Page 113 of Lost Boy
I head toward the front of the historic hotel. The brick is worn and distressed, but the colonial-style columns are painted a bright white. With five stories and adjoining wrought-iron balconies, it has a sort of hundred-year-old, old-world charm.
I might appreciate such things if I wasn’t so focused on survival right now. Because that’s what this trip feels like. Like I’m in a capsized life raft in a life-or-death struggle, and I’ve got the unfortunate feeling that I’m going under.
I grab a luggage cart by the front entrance and wheel it back to Ryder, helping him load our bags.
He pushes it over to Joel and Al as they smile and laugh at the receptionist lady.
I won’t ever be that happy.
I just can’t.
“Okay, kiddos,” Joel says with a somewhat forced smile, trying to make light of a heavy trip for the both of us.
“Here’s a keycard for each of you. Al and I are in room four-sixteen, right next door.”
His worried eyes flick to my boyfriend for a moment. “Take your time and get settled in. We’ll bring the cart with us and knock on your door.”
Ryder grabs our two duffle bags, looping a thick arm through them. “Nah. I got it.”
“I see. Well, text me or the ‘Dad chat’ when you guys are ready to meet for lunch and discuss our plans.”
By plans, he means when I’m ready to go to the cemetery. To visit my dad’s grave. The one I left for dead.
It’s the entire point of this fun little weekend getaway.
Fuck.
I’m not good company.
I’m buckling under the weight of regret. The weight of not being there. Seeing his grave—proof that I can never change things—might be more than I can handle.
A soft touch skims between my shoulder blades, and a low voice murmurs in my ear. “Let’s go, Blue. We can lie down for a bit.”
My feet move on their own. One in front of the other until we reach our hotel room door. Ryder uses the keycard and opens it to a clean, fresh suite with two king-sized beds and a city view from what appears to be the top floor. I’m not sure. I can’t even remember riding the elevator.
I slip my shoes off and then my jeans, pulling the covers back and climbing into the still-tucked-in sheets, letting them cocoon me.
“Want me to get in there with you?”
“No. Just gonna nap,” I mumble, hating that I’m blowing him off. But I’m two seconds away from letting myself slip into oblivion, the only peace my mind can get when I’m in one of these moods. I need to take the relief where I can.
The last thing I see before I close my eyes are Ryder’s concerned ones staring back at me from the end of my bed.
* * *
I take a shower after my two-hour nap, and the combination of sleep and warm water has me feeling a little more human. Especially after I ate a full sleeve of mini powdered donuts from the vending machine down the hall. Ryder also procured a bucket of ice, two cups, and orange soda. Both of our favorites.
“You feeling better, Fal? You look better.”
I flick my eyes to Ryder’s intense stare, then away. “Yeah. I was really tired. Makes things worse.”
His eyes soften as he ambles over, standing at the end of the bed, peering down at me with love and concern. A tenderness I wish I could fully reciprocate.
“Since you’re doing better, I was hoping we could talk. And just hear me out, okay?”
“Okay.” He’s making me nervous, but I trust him.
I spread my thighs for him, and he shuffles in between, cradling my face with his giant palms and peering into my eyes. So intense and so determined. I can’t look away, even if he wasn’t holding me in place. I’m entranced by his charisma, his allure. I’ll say yes to anything, so when he tells me he brought my dad’s letter and wants me to read it before we go to the cemetery, I hear myself say, “Yes.” But whether I mean it or not is a different story.
