He tucks his phone back in his pocket and eases me away from him. I bite back a whine at the loss of warmth.
“Come on,” Tom says, giving my upper arms a quick rub before nodding in the opposite direction. “It’s just ahead, and I’m using it the proper way, as in a two-minute walk, not your way, which is a thirty-minute walk. We’d probably be able to see it if not for all the snow.”
I nod and start to pull off his gloves.
“Don’t. Keep them.” And then, he reaches out, taking my laptop bag from me and hoisting it over his shoulder along with his own laptop bag.
He picks up the suitcases and resumes walking. Slower this time, which I know is more for my sake than it is because the bags slow him down.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself admit the truth.
I may have been a fool to let this one slip away.
TWENTY-SEVEN
KATHERINE
December 23, 11:36 p.m.
True to Tom’s Boy Scout of a phone carrier’s claims, the motel really is two minutes ahead, and considering how awful I felt just a moment ago, I can’t believe I’m even thinking this, but . . .
“Damn,” Tom says from beside me. “We should have taken our chances on the bus.”
Yeah. Tom’s voiced my thought exactly. The motel is . . .
Hell. Literally.
On the map, it was called the Blue Shell Motel.
In real life, most of the blue neon lights are out, so it reads:
The Blue hell Mote
And it looks exactly like a “blue hell mote” should. It’s one of those two-story deals, with all the doors facing outward and open to the outside. It was probably painted blue once upon a time, but now it’s a dingy gray. The doors are a darker gray, so the whole structure resembles a skull with mostly missing teeth.
Also, if the roof survives this snowstorm, it’ll be a Christmas miracle.
“Hey. You remember the day we met?” Tom asks over the wind, looking over at me.
“You want to rehash that now?” I ask, incredulous as I force myself to push toward the front door. “Is that hypothermia at work?”
“I just want to say, for the record, Katherine,” he says, trudging along beside me, “if I could go back and do things differently, I would. I’d have let that man with the gum on his shoe have you.”
“Have me?” I repeat. “Would he have gotten my dowry too, if my Pa would have consented? Also, I just want to say, for the record, Thomas: it was I who had you.”
“Really.” His skepticism is plain. “So, when you ordered me to go get peanut butter, that was your idea of seduction? I don’t think so. I came onto you.”
“And how’d that work out for you back then?” I snap, a little surprised at how painful this trip down memory lane suddenly feels. “Also, when you find that time machine, let me know because I want a ride on it. There are a few things I’d do differently too.”
“Like what?” he asks, doubtful. As though he’s the only one who gets to play the game of if only.
“We are not doing this now,” I mutter as we finally make it to the motel’s front door. The awning provides a bit of relief from the dumping snow, but that’s got nothing on the moment when I push open the rickety door, and we’re greeted by a blast of warmth and the jingle of a bell.
The bell is the old-fashioned kind I thought only existed on the sets of small-town romantic comedies. It’s also adorned with a sprig of holly, a big red bow, and a little sign that says “Jingle All the Way,” but I’m so happy to be out of the storm that I can’t even find the Grinch version of myself.
I always thought the point of a bell tied to a door was to alert people that someone had entered a room, but the motel clerk must not have gotten that memo because he doesn’t look up from the video he’s watching on his phone.
“Hi,” Tom says to the employee as we approach the counter. His tone is about as lacking in charm as I’ve ever heard. Apparently it only takes one ex-wife, one blizzard, a missed flight, jumping off a train, getting in a bus accident, and a blue hell mote to break him.
Good to know.
The employee still doesn’t look up, and Tom and I exchange a puzzled glance.
I reach out and, with a single finger, tap the old-fashioned bell on the counter.
That does the trick. The clerk doesn’t look away from his phone, but he does reach out to his right and pull a key off a hook.
He sets it on the counter. “Hundred bucks for the room.”
“Yeah, we’re going to need another one of those,” I say, pointing at the key. “Because I had the good sense to divorce this guy.”
“Actually,” Tom says. “I divorced her.”
The kid shrugs. “Only got the one room.”
Oh, hell no.
I elbow Tom. “Do something. Give him some money.”
“That’s the plan,” Tom says, already pulling out his wallet. “A hundred bucks for the room.”
“No,” I huff. “I mean, do that cool-guy thing. Give him a twenty.”
The clerk glances up, interested in us for the first time.
Tom sighs. “If I give you a twenty, will you magically have another room?”
“We’re all booked up ’cept that one.” The skinny kid nods at the key. “But I’ll still take the twenty.”
Tom drops some cash on the counter. “Here’s five twenties. For the room.”
The clerk looks disappointed but not surprised. “Fine.”
I’ve never stayed in a hotel that didn’t require a credit card for incidentals, and I’m trying not to think about what it means for the state of the last remaining room that this place doesn’t expect one. I’m also trying very hard not to think about the logistics of our sleeping arrangement.
If there are two beds, fine.
If there’s one bed, Tom will be sleeping in the tub.
Tom reaches for the key, but the clerk snatches it first with a swiftness I didn’t see coming.
“Gonna need you to put a key chain on that.” The kid reaches for a paper cup and spits a sunflower seed into it.
“Sorry. What,” Tom says. Not a question.
“Motel policy. We’ve only got the one key. Don’t want you to lose it.”
Tom takes a deep breath. “What’s your name, son?”
“Son?” I stifle a laugh. “Settle down, Grandpa.”
“Dean,” the kid says, tucking a strand of greasy blond hair behind his ear.
“Well, Dean. Here’s a suggestion for management. Why doesn’t the motel put their own key chains on all of the keys. Something big and branded. A blue shell, perhaps?”
The clerk looks affronted at the suggestion. “That would be tacky.”
“Tacky,” I agree with a somber nod.
Tom glances my way with a growl.
“We want our customers to feel at home,” Dean explains with a solemn sincerity that is puzzling, given his complete lack of greeting at our arrival.
“He wants you to feel at home,” I say, nudging Tom, enjoying myself a bit despite the fact that I’m cold, wet, and hurting in just about every direction. “Just put it on a key chain.”
“Look. I’m not going to lose the key,” Tom said, reaching for it. “If I do, you can charge me for it. Hell, charge me double.”