“Don’t do it,” I tell myself now, afraid of the flood of memories that will follow. My thumb hovers over the album, hovers over my past. “Don’t see,” I whisper.
I’m not sure how long I sit, frozen, before my hand starts to cramp. I drop the phone onto the bed and cover my face, my body jolting from holding back my cry. But it’s a new day. As Ryan said after the funeral, “Every day’s a gift, Audrey. Don’t waste it.”
I still, Ryan’s voice whispering in my ear. It wasn’t fair, the way I treated him. He deserved better than me; I think even he knew that. But he loved me, and we fight for the things we love even when they’re bad for us.
“You’re just going to leave?” Ryan asked, perched on the edge of my bed while I packed. He kept his head lowered, as he had since the night of the party. He’d gotten a concussion, the bruise still heavy over his brow. He was suffering headaches, blurred vision in his right eye. Doctors weren’t sure when (or if) it would go back to normal. Even after all that he couldn’t let me go.
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked him. “Run away? I told you, Daniel and I are going to plan something soon. I’ll call you. I’ll let you know I’m okay.”
“And if I’m not okay?” Ryan asked. I turned from my closet and met his eyes. He looked so sad, so goddamn sad, and all I wanted was to disappear—set him free. But I was too selfish for that. I walked back over to where he sat and paused in front of him, looking down. I put my hand on his head, and he leaned in to rest his cheek against my stomach, his arms around my waist.
I closed my eyes and pretended I was already gone. “I love you,” I lied. Because I was too weak to tell him the truth: I had stopped loving him months ago, and even if I escaped Nevada, I wouldn’t be coming back for him. He would never see me again.
The memory turns my stomach and I force myself out of bed to take a hot shower, as hot as I can handle. I’m ashamed of my behavior. Sickened by the pain I must have inflicted on Ryan. But I couldn’t make myself love him anymore, no matter how much I wished for it. No matter how many nights I cried over it. I was the worst thing to ever happen to him.
The shower rains down on me, and my tears are washed down the drain. When I step out from behind the curtain a while later, the cold air is refreshing. Revitalizing.
I take my time getting dressed, putting on makeup, blow-drying my hair. It’s all robotic, a way to avoid thinking. But when I’m finished and look in the mirror, it might just be the prettiest I’ve ever looked. The Hotel Ruby doesn’t have hard water like Phoenix. My hair is smooth, my skin soft and creamy. I smile before I even realize.
My keycard’s on the dresser, and I grab it before going downstairs. Last night’s dinner with my father was a bit of a nightmare, but today is a new day. And I don’t plan on wasting any more of those.
The restaurant is crowded when I make my way through the tables toward my father. The room buzzes, and as I pass, I overhear a couple talking about “the ballroom” in a hushed tone. I almost stop to ask for details, but my father notices me and waves. I smile weakly, surprised that he looks downright cheery to see me.
“Hey, kid,” he says, resurrecting a nickname from my childhood. “How’d you sleep last night?”
“Uh . . .” I trip into my chair, lost for a response. He’s wearing a collared shirt and jacket, more business than casual. He must have gone shopping, because even at his best my father wasn’t this formal. I hardly recognize him.
When I don’t speak, my father leans into the table, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry about dinner last night,” he says sincerely. “I’ve been on edge, but now I want to make it up to you and your brother. We’re still a family, Audrey. That won’t ever change.”
I’m about to double-“uh” when a server appears at my side. It’s not Tanya, but instead Warren from the rooftop. He smiles at me, small and private, as he flips over the glass in front of me and pours water. His coldness tells me our meet-up was secret, even from my dad.
“What I’m trying to say,” my father continues like I’m listening, “is that I haven’t always been the best father, and for that I’m sorry. I’ll be better.”
I’m so completely thrown by his behavior; I can’t say my true feelings on the topic. He owes us a lot more than an apology. But for now I force a smile. “It’s okay, Dad,” I tell him. “I haven’t made it easy for you.” He seems content with our mutual apology, but what I really want to say is, “You abandoned us. And when we leave this hotel, you plan to do it again. How is that being better?”
With a shaky hand I take up my glass of water and sip. The silence between me and my father extends into awkward, and I need to fill the space somehow.