Page 24 of Something Like Fate

Miranda shakes her head. “No flights out of country until tomorrow morning. Everything is grounded until the storm passes,” she says to the massive line of people behind us, who all grumble simultaneously. “My advice is that you find somewhere to stay overnight.”

We accept the new tickets for early the next morning and haul our bags to a wooden bench to figure out next steps.

Upon a brief Google search, we realize our options are slim with all the flights that are canceled. We call at least ten hotels in the area, none of which have any vacancies. One receptionist even barks a single-syllable laugh and hangs up.

The only place with a vacancy is a motel on the outskirts of town.

A sixty-dollar Uber ride later, we’re standing in front of the Shady Pines Inn.

“Could they not have come up with a better name?” I ask, taking in what was seemingly once a vibrant, neon sign that now readsh dy es nnand flickers intermittently, casting an eerie glow over the potholed parking lot. The beige paint on the siding is chipped and faded. There’s even a unit on the end with a rickety slab of wood nailed across the window, as though someone was trying to keep some dark entity in—or out.

Teller gulps and kicks at the gravel underneath his foot. “I’m sorry, but is this a joke? We can’t stay here. It’s straight from a horror movie.”

“Well, we paid to Uber all the way here,” I remind him, starting toward the lobby.

Teller begrudgingly follows close at my heels as we haul our rucksacks inside. Its entrance is bookended with rusty lawn chairs haphazardly turned toward the road. The lobby is a tiny, dimly lit, colorless room with a large walnut desk. At the desk is an elderly lady in glasses adorned with little pink rhinestones, a crocheted vest pulled over her ample chest.

“Hello, you’re the fellow who called ahead? Mr. Owens?” Her oddly cheery demeanor only adds to the creepiness.

“Unfortunately,” Teller mutters, though I don’t think she hears him over the clacking of her keyboard as she checks us into a room with two double beds.

The room is as expected from what we’ve seen of the place. There are two beds with mattresses that dip in the center after years of wear. Their floral-patterned comforters have almost certainly been here since the motel’s opening. Same goes for the heavy drapery, which are maroon on one side and sun-faded pink on the inside. A faint, musty scent of cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air.

And now it sinks in: I’ll be sharing a room with Teller. For the entire trip. Something about this reality makes my stomach flip. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable. Teller is probably the person I’m most comfortable with on Earth, aside from Dad and my aunts. But there’s something intimate about sharing the same tiny space, the same toilet, with someone for a month.

It’s the same as sharing with Bianca,I tell myself again. Only ... Teller is a guy. A guy with newly formed abs and muscly arms.

“Is this blood?” Teller asks, pointing to some suspiciously dark-red drips next to the dresser on the frayed carpet. “Oh god. I think it’s blood. Someone was for sure murdered here. Your dad would have a field day.”

“Don’t come in the bathroom,” I warn, assessing the discolored tiles and moldy grout.

He ignores my warning, poking his head in, immediately zeroing in on the cracked soap dish, sporting a used bar of soap. “That’s a pube,” he says, nearly gagging.

I examine the bar of soap closer, turning my head sideways, like the angle will make a difference. “We can’t know for sure. It could be a wiry beard hair.”

“Nope. Most definitely a pube. Lo, I don’t know if I can do this. Any hostel has to be better than this.”

I give him a motivational slap on the back, trying to stay positive for his sake. “Exactly. It can only get better from here. Besides, we’re just here for the night.”

That doesn’t comfort him in the slightest. Before I can unzip my bag, he’s on his hands and knees, mattresses turned over, searching for bedbugs. Given the bathroom tap is emitting rusty water, I head outside in search of clean drinking water.

The one thing this place has going for it is a well-stocked vending machine.

“They have Raisinets!” I say when I return, two bottles of water and a bunch of snacks in hand.

Teller is parked on the edge of the bed, his butt taking up as little real estate as possible without falling off. He’s wearing two hooded sweatshirts, a pair of plaid pajama bottoms, and thick socks. He refuses to sleep under the covers. “Seriously?” He inspects the box of Raisinets. “Just checking to make sure they’re not expired,” he says before peeling it open.

We make at least five more trips to the vending machine, spending way too much of our travel money on weird snacks like cheese-flavored Bugles, blueberry Pop-Tarts (my choice), and two rock-hard oatmeal-raisin cookies (obviously Teller’s choice) that nearly break my teeth.

The rest of the day goes by shockingly fast, sitting among a pile of snack wrappers, playing all our old card games. When I get tired of losing, we flick back and forth between all forty cable channels. Eventually, we settle on an infomercial station that’s advertising “Putt on the Potty,” which is exactly what it sounds like—a tiny golf putter and ball with felt that hugs the toilet, allowing you to practice putting while pooping.

“Why are you snickering?” Teller asks, eyeing me suspiciously. He’s still in all his layers, propped on my pillows at the head of the bed, while I’m draped at the foot.

I roll onto my back to hide my phone. “Nothing.”

“You’re up to something.” The glint in his eye is mischievous. Then he pounces over me on all fours like a panther, arms on either side ofmy temples, caging me in. At the sudden movement, the worn mattress springs let out a deafening squeal, like it’s protesting our weight.

Our eyes lock, and something shifts between us. I wonder if he feels it too.

---