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When I wake up about two hours or so later, it’s still dark out and all is quiet. Which is strange.
I’m used to my apartment where there’s constant noise, either from my next-door neighbor who falls asleep with his TV volume on high, or the upstairs neighbor whose kids like to run around early in the morning. I’ve gotten so used to it all, it’s become white noise, to the point where silence is a jarring difference.
Yet, I don’t want to move. I’m so warm and comfy—it feels like I’m lying on a cloud. A pink one. My own mattress is in desperate need of replacement, with the odd spring or lump making it hard to lie in one spot for too long. Not this one! I intend to take full advantage of the comfort. I burrow into the hotel bed, eager for more sleep. Before I can get too comfortable however, a chill washes over me and I shudder, blindly reaching for Dillan in the dark.
We must have shifted apart in our sleep.
When my hand meets cool sheets, all tiredness disappears. I open my eyes, only to find myself alone.
I sit up with the comforter clutched to my chest. My body is sore, which I’m definitely not used to. Dancing keeps me limber and fit, but sex had me working muscles I hadn’t used in quite some time. It’s definitely a good kind of sore. The kind that will have me thinking of a certain body part of his and smiling to myself the rest of the day.
That smile immediately fades when I realize I’m all alone.
“Dillan?”
Even as I call his name, I know there will be no answer.
“Dillan?”
I don’t know why I call his name again.
Slipping out of bed, I wrap myself in the blanket. The suite is dark and silent. I even check the bathroom, but it’s empty. Shuffling back into the bedroom, I glance over to the window where we started our sexcapade. On the floor where our clothes have been dropped, all I see is my crumpled dress, my thong, and abandoned heels.
Dillan’s clothes are gone.
Please no.
Don’t tell me he stranded me here.
Before I can start to truly freak out or get angry at being ditched, I notice a piece of paper next to the bed, carefully folded with my name scribbled across the front.
With a spark of hope, I pick it up and sink onto the edge of the bed. If I’m being honest, I don’t even know if I want to read what it says. My mind races with the possibilities, though I wish I could say all of them are positive. They’re not.
You don’t duck out on someone after having sex and just leave a note. If you want to leave, you should wake them and tell them to their face, I think to myself, tossing it to the side. That’s the devil on my shoulder speaking.
On the other hand, the fact he left one in general means something. He could have just left without any word at all.
Stop being stubborn. Hurry up! Read the damn note. That’s the angel on my shoulder speaking.
As quickly as I can, I turn the nightstand light on, casting a soft comforting glow around the room. At least, it’s probably supposed to feel comforting.
The first thing I notice is that doctors really do have terrible handwriting. I unfold the paper and immediately realize I can barely make out the words. I even try to squint and tilt my head, hoping it’ll be an easier angle to read. It isn’t.
“What the hell does this say?” I say aloud. “God damn it, Dillan.”
It reads:
Lizzie
It takes me a long time to decipher more than my name. After reading and rereading about ten times I can get the gist of what he’s tried to convey. Geez, what a scrawl! From what I can make out, he had to leave unexpectedly. Something about a work emergency, hoping to return, and a phone number at the bottom.
Feeling my anxiety wane, a rush of relief washes over me.
Okay. Crisis averted, all systems go. He didn’t leave because he wanted to (thanks, fate), and he has left a number for me to reach him (high-five, bitch!).
I glance at the clock, only to see that it’s about two in the morning. I don’t know when he left, but it can’t have been that long ago. It was barely midnight by the time we fell asleep, and who knows how long a medical emergency could take? Inhaling several deep breaths, I allow myself to smile again, feeling my confidence return—along with my exhaustion. I’m friggin’ tired. After a day of dancing and a night of exhilarating sex, I need more than two hours’ sleep.
The room is paid for, and waiting won’t kill me. I look behind me at the big warm bed that practically calls my name. Yep, staying put and catching some Z’s sounds like a plan.
