With anxiety.
I’ve felt on the verge of breaking down for hours and been proud of myself for keeping it together in front of my enemy. But we are staring down what might be days of this torture, and I simply can’t take it.
I start to cry.
I try to do so silently.
“Are you all right?” Felix asks, after about five minutes of this. He sounds resigned, like he has to ask out of politeness.
“Yes,” I say tightly.
“You’re crying.”
I wipe away the tears. Speaking to him has the effect of making me so mad that it overrides all my other emotions.
“Well excuse me for that,” I snap. “But some might argue it’s the correct reaction to being stranded half-naked in bed with you.”
“It’s not like Iwantthis,” he says. “I didn’t wake up this morning and pray that I’d get trapped without clothes or a passport or money with a person who hates me. But look, calm down. We’ll get cash tomorrow and apply for emergency travel documents. This happens. There’s a solution.”
His rationalism makes me feel worse.
“Don’t tell me to calm down. It’s condescending.”
He sighs. “Fine. Enjoy your doom spiral. I’m going to sleep.”
I’m fairly certain he succeeds at this, as his breath steadies quickly into the somnolent rhythm I recognize from our previous nights together.
I lie awake half the night resenting his every soft snore.
Felix
I wake up naked, curled around Hope.
It feels good for the two seconds it takes my sleep-dulled mind to remember that I’m in a shitty motel room in a foreign country with a woman who will likely call the police if she realizes I’m touching her.
I inch away, fumble under the covers for my towel, which must have come off in the night, and wrap it around my waist.
Hope, to my deep relief, doesn’t stir.
I check my phone and have a text from my dad saying his private banker in London is going to wire money as soon as he has Hope’s information. I tiptoe over to the air conditioner, wriggle into my damp swim shorts from last night, and then open Hope’s purse to find her ID.
The picture on her driver’s license is laughably terrible. And when I see her name—Hope Gertrude Lanover—I’m reminded of our conversation about my posh name and background.
It worsens my mood.
Hope opens her eyes and clocks me taking a snap of it.
“Are you trying to steal my identity now?” she asks.
“Well, since I have no proof of mine, my father is wiring money to you. We can pick it up at nine.”
“You’re dressed. Are our clothes dry?”
“Damp,” I report. “But dry enough to wear until the shops open and I can get us something new.”
“You’re not leaving me here alone with no phone.”
“Well, then we can have a romantic date to buy novelty T-shirts.”
