place that pays on the spot.” I find the button and push it to open the door. “See you tomorrow?”

“Are you doing anything before work?”

“Not really. I’ll need to find work shoes and an outfit. I’m not crazy about sharing costumes.” “Who knows where those strings have gone?” I grin, hoping she takes the bait and offers to go with me.

She laughs through her nose. “I can give you a few ideas. How about two o’clock when I get out of school? I can swing by.”

I glance at the flickering motel sign and look back. “I don’t have a room number yet, but I’ll meet you at the entrance.”

“Okay.” I move to get out.

“Wait, I’ll give you my number.”

I pause, looking over my shoulder, and watch her pick up her fancy smartphone. “I don’t have a phone. Not yet.”

I can’t tell if she finds it weird because she nods in understanding, and I’m grateful she doesn’t push for a reason.

“No worries,” she says like it’s no big deal. “I’ll meet you out front.”

“Thanks, Rose…for the ride.”

“Anytime.”

I shut the door, knowing that if she knew the truth about me, she wouldn’t feel the same way.

EIGHT

After she drives off,I walk inside the front office. The same guy from earlier peers through large, framed glasses behind the front desk cluttered with paper.

As I walk toward the desk, he fidgets. Beads of sweat form on his forehead. He slouches in his chair like he expects me to make fun of him. The glasses don’t help at all.

When he looks up, that’s the first thing I notice—enlarged eyes that look like you’re looking at them through a microscope. At first, you think he is being funny by wearing them. It gives me a strong urge to laugh, but then I look past the glasses and see the insecurity in his eyes.

“How can I help you?” He drops his gaze from whatever he’s reading, acting as if he doesn’t know I was in here hours ago.

“I need a room.” He looks up in surprise. “I got the job at The Church.”

“Alright.” He starts typing. “I need an ID and a credit card for payment.”

“Whoa, I don’t have a credit card. I have an ID and the cash.”

His fingers stop typing. “I need a credit card on file.”

“Well, I only have cash,” I counter. “Anyway, why do I need a credit card on file if I’m paying for the room up front?”

“It’s for incidentals. In case you break something.”

This place is a cum-infested shithole. How can this motel expect people to pay with a credit card? The place is prehistoric except for the computer on his desk—the screen almost hidden behind sticky notes. It’s not a resort you see online or find appealing in any way. No one will look for them here, so people stay here or have no choice.

I scan the worn-out furniture in the office. The walls need paint. The office has those box air conditioners stuck to the wall, dripping with condensation. The carpet is stained. The corner of the ceiling is swathed with mold. Near the exit, the linoleum floor is degrading. The vending machine light flickers from the window outside.

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