Page 80 of Room for Us
Daphne’s head pops out from behind her mother. “What are you yelling about up here? The food is getting cold.”
“I’m telling your father to stop being a coward and go back to Idaho.”
Daphne laughs. “Yes! Go, Mom!” She turns angelic eyes on me. “I really liked it there.”
My toes tingle. My heart lifts. “You like it enough to, say, want to spend summers there? Maybe some holidays and weekends?”
“Duh,” she answers succinctly. “Besides, Dad, you can just keep this place and come visit me whenever you want. And there’s FaceTime. Don’t be a coward.”
I clutch my head. “I don’t even know if she wants me to come back. This is nuts.”
“You’re nuts,” quips my child. “That lady was awesome. She’ll forgive you for being dumb. Can we eat now?”
Janice chuckles. “Sure, kiddo.”
“You coming, Dad?”
I push to my feet, adrenaline making me light. As we head downstairs, my mind begins its favorite pastime: crafting a plot.
44
“Thank you so much, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. I hope you enjoyed your stay as much as I enjoyed having you!”
“Oh, Zoey, it was wonderful.” Mrs. Barnes, a sweet woman in her sixties who reminds me of Blanche from The Golden Girls, grips my forearm. Her eyes sparkle up at me. “I just knew a romantic getaway would do the trick.”
Mr. Barnes comes down the stairs with their luggage and heads out the open front door. He’s whistling. Mrs. Barnes gives me a saucy wink before following him outside.
I pop outside to give them a final wave goodbye, then grab cleaning supplies and hustle to their room. They stayed in the Lilac Room for three nights; being fastidious people, it doesn’t take me long to clean and prepare for my next guests, checking in this afternoon.
The bookings have been nonstop in the month since Ethan left, and I’m up to eight five-star Yelp reviews. My initial worry that reservations would drop off after the film festival was for naught—apparently the charm and personalized service of the inn is a welcome change to some from the do-it-yourself economy of AirBnb. At least that’s what my guests have told me.
Granted, most of them have been over fifty. I did have one young family, though, up from Boise to enjoy a weekend in the mountains. But I’m generally glad my clientele is more mature and invariably partnered up. I’ve had my fill of single, intriguing men.
When the Lilac Room is pristine, I head downstairs to begin cleaning the dining room. Another perk of my clientele’s age group is they almost never sleep in, opting for early breakfast and a morning full of activities. They’re also rarely here for lunch but return for naps in the afternoon, dinner promptly at six, and cozy evenings socializing in front of the fireplace or reading in their rooms.
Everything is perfect. Money is rolling into my account, the website is getting hundreds of clicks a day, reservations are steady…
And the roses are blooming.
I have absolutely nothing to complain about. Everything I’ve worked so hard for has come to fruition. The inn is flourishing. I’m successful. Fulfilled. Grateful.
And empty.
June and July pass in a haze of long days, poor sleep, and a parade of smiling faces. I manage to fit in a therapy appointment once a week with my mom’s help—she takes over during lunch on Wednesdays—but I don’t have time to process those sessions. My therapist, Megan, insists it doesn’t matter as long as I’m willing to work hard in the hour we have. And I do.
I’m not afraid anymore. I’m ready to understand how the past affects my present, to untie the bonds of my deepest fears. I want to be free.
There’s only one topic I can’t talk about yet.
Ethan.
I haven’t talked about him since spilling my guts to my mom after he left. Celeste pokes at the topic occasionally, testing my willingness to divulge my feelings, but so far she’s respected my boundaries.
I’m not sure why I don’t want to talk about him. I can’t explain it. It’s almost like the memories of him are a treasure that I’m afraid will tarnish in the light. Or, more likely, I’m scared that if I actually confront those two intense, transformative weeks, I’ll drown in regret.
That’s not to say I don’t think about him. I do. Mostly at night, alone in my aunt’s former suite that I finally packed up, repainted, and filled with my own furniture and belongings.
Memories of Ethan are my preferred snack before bed. I savor every morsel—his smile, quick laugh, frown of concentration. The timbre of his voice, touch of his fingertips, his breath on my neck, his lips softly meeting mine… I binge on emotional calories, addicted to brief moments of feeling close to him again, and willingly suffer the withdrawal symptoms of an aching heart and tear-stained pillow.
