Page 7 of The Heartbreak Hotel
“No,” I say. “I just wanted to—” I root around in my briefcase and pull out a check, the bulk of my savings, and thrust it at him over the exam table.
He takes it, glancing at my scribbled handwriting before looking back up at me. “You didn’t need to come in for this. Nate usually just mails it.”
I take a deep breath. “It’s not only that. I have a—proposal for you.”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “A proposal.”
I nod, and Henry stares at me for another beat before setting the check on the exam table. He adjusts his slacks and sits on the stool waiting behind him. Laces his fingers together between his thighs. “All right.”
I clear my throat and slide one piece of paper across the table at him: a photo of the house withMajestic Mountain Getawaysplashed over it in the most elegant word art I could find on short notice. A couple strands of dog hair have floated across it, and I wipe them hastily away.
“Imagine,” I say, and Henry’s eyes flick up from the photo to meet mine. “Your beautiful home,theshort-term rental destination of Estes Park, Colorado.”
Henry doesn’t look keen on imagining. When he tips back on the stool, his lips press into a line.
I slide another paper toward him. “Five individual guest bedrooms, beautifully appointed.” And another. “Homemade breakfast. Curated recommendations from a local. Meticulous maid service.”
“Who’s the meticulous maid?”
“Me,” I say, and now both of Henry’s eyebrows rise. They’re good eyebrows: dark and severe. “And I’d cook breakfast, too. And manage everything, every detail, and pass all of the profit along to you. With five rooms, we could easily bring in double what you’re currently asking in rent.”
He studies me. At some point while I was speaking, he crossed his arms over his chest. “And Nate?”
I raise my chin. “Nate’s not in the picture anymore.”
Henry’s face doesn’t change. His eyes only cut back and forth across mine, like he’s weighing this—or deciding what it means.I think he’ll probably do the polite thing and tell me he’s sorry to hear it, but instead he says, “Is he transferring the lease to you, then? We’ll need to sort it out in writing.”
I can feel it start to unfurl in me: fear. It seeps up from the floor of my belly, and I press one hand to my blouse, as if I could trap it there. Henry tracks the movement before looking back up at me.
“That’s the thing,” I say. “I want to run the house as a bed-and-breakfast instead of taking over the lease.”
“What’s in that for you?”
I swallow. It does nothing to push down the rising tide—the feeling that I’m drowning in myself. He’s going to say no; I can already tell. And I’ll be out of a home, out of a relationship, out of a future. “You’d let me live there for free.”
There’s a long silence. Henry’s arms are still crossed. He says finally, “Ah.”
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” I say, and a muscle tics in his jaw. “But I do think it makes sense, financially. For you.”
“And you.” Something about his gaze feels punitive, like he’s caught me in a lie. My eyes start to burn, and I will myself to keep it together. I think of Goldie, who’s always been irritated by my propensity for tears, the way itmakes people take you less seriously. There’s no space for my heartbreak in this room.
But then Henry says, “I’m sorry, but no,” and immediately goes blurry in front of me. “You can’t run a vacation rental without the right permits, and I’m not interested in strangers cycling through my home, and—” He breaks off, and I wipe quickly at my face. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I say thickly. “Sorry, I must be allergic to—cats, orsomething.” When I gesture at the portrait on his wall, he doesn’t look away from me.
“I can easily transfer the lease from Nate to you,” Henry says. His voice is even, but when I look back at him his face has gone the slightest bit pink—right along the ridges of his cheekbones. “There’s no need to go to all this trouble.”
I think of Mei, when I called her before driving over here, the pep talk she gave me as I stood in front of the mirror.You go in there like the badass, empathetic, beautiful businesswoman that you are and make him see the genius of your plan.I draw a long, slow breath and blink my eyes clear.
“I can’t afford it,” I tell Henry. He holds my gaze. “Without Nate. I’m looking for work as a therapist, and even then, I won’t be able to afford it.” Henry rolls his stool sideways to open a cupboard above the sink. I’m humiliated when he pulls out a spool of paper towels and extends it toward me. “I love your house,” I tell him, taking the towels. I rip one off and dab it under my eyes, hoping my mascara hasn’t turned me into a rabid raccoon. “It’s my home. And I really, really don’t want to leave it.”
Henry watches me as I carefully fold the towel and drop it into a small metal trash can. When he still hasn’t said anything, I find myself carrying on just to fill the silence. “It’s the first place that’s ever felt like home to me. The attic office, and the garden, and the window in the upstairs bedroom that overlooks the street—where sometimes I can see Custard the St. Bernard in Bill and Martina’s yard.” Henry’s face is all sharp lines: the cut of his mouth, the rigid set of his eyebrows. But I see the quickest flicker of something—sympathy, or surprise. Something soft in his eyes, there and then gone. I cling to it like a buoy. “It’s myfavorite place in the world. And if I could share it with other people, instead of having to leave it, I mean—” I hesitate, drawing a steadying breath. “I’ll take such good care of it. I promise.”
Henry’s quiet for a long, slow minute. His eyes are shocking, white-ringed blue, like lake ice in the sun.
“I have a friend in city hall,” he says finally. He seems surprised at the sound of his own voice, and when he shifts on the stool he looks distinctly off-kilter, like he’s baffled by himself. “Who might be able to help with the permits.”
I grin, such an intense slice of a smile that it makes my cheeks ache straightaway. “Thankyou,” I say, a rush of words that propels me toward him across the exam table. When my hand lands on his forearm, squeezing, I feel the muscle jump under his sleeve. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” His eyes flick up to mine, startled, and I let go. “Seriously. Thank you.”
