“What’s the matter? What am I going to ruin?”
My mother liked Ryan. No, she loved Ryan. She thought he was sweet, kind. I once told her she should adopt him, because when he was here, she doted on him as if he’d come from her womb. I stared back into her gray-blue eyes, just like Daniel’s, and I couldn’t gather the courage to tell her that I was changing my life forever. That although I wanted to stay friends with Ryan, realistically I knew it wouldn’t happen. My entire identity would change.
“I . . .” I started, unsure what to say to wipe the expression of concern off of her face. The smell of pancakes—flour and butter—hung in the air, mixing with my dread and making me sick. “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Ryan will be here in twenty minutes, so you should probably make extra.”
She didn’t believe the excuse, quirking up her eyebrow as she weighed whether or not to press me. She didn’t. Mom went back to the pancakes, and I got dressed, numbly brushing my teeth and hair. Another day of being dead.
Only it was my mother who was dead less than two hours later.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. The memory of my mother’s touch, cool and comforting, fades from my arms. I squeeze my eyes shut, missing her desperately. Wishing I’d thanked her for the pancakes and told her stay, stay just long enough.
There’s a knock at my door, jolting me upright. I glance around the wallpapered room, momentarily displaced. The white bedspread, the large, imposing trees outside the window; I’m not in Phoenix. It takes a second before it clicks. I’m at the Ruby.
Another knock.
I look for the time, but there’s no alarm clock on the nightstand. Only a gold-plated lamp. “Hold on,” I call out, my voice thick with sleep. When I stand, my ankle buckles under my weight, and I stagger back onto the bed. I quickly pull up the leg of my pajama pants, expecting to see swelling, but instead I find a perfectly normal leg, bright pink painted toes. Tentatively I put my foot on the carpet, testing the pressure before I try standing up again. I’m fine.
My brother calls from the other side of the door. “Today, Audrey. My stomach is starting to eat itself.”
I stomp my foot a few times, expecting a stinging pain—anything. After a few hops I decide it must have been just a cramp. I move the chair out of the way of the door, embarrassed that I let myself get so freaked out. In the light of day it seems silly.
I open the door and find Daniel wearing the same clothes he had on last night. His hair is disheveled and there’s a shadow of blond scruff on his jaw.
“You look like hell,” I say. “What time is it? I don’t have a clock in here.”
Daniel shrugs. “It’s morningish. Brunchish. I don’t think there’s a single clock in this hotel. Not one that I’ve seen. But who cares? We’re on vacation.”
I open the door wider and Daniel walks in. He sits on the edge of my bed and rubs his hand over his hair. “I had the craziest night, Aud,” he says. “This hotel is awesome.”
“Did you go to the party?” I grab my duffel bag from the floor, tossing it next to Daniel. I sort through the mix of clothes, finding nothing I want to actually wear, and then turn the bag over and dump the contents.
“Is that what that invitation was?” Daniel asks. “I just saw it this morning. Did you go? Why didn’t you call me?”
I laugh. “Uh, because I only stayed for a minute before they kicked me out.” I see a red racer-back tank top and set it aside while I search for a clean-enough pair of jeans. “You got an invite?” He nods and I glance around the room, looking for my own invitation. I don’t find one. “Well,” I say, grabbing my clothes. “It was in the ballroom—the music was playing when we got here. Not sure how you missed it.”
“I wasn’t really paying attention,” he admits. “And after you got on the elevator, I went to see if they had a gym.” He grins. “Met a girl instead.”
“Please don’t tell me about it.” He always tells me, though, especially since Mom died.
My chest tightens and I cross to the bathroom with my clothes. I tell Daniel I’ll be out in a second, and he looks offended that I’m not falling over myself to hear his story.
The bathroom door clicks closed, and I rest my forehead against the wood. Lately I’ve taken to blocking out all thoughts of my mother, distracting myself when she tries to surface. But this time I can’t, not with Daniel’s puppy-dog expression on the other side of the door, waiting for me to pat him on the head and tell him how great he is.