The Fortunate Ones

After I’ve gathered everything, I grab a cocktail napkin from the bar and jot down an apology, just I’m sorry, but for some reason, it seems worse than leaving nothing at all. I crumble it into a ball and toss in the wastebasket before walking out the door.

It’s late, but I’m hoping there’s still a flight or two leaving Vegas headed to Texas. If not, I’ll sleep in the airport and leave on the first flight out in the morning. Anything is better than staying here and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

On the way down, I can’t meet my reflection in the mirrored elevator. Shame is a heavy burden, and one I’ll probably carry for a long time. I should have been honest with James earlier. I should have told him I deserve at least half the blame for whatever panic I was feeling.

If I could go back in time, I never would have come to Vegas. I knew it would make things more complicated, but I ignored my intuition and boarded that plane anyway. The only thing I can do now is leave before I make things even worse.

The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and I roll my suitcase out behind me. My heels clap against the lobby floor, and I realize that in my rush to pack, I forgot to change. I should have swapped my dress for jeans and my heels for sneakers. As a compromise, I pause in the lobby and unzip my suitcase to grab a thick, long sweater. I slip my arms in and wrap it around myself. When I stand again, I find I’m paused directly in front of the lobby bar—and a few yards away, James sits alone, nursing a drink.

Even with his profile to me, I see how dejected he is. His broad shoulders are slumped forward as he rests his elbows on the bar, his head hanging low. I wonder if he’s waiting for me. The bartender says something that catches his attention. He looks up, shakes his head, and then takes a long sip of his drink. I should turn and continue through the lobby, but I stand immobile for another second. I thought I would leave Vegas without seeing him. This is a gift, one last chance to make things right between us.

I take a step toward the bar and he turns. My stomach dips as his warm brown eyes meet mine. They’re so sad and heavy that I can barely stand their weight. He scans down to where my suitcase sits beside me and his brows arch in surprise as he registers the fact that I’m leaving. Hope explodes inside of me—STOP ME, PLEASE—but when he glances back up, the emotion in his eyes is gone, erased in the blink of eye. Now, he looks right through me. To him, I’m already gone. Then, to nail home that fact, he turns away. No nod, no wave goodbye.

I stand there immobile for a few seconds and then, when I realize how pathetic I look, I reach for the handle of my suitcase with a shaky hand and nearly sprint out of the lobby. As soon as I slide into the back of the taxi, the tears start to flow. The old cabbie is at a complete loss for what to do with me.

“All right, there, there. Where to?”

I tell him.

“Aww c’mon, lady. I can’t hear you with all that blubbering.”

I cry harder.

“Jesus. Why do I always get the basket cases?”

He sighs and tosses back a couple of crumpled Subway napkins for me to use to blow my nose. They smell like roast beef.

“Listen, okay, I’m no Sherlock, but you’ve got a suitcase, so I’m going to head to the airport.”

“Th-Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, pulling away from the hotel. “Looks like Vegas bagged another one.”CHAPTER EIGHTEENThere’s no way James hates me more than I hate myself, but it’s probably pretty close. Things between us were always going to end—we both knew that. I’m not going to forfeit my dream of living abroad and traveling, and he shouldn’t give up the hope of finding someone who’s ready to take a leap. He doesn’t have time to reassure the scared girl tiptoeing backward off the high dive.

Since Vegas, nothing has changed, and nothing will change, which unfortunately means there’s no point in trying to reach out to him. Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

Instead, every day since I returned follows one of two patterns. If I have a shift at the country club, I roll out of bed, eat soggy leftovers, slip into my Twin Oaks uniform, and sit in front of the mirror to practice my fake smile. If it’s my day off, I stay in bed, job hunting until my fingers are numb from filling out questionnaires and typing emails and letters of intent. The agency says they have a few leads for me, but I don’t believe them. I’ve taken matters into my own hands, searching message boards and au pair websites for active listings. At this point, I’ll take a job tutoring kids in Siberia if it means I can leave Twin Oaks.