Chapter 14

Two hours later I woke up. I reached blindly for my phone, typing in the Wi-Fi password that I’d been given at the reception and hoping I’d gotten it right, as I didn’t think I was up to hopping on the phone with a complete stranger to just talk.

I was loathe to reaching out and randomly imposing on people even when they were literally obligated to help, as somehow my anxiety somehow always managed to make me believe that I was inconveniencing them when there were better things they could be doing.

To my great relief I’d remembered it correctly, and shortly after a flood of text messages from Paula and Sidd came in asking if I’d arrived safely, followed by missed FaceTime calls from both of my parents. I shot off quick replies to all of them, apologizing as I explained that I’d been asleep before plugging in my phone to charge by the bedside drawer.

Stumbling blindly to the bathroom, I relieved myself, and only after I washed my face was I able to take in the sheer magnificence of the bathroom that I’d found myself in. It was oversized, and every surface had been finished off by a kind of clear white Italian-marble that appeared illuminated beneath the soft glow of fluorescent light bulbs.

A wide deep soaking tub sat at a corner of the room, and at the other end there was a shower, and finding myself without a brooding audience of one this time I let my fingers trail reverently over every surface, marveling at how spotlessly clean it all was. I could’ve eaten meals served on the floor.

Okay, that was an exaggeration—but you get my point. There was even a Bluetooth speaker.

After about ten minutes of familiarizing myself with the various knobs that controlled temperature and water pressure, I rushed out excitedly; taking a moment to connect my phone to the speaker and scrolling to a playlist I’d titled Wicked Sexy—which comprised mainly of every single mainstream girl power anthem you could think of, by singers from Britney Spears to Whitney Houston—I stripped, running butt naked into the showers, where I sang, shimmied and spun, basically becoming a one woman pop superstar to an imaginary audience of millions.

My mom said that I’d always had an overactive imagination, even as a child, which was why I’d gravitated naturally towards anything that deviated slightly from the norm—from the Star Wars franchise to George Orwell’s 1989.

I was happiest when I was alone, and even though David had complained about it enough times that I knew it was a problem I’d never been able to get over my general introversion.

Over an hour later, I padded out, skin flushed with a large towel wrapped over my head to soak in the moisture and an even larger smile on my face.

I slid into a simple sweatshirt and pajama bottoms, walking out of the room when my stomach began to let out ominous rumbles of discontent, reminding me that I realized I hadn’t eaten in close to twenty-four hours.

Elijah was seated on one of the high stools. He hadn’t changed out of his outfit, but now his shirt was untucked, and watching the languorous motions his legs made as he swung them from the stool I could only imagine how beautiful a child he must’ve been.

He was so engrossed with the piece of paper in front of him that he didn’t notice me until I was near enough to look over his shoulder and see that he was doing last week’s segment of the New York Times crossword puzzle. His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t attempt to hide it, and a second later my stomach let out a wicked growl.

My face colored, but he tactfully ignored it, sending me a sideways glance.

“I figured you’d be hungry when you woke up and ordered some room service,” he said, pointing the pencil in his hand to the fridge. “You can microwave anything.”

“Thanks,” I said unsteadily, pulling open the fridge to find that he had ordered a restaurant’s worth of delicacies enough to see me through the week.

I turned to him. “Elijah, I can’t finish all of this.”

He shrugged, not looking up as he scribbled into the newspaper.

“I didn’t know what you liked and so I asked them to bring up one of everything they served for lunch and dinner.”

His logic left me slack-jawed, and I gave a disbelieving huff of laughter.

“You could’ve asked me.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

I waited to see if he’d follow up with something else, but after a few seconds passed with him saying nothing I realized that Elijah given his reason, and even if I could still barely wrap my head around how much the whole thing had cost and how much of it could go to waste (not on my watch), I realized he was a grown man.

He made his money, and he could spend it however he liked, though there were far better causes that he could pledge himself to than fattening me up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

After a moment I shook my head resignedly and began the process of rummaging through the fridge until my eyes caught a grilled steak salad. I pulled it out, and then paused.

“Have you eaten?” I asked Elijah, who shook his head in reply.

“I’ve been swamped,” was all he said, and when I prodded, asking if he’d like something he nodded, bending over to scribble into the newspaper. “Nothing with fish,” he added. “Thank you.”

This side of him, I thought, so focused on one task that reality seemed to fall away from him—it was new to me.

He’d ordered a shit ton of food when he reasoned that I would be hungry when I woke up but hadn’t thought to grab a bite for himself and now he sat, the skin on his forehead creased as he filled in a crossword puzzle.

I grabbed another bowl of food for him, pausing to ensure it didn’t have fish, before microwaving both. When our meals were ready, I rummaged through the pantry for cutlery and then pushed his dish to him. Thoughtlessly, he reached for it but let out a hiss of pain when he found it was too hot.

Our eyes met, and I held his gaze for a second longer than I should’ve before handing him his fork and looking away, and after a moment longer I felt his gaze shift away from me, returning back to his crossword.

We sat on opposite sides of the granite countertop eating together in comfortable silence, and a sense of déjà vu settled over me as I watched him occasionally pick at his food through lowered lashes. Inside my chest my heart did funny, warm backflips that would put a Russian Olympic medalist to shame—but I ignored them, and by the time I finished eating I had even managed to convince myself that they’d stopped.