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“Just go away,” he groans before getting sick again.
“I will.” My fingers itch with the urge to rub his back and offer some comfort. After a few minutes pass and he hasn’t gotten sick again, I flush the toilet, then get up and walk into his room. I know I shouldn’t go through his things, but I still dig into his suitcase for his leather shower bag with the initials RDK branded into it and take it with me back into the bathroom.
“Hey.” I remove the cloth from his neck, and he lifts his head.
“You’re still fucking here?”
“I am.” I instinctively start to wipe his face, and he jerks his head back. “Sorry, old habits die hard. Let’s get you up.” I wrap my elbow through his and tug upward.
With a dazed look in his eyes, he gets to his feet, and I keep hold of him until he’s in front of the sink and able to lean against it to stay standing. I take out his toothbrush and load it up with toothpaste. He takes it from me and starts brushing while I rest my shoulder against the doorjamb and watch.
“I’m good. You can go,” he tells me, shutting off the water—or attempting to. He misses the faucet handle twice before I turn it off myself.
Ignoring his glare when he turns toward me, I catch him when he endeavors to take a step and stumbles. God, he’s heavy, but it doesn’t feel like he has an ounce of fat on his body. Thankfully, the bed isn’t very far, so I’m able to get him to it. He falls back on the mattress with the help of gravity, but it takes some maneuvering to get him adjusted on the bed so that his head is on the pillow.
Standing back, I look down at him and find he’s asleep. Even a mess, he’s breathtakingly handsome.
With a deep breath, I untie his boots and pull them off, then go to the small closet in the room to grab the blanket folded on the top shelf. The wind from the blanket as I toss it over him catches the cash and papers on his nightstand, sending them flying.
Quickly, before he wakes and thinks I’m robbing him, I pick up his money and put it back where it was. When I do one last scan of the floor, my gaze catches on a piece of paper tucked half under the edge of the bed. I bend to pick it up and put it with the rest of his stuff but stop when I realize it’s a newspaper clipping of an obituary.
I glance at the bed to make sure he’s still out before I allow my eyes to scan over the simple wordage that is so different from the obituary I spent weeks writing for my mom.
Valentino Santino King, age 23, of Manhattan, New York, died Tuesday, leaving behind his parents, Ricardo Luca King and Francesca Sofia King, along with his brother, Roman Dante King, and his two sisters, Sofia Zia King and Lucia Amara King.
The black-and-white photo is grainy, but the guy in the picture looks so much like the man on the bed that it’s almost startling.
Licking my lips, I place the small piece of paper under the edge of the lamp so it doesn’t fly off the nightstand again. Then, with the soup I ate for dinner sitting like a weight in the pit of my stomach, I grab the garbage can from the bathroom and put it next to the bed. Once I’m done, I shut off the light and turn the lock inside the door handle before leaving.
2
ELORA
45.8918° N, 123.9615° W
With my housekeeping cart loaded down with fresh towels, sheets, and cleaning supplies, I open the door and walk backward as I pull the cart into the breezeway. Shoving one earbud in, I press Play on the podcast I’ve been listening to for the past few days and head down the walkway toward the first room I need to clean this morning. As I’m about to take my keys out of my pocket, I see Ernest, the owner of The View, step out of the hotel office with his cane in hand and a box tucked under his arm.
“Elora, I was just coming to find you,” he says, walking toward me with a kind smile that accentuates his wrinkles.
“Is everything okay?” I take out my phone and press Pause on my show.
“A package just arrived for you.” He takes the box out from under his arm, where he was holding it as easily—and as carelessly—as a rolled-up newspaper, transferring the insignificant weight of the package to me.
“Is that it?”
It can’t be. How can all I’ve ever known of love fit into one little box that weighs nothing?
Grabbing my bottom lip between my teeth, I look at the mailing label taped to the box and try to force my heart to slow while the ground under my feet seems to waver.
“Yes.” I lift my gaze to his.
“When are you leaving?” The question is soft.
“I… I don’t know.” I swallow over the tightness in my throat. “Next week, maybe Monday,” I whisper, and his expression gentles.
“Colleen says you’ve been doing a great job. If you decide to stick around or want to come back after, you always have a place here.”
“Thank you.”
