Daniel launches into his thrilling plans to woo Catherine, and it’s fifteen minutes later when Tanya sets a plate in front of me. There are scrambled eggs with garnish, and on the side is a steaming slice of ham, bright pink against the white plate. I lift my gaze to Tanya’s and she smiles.
“Bon appétit,” she whispers, handing me a steak knife. I swallow hard, taking it from her hand. I could argue, cause a scene. But Daniel and my dad are so happy right now. I wouldn’t ruin this moment for anything. Not even for pancakes.
I saw into the slab of meat, thinking I’ll have to choke it down if I hope to curb my growling stomach. I shove a thick chunk in my mouth, readying my hand on my glass. Tanya turns to grab another plate off the tray, and a flash of red catches my eye. I drop my silverware with a loud clang, terrified. Tanya’s bleeding—on her side she’s got a fist-size splotch of blood. My mouth is full of food as I try to get the words out, pointing my shaking finger in her direction. My father furrows his brow when I get his attention.
“Is it not to your liking?” Tanya interrupts, sounding concerned. I turn back to her; the blood is gone. Her crisp white shirt is stain-free, pressed and neat. My hands are shaking, and I flick my stare between the missing spot and her face. “Is there something wrong?” she asks, her left eye narrowing slightly as she studies me.
“No,” I say, putting my palm on my forehead. I run my hand down my cheek and then shake off the nerves. “I must have been imagining things.”
Tanya bites her long bright-red fingernail like she’s thinking. Then she smiles politely. “It happens to the best of us,” she responds. “Enjoy your breakfast.” Then she leaves to grab the other plates.
Chapter 3
After I finish eating, I decide to check out the gift shop I noticed when we checked in. I’m thrilled to be staying an extra two nights as I peruse the shop, which is more like a department store than a hole-in-the-wall filled with an array of tourist tchotchkes. There are key chains and shot glasses, of course, but there are also sets of delicate glasses and plates, linens, and plush robes—everything you’d need to re-create the Hotel Ruby experience at home. Weird, sure. But I’m kind of obsessed with the woven scarf hanging on the coatrack.
In Arizona I didn’t wear scarves very often, at least not sensible ones. A decorative one here or there with skinny jeans and boots, but this—I pick it up and wrap it around my neck. The fabric is as soft as cashmere, but thick and warm. It’ll be perfect for Elko’s long winters, the cold days I’ll be spending in some converted attic, locked away like my father’s forgotten past.
The thought of moving to my grandmother’s fills me with dread once again, and I unwind the scarf and loop it on the rack. I walk along a little farther and skim the T-shirts, pausing at a dark red one with THE HOTEL RUBY embroidered on the front. I smile and start to search through the sizes for an extra-large. When I find it, I hold it up, measuring if it’s big enough for Ryan. Lately his arms have gotten massive, and whenever I buy him a large, it—
Ryan. I drop the shirt onto the pile and take a step back. I’ve been on autopilot, mine and Ryan’s relationship so ingrained in my head at this point that I shop for him without thinking, that I save up my observations and funny stories to share him with later. Even though I have no intention of calling him. For so long I wanted to be free, and now that I am, I don’t know who I want to become. I’m not sure what kind of person I really am.
I leave the T-shirts and head toward the candies near the register. There’s an older woman behind the counter, reading through an issue of Entertainment Weekly, and a guy restocking bookshelves on the far side of the store. The woman glances up from her magazine and smiles.
“Hello there, hon,” she says in a faded Southern accent. “Are you looking for something in particular or just browsing?”
“Just browsing,” I respond. She nods, but sets her magazine aside like I’ve captured her attention instead. She’s a little older, about my mother’s age, polished and put together in an ivory suit with shoulder pads. She looks like she just walked off the pages of a JCPenney catalog. Her smile is wide and genuine, and her perfume reminds me of a grandmother’s—albeit a hip, rich grandmother who wears blazers to work a cash register. “Actually,” I say, hoping for conversation, “I might want to buy something for my ex-boyfriend.”
She chuckles, and slaps her palm down on the counter, startling me. “Now you’re talking.” She rounds the counter to stop in front of me. I read her name tag: ASTRID. “Thought I’d be spending another afternoon ready to kill myself,” she says. “Have you seen these people?” She waves her arms, gesturing to the Ruby itself. “They may as well be dead, they’re so boring.”
“Now tell me,” she continues, her dark eyes round with excitement. “Is this an ex you’re trying to win back, or is the gift more of an apology?”