Page 118 of When Fate Breaks
“Yes!” I shout, making the driver jerk backwards. “Sorry, yes. That’s it. Can you take me there?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure thing, Miss,” the driver says, turning forward and putting the car in drive. “Cab’s cash only though. That okay?”
My heart sinks as he meets my gaze in the rear view mirror. “I don’t have cash,” I whisper.
The driver sighs, putting the cab back in park. I robotically unhook my seat belt, pushing open the door. I let it fall closed behind me but shove my hand in between it and the car at the last second to stop it before it fully shuts.
“Would you mind telling me what street it’s on? The Winfeld?” I ask the driver meekly. Loud thunder crackles throughout the sky suddenly, making me jump.
The driver’s lips pull to the side, a look of pity on his face. “54th, doll.”
54th.
Fourteen blocks away.
“Thanks,” I mutter, shutting the door. Rain starts coming down in sheets the second the driver pulls away, my hair and blazer soaking through in seconds.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Tears fall freely from my eyes, blending with the rain drops as I jog through the streets of Manhattan, trying and failing to use my binder as an umbrella. Water sloshes around my ankles, ruining my brand new pair of panty hose. My teeth chatter in the quickly dropping temperature and my swiftly melting mascara clouds my vision. I glance up, making sure I’m heading in the right direction.
43…44…45.
Nine blocks to go. I can do this.
My heart is in my throat and my feet are covered in blisters by the time the neon sign of the Winfeld comes into view. Every inch of my skin and clothing is soaked, the rain only pounding harder the further into my trek I went. I think I stopped crying at some point, but I’m not entirely sure. I’m running on empty, physically and emotionally, and I’m not sure how much more my body can take. I only pray Blake has the heart to forgive me for being–the clock above the entrance of the hotel catches my eye, reading 7:57 p.m. –two hours late.
Two. Hours. Late.
On the worst day of the year for Blake. The one he didn’t want to be alone for.
Oh my God,I’m the worst human alive.
I choke against a sob, fanning my face under the overhang of the hotel, wiping as much makeup as I can from under my eyes and attempting to get myself together. I shake my head, blowing out a breath as I push my way through the revolving door.
Once inside, I glance around the lobby expectantly. I don’t know why; it’s as if I thought Blake was just going to be standing inside, waiting for me to come storming in looking like the complete mess that I am. In the same moment that I realize I have no idea what Blake’s room number is, the woman working behind the front desk calls out to me.
“Ma’am? Is there something I can help you with?”
I turn to see her eyeing me, one brow raised in judgment. I can’t say I blame her. This is an extremely nice hotel and I quite literally look like something the cat drug in.
“Oh, um, yes,” I say, approaching the counter. A massive flat screen TV built into the wall behind the desk distracts me, flashing between pictures of the hotel’s various amenities and advertisements of local attractions. “Sorry,” I say, coming back to reality, “I just– I’m staying here…with my, uh…boyfriend…and I just can’t seem to remember which room we’re staying in. Could you…tell me which room is booked under the name Blake Di Fazio?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman says, shaking her head. “We can’t give out that kind of information due to guest confidentiality standards.”
“Oh,” I mutter, my life leaving my body by the second. This day can’t possibly get worse.
The woman’s expression seems to fade into one of almost sympathy, possibly sensing the dread and misery rolling off of me. “Could you call him, perhaps?” she suggests.
“My cell phone died. And I just ran fourteen blocks in the rain.” The last part was completely irrelevant to her question and the current situation, but I am willing to take any pity I can get at this point.
“Oh,” she says, scanning me with her eyes. “Well, you could use our phone?” she says, holding up the wired front desk phone to me.
My eyes fall shut and I swallow hard. “I don’t have his phone number memorized,” I whisper.
“Oh,” the woman says again, a frown spreading across her face. “Well, I’m sorry, ma’am. There unfortunately isn’t anything else I can do for you.”
“I understand,” I mutter, my eyes peeling open. “Thank you anyway–”
