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He nods and begins to make the drink.
The place is relatively empty, likely thanks to the concert across the street.
The man places the glass in front of me, and I give him my room number.
“Charge it to the room, please.”
I finish two before I retreat back to my hotel room to wait.
He’ll come. He always does.
I change into something comfortable and begin to flip through the channels, settling on a random crime documentary. I watch the story of a jilted lover gone psychopath playing out on the screen. The producers do an excellent job of making you think the killer was the ex, but their big reveal at the end is that it was her best friend sleeping with her husband.
“Can’t trust anyone,” I mutter as the credits roll.
I look down at the time and groan.
It’s 2:00 a.m.
My eyes are heavy, but the anticipation of whether or not he will come to me keeps me awake. I toss and turn in the plush bedding, my mind racing with what-ifs.
When I hear the key slide into the door, I roll over to the bedside table where the clock sits.
3:00 a.m.
He comes inside and leans against the door. I sit up in the bed and brace my weight against my arms.
“Hey.” My voice is groggy despite the lack of sleep. It felt silly to say, but it was all I could think of.
“Hey,” he responds in a low voice, partially obscured by the shadows of the dark room.
“Are you going to stay over there?” I ask, cocking my head slightly to the side.
He doesn’t respond but closes the space between us and sits at the foot of the bed.
“That’s better,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
He exhales loudly, and I crawl over to him, wrap my arms around his shoulders, and rest my chin on the curve of his neck.
I turn so that my lips are just barely brushing against his ear.
“What’s wrong, Ryan?”
He turns away from me and stares at the wall. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I take my bottom lip into my teeth. “Talk to me.”
I can feel him pulling away from me, but I want to fight it. I want him to open up to me, to let me in.
His head snaps back to face me.
“Juliet, this isn’t any of your fucking bus—”
The wounded look on my face must have been enough to stop that sentence in its tracks.
“You’re right,” I bite out. “I mean, hell, we’ve just been screwing around, right? It’s not like it means anything.”
I roll away from him and put as much space between us as I can.
