Once we were off the plane and inside the airport, I made my way to the baggage carousel. My tattered suitcase stood out amongst all the other luggage. I hurried to grab it and then looked around. Needing to find a way to get to the fancy hotel where the retreat was being held, I walked up to the information desk and inquired politely from the girl there.
“Yes, a shuttle goes out there. If you hurry, you can catch it,” she informed me with a polite smile. She pointed me in the right direction before turning her attention away.
I grabbed my bags and walked off, used to being treated that way. People had been looking down on me for years. Women avoided me like they could sense my failure and despair. Life was lonely.
I found the shuttle and managed to get a seat. It was filled with couples and family members. I avoided everyone, and they avoided me. I think I actually let out a sigh of relief when the shuttle stopped outside of the hotel. I hurried out of there as fast as I could. The door slammed shut behind me, and the little bus drove off.
I paused briefly to look at the hotel, needing a moment. As advertised, it curled around a small Gary. The Broadmore was expansive. Rolling green hills, spotted with trees, flanked it on the East and West. There were more buildings than I could count, but nothing was run down at this historic resort. The tannish-pink walls were topped with red tile roofs, with little hints of brick here and there. All in all, it was fancy and lush. Just being there made me feel rich again.
I hoped I was ready for this. I needed to be prepared. This was my moment to reinvent myself. I grabbed my suitcases and walked inside the opulent lobby. This place could undoubtedly inspire the right writer.
There was a line at the check-in desk that ended with a young woman — early twenties, from what I could tell of her perfect backside. I couldn't see her face. I waited in line behind her, trying to not stare at her hourglass shape and round ass.
The girl was on her cell phone. I could hear pieces of her conversation. Her voice sounded very familiar, but that would be crazy. I had never been to Colorado before. The more she talked, the more I listened.
The stranger hung up as she reached the desk. Hoping to hear her every word, I tried to act nonchalant as I hovered too close to her.
“Yes, the writers' retreat. I have a reservation,” she explained to the concierge.
I strained to listen but couldn't hear a name. I pretended not to be watching as she was handed a key. She turned to grab her luggage off the floor. As the woman bent to grab her bags, I saw her face. It was Gray’s daughter, Hazel.
My heart stopped. I began to sweat. There was no way this could be happening, yet I couldn't doubt it. I had seen that face every day that I was at their house. It was Hazel standing in front of me.
Seeing her brought up so many memories. I started to think that maybe this trip had been a mistake. I couldn't deal with something like this, suddenly craving a drink so bad. I wondered if I should just pick up my bag and walk off. Yes, I would miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime, but I wouldn't have to deal with Hazel and all that guilt.Chapter Three - HazelThe plane ride out to Colorado Springs from Kansas was a lot shorter than I had expected. I spent the entire flight reading rather than sleeping. Far too excited to close my eyes. I had never been to Colorado before, but I did some research online before the trip. I also had a travel brochure, as well as a couple romance novels with me on the plane.
This trip was meant to be the turning point in my career as a writer. I looked through the novels I had brought with me and started to read one. These were actually pretty steamy. That made me wonder which genre I should write.
I had been interested in science fiction because of my feelings for Alex. Yet, perhaps I should use this trip as an opportunity to grow in my desired field and experience new things. Maybe I could try writing a romance novel or something that I would be proud to call my own?
Obviously, I was proud of my first book because it was the first thing that I had published, but it brought up a lot of painful memories every time I looked at it. I finally locked my copy away in a drawer in my desk at home, out of sight, out of mind. My second book would be different.