Scandalized

My voice creaks out of me. “What’s your room number?”

He slides a hand into his pocket and pulls the envelope out, blinking his eyes down to it. “Twenty-six eleven.”

I text my best friend, Eden. Met an old friend. Using his room to shower because hotel situation is a mess. Seattle Airport Marriott. Room 2611. He’s a good guy but I’ll text within the hour to let you know I’m okay.

Immediately, she replies with a shocked-face emoji followed by a simple Okay.

“Thanks,” I say, pocketing my phone. Just the fact he suggested I text someone makes me feel better. He’s poised, has such a gentle presence. I try to imagine him turning menacing and… I mean, anything is possible. It’s astonishing how well the world hides viciousness. “How’d you manage to snag a room?”

He smiles as he holds the elevator door for me to exit first. “I was lucky to have someone call ahead of the crowd.”

After swiping his key against the door labeled PRESIDENTIAL SUITE, Alec gestures for me to step in ahead of him, and I’m so caught up in the view before me that I’m halfway down the long entry hall before I remember my manners. Of course, he’s still by the door, stepping out of his shoes. I’m blurry and wiped, and few things make me feel more graceless than the way he glances down at my feet as I trip out of my Vans.

He carefully wheels his glossy carry-on past me into the room.

Or rooms, really. I knew hotels had suites—I’ve stayed in them once or twice on very extravagant girls’ trips and have been in my share of them for interviews with important people—but this is different. This isn’t just an apartment, it’s a luxury apartment. An apartment villa. One entire wall is just floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Seattle skyline. There’s a living room, a full kitchen, a separate dining room, and a door leading down a hall to where there seems to be multiple other rooms. “Wow.”

He watches me with a hint of a smile. “You look exhausted, Georgia.”

“I am,” I admit, meeting his eyes. “I’m so grateful for the shower. I’ll head downstairs after and figure out the rest.”

“Are you sure I can’t call someone while you’re in there?”

I shake my head. “We have a travel department.”

“?‘We’?”

“My work.”

“Ah.” He looks like he wants to ask, but his attention slides to the sag in my shoulders. Alec lifts his chin. “Go ahead. I’ll be right out here.”

Even though he’s so refined, he seems to give each tiny gesture deliberate forethought; after the darkness I’ve seen in London over the past two weeks—after the stories I’ve heard over and over—I’m grateful for the reassurance.

And for the lock on the bathroom door.

I lean back against it once it’s shut, exhaling. Even though I’m exhausted, I can’t deny Alec Kim still has a real presence. Masculine and composed and stern. Gently arrogant in a way I find intensely sexy but, wow, what a contrast between the two of us. Looking the way I do right now, I feel like I’m stealing something by even thinking about him in a vaguely sexual way.

I haven’t had these kinds of thoughts in so long. Months, to be precise, and Alec is a sharp contrast to the other, more recent man in my sex-brain. But in the span of eleven months, Spencer lost all the Best Boyfriend points he’d gained over our six-year relationship. Men, sex, and the complex dance of being vulnerable with someone lost all the shine it once had.

And talk about being vulnerable: in the twenty minutes since our reacquaintance, Alec Kim has looked at me so squarely, as if he can see all of me in a glance.

Spence had stopped looking at me directly, but I realized it only in hindsight. At some point, he started offering only the briefest flickers of eye contact even when he gave me his trademark dazzling smile. His smile would crack wide open, but his eyes would angle over my shoulder or down to the side, like he was delighted by something out the window or charmed by the cat curled up in the corner. That alone should have tipped me off; when we first met, he would stare. Whether I was naked, clothed, it didn’t matter. He once told me he wouldn’t ever stop being surprised that I was his. We were the envy of our entire group of friends, all of us close since college. While our friends were chaotic and messy, Spence and I were the solid heart of our social circle. We were playful, affectionate, down-to-earth.

But over six years together—two of those spent sharing an apartment—somehow a switch was flipped. One day we were Spence-and-G, one word, the next day something was off. I’d get a quick peck at the door before he rushed out for the day. Gratitude at night for whatever I’d managed to throw together for dinner—over-the-top gratitude that seemed to expand until it became something desperate and off-putting. That should have tipped me off, too.

But by then I’d been hustling so hard to advance my career I barely looked up. I thought that’s what we were supposed to do in our midtwenties. I thought reaping the rewards came later: disposable income, vacations, weekends. I worked eighteen-hour days. I scraped for every freelancing gig. When I was hired under Billy at the LA Times foreign-news desk, I felt like I’d been given a golden egg. During all of it, I didn’t really have time—didn’t really take time—to notice how Spence had changed.

I’d changed, too, I guess. I’d always been ambitious, but those first few months at the Times had simmered off the weak, diluted parts of me that didn’t know how to go after what I wanted. I grew hardened mentally, having to battle for every story, every inch of copy. The grueling hours, skipped meals, and sprinting all over town left me hard physically, too. Sometimes I get why Spence did it. Sometimes I get why our friends took his side. Sometimes, I want to forgive them all just to be done carrying it around alone.

When I shove away from the door and step in front of the mirror, I’m horrified to catch a glimpse of my haggard reflection. My eyes are deeply bloodshot. Skin sallow and shiny. My lips are chapped, and my hair holds its shape in the bun even when I take out the clip.

Good God I smell.

Shedding my clothes, I imagine tossing them into the trash can, stuffing my jeans and socks and even my underwear in the small brass receptacle. I could leave my suitcase in Seattle and never have to see any of these things again. Alec probably wouldn’t even wonder why I’d done it—everything I had on is now crumpled on the floor and looks like it wouldn’t last another day anyway.

Naked, I turn on the shower and look around while the water heats up. The bathroom counter is a massive slab of granite, the sink a raised and gleaming blown-glass bowl. The complimentary toiletries are full-size and housed in a plush leather case. It’s disorienting to enjoy such luxury when I feel barely human.

When I step under the showerhead, I can’t help the moan that escapes. I have never had a shower this good, but especially in the past two weeks, every shower has been rushed and distracted. A quick rinse before shoving an apple in my mouth and bolting out the door. Some days it was only cold water splashed on my face and a fresh application of deodorant.