Page 21 of The Heartbreak Hotel
“And I’d rather use that energy to help other people throughtheirpain,” I say finally, “than sit here boiling in my own. If I need your permission to do that, then I guess this is me asking for it.” When Henry doesn’t immediately respond, I keep going. “You told me to run with this. You said that youdidn’twant to be involved. What else do I need to check with you?” My voice is rising. It feels good to be angry, so much better than being sad. “Do you want to approve the guest list? The check-in procedure? Should we go back to the breakfast menu? Should I call you every time I—”
“No,” Henry says softly. He stands up, nudging the article across the counter toward me like he doesn’t want it anymore. In the quiet that falls, I realize I’ve been yelling at the person who holds my entire life in the balance. He could cut it all out from under me anytime he wants.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Henry’s shoulders are up around his ears. He rolls them out, blinking slowly, like he’s unwinding something inside himself. “That wasn’t—I got carried away.” He opens his eyes and looks at me through dark lashes. Something’s softened—just barely—in his gaze. “That wasn’t professional.”
One corner of Henry’s mouth twitches upward. On anyone else, I’d call it a smile. “You never are, are you?”
I bite my lip, face warming. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” he says. When he draws a deep breath, it sounds like he’s bracing for something. “You don’t need my permission. I got carried away, too.”
Oh.I shift on the stool, unsure what to do with his apology. I think of his voice, just moments ago, threaded with an unfamiliar anguish:It’s not trivial. And the way he moves in front of me now, like he’s a little embarrassed. His cheeks are still pink—not from his run anymore, maybe. From this conversation.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Henry says, starting around the counter. “I need to get to work. Proceed with your heartbreak hotel.”
“It’s not—” I start, but the way he glances back at me over one shoulder makes me realize he’s kidding. Henry Rhodes, making a joke.
I lift a hand in farewell. He opens my front door.
I think,Who broke your heart, Henry?
Eleven
“What about group sessions?” Ireach for my wineglass and take a sip, angling on the kitchen island stool to look at Mei. “Where we can all vent about stuff together?”
“Oh, definitely,” she says. There’s a bowl of cheddar popcorn in front of her, and she plucks out a disconcertingly orange piece and pops it in her mouth. “There’s nothing more powerful than a group of women talking about their feelings.”
“Well, there might be men, too.”
Mei grimaces, and I swat at her arm.
“I’m kidding,” she says, reaching for her own wineglass. But then she slants her eyes at me while she takes a sip. “Maybe.”
We’ve been at this all evening: plugging program ideas for the heartbreak retreat into a Word document, open on my laptop between us. We’re a few days into October and, like clockwork, the evenings have turned chilly. A fire crackles from the living room and the warm lights below the kitchen cabinets are turned on. The rest of the house is dark—it feels close and cozy, like the whole space is lit by fireflies.
Mei reaches across me and types:Guided hikes.
“Who’s guiding them?” I say. “Me?”
“I mean, obviously.” In an oversized CU sweatshirt and leggings, Mei could be twenty again, studying beside me in the library. She tucks hair behind one ear. “I know you aren’t an award-winning outdoorswoman, but you’re aware of enough trails up here to take some tourists out for a couple hours.”
When you live in Colorado, everyone assumes you’ve become one with the woods—but thishouseis my happy place. The nature’s always been a bonus.
“I know, like, two hikes.”
“Two’s fine,” Mei says. She reaches for more popcorn and leans back on her stool to eat it. “People are going to be coming and going—you can just repeat the same two.”
“Okay, I can probably handle that.” As I add the names of the few trailheads I know to the document, my phone buzzes on the counter.
It’s Goldie, a linked article with two words above it:Fuck him.My ribs curl in, bracing my lungs for what my body already knows is coming—something about Nate. I shouldn’t click it. I should stay in this moment with Mei, building my new life, moving forward. Ishould, but I don’t.
The article is fromPeople, a publication Nate couldn’t have dreamed of seeing his name in before the “Purple Girl” re-release. But there he is: walking down an L.A. sidewalk with a lanky arm thrown over Estelle’s shoulders, his chin tipped down as he listens to her speak, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses we picked out together after he lost his favorite Ray-Bans on the Fourth of July. My finger hovers over my phone screen, afraid totouch it. The headline is offensive in its simplicity:Nate Payne Steps Out With New Girlfriend in Los Angeles.
“Lou?” Mei’s voice brings me back to myself, a rope thrown down a well. “What is it?”
I blink up at her, then thrust the phone over the counter so she can see it for herself. This was coming, of course. Nate’s life will keep being visible to me, even when I’m not looking. It feels like a stomachache—the unsettled roil of your insides completely disagreeing with you, like my body’s working to reject this.
I don’t want to be that girl anymore, tucked under Nate’s arm. But I don’t want this to have a place in my new life—in my kitchen, as I plan a project I’m so excited about—either.
