“—a preference for your room location?”

The words break into my thoughts like a hammer through glass. Have I just been standing here staring out the window behind the hotel receptionist? Yes. Yes, I have.

The revolving door to the lobby goes around and around as a man comes in, phone pressed to his ear. Who is he talking to? For one sickening second I imagine that he’s talking to Charlie about me. But that’s ridiculous. Charlie’s never going to talk to anyone about me. I’m the kind of woman he’ll forget about promptly.

“Miss? Do you have any preference for your room location?”

Snap out of it, Josie.

“Room location,” I echo, the words feeling strange in my mouth. What does it even mean, room location? I would prefer a room that has Charlie in it. I would also prefer a room that could wipe clean all my memories of him so that the heartbreak can subside.

“Would you like to be on an upper floor? Near the elevator?” This receptionist looks like she probably moonlights as a model on the side. I can tell she normally goes about her job with hyper-efficiency, but something about the way I look is making her handle me with kid gloves. Could it be the slightly disheveled hair or the red eyes? Both good guesses.

“Sure. That’s fine. That sounds great.” As long as there’s a minibar, I don’t care where the room is.

“Wonderful.” She punches a few keys on her keyboard, clicks about seventy times, and then hands over a little envelope with two key cards. “Tenth floor. Right next to the elevator.” 

“Perfect.”

Yes. Perfect. This is perfect.

Everything is fine.

It’s not as if I was abandoned after the jet landed at LaGuardia by a man who is so angry with me that the air in the plane was incandescent with his quiet rage. It’s not like he gave me a nod before he stepped off the plane, the same kind of nod I imagine he gives to business associates who displease him.

I ride the elevator up to the tenth floor—the floor right beneath what I assume is the penthouse suite—and open the first door on the left after the elevator bank.

Inside, it’s the most nondescript hotel room I’ve ever seen. This place was recently renovated, that much is clear, and everything has a slightly new, chemical scent. It’s nice, but it’s blank. 

God. This is a disaster.

I thought it would make things easier, to come to a hotel instead of going back to the apartment. At least this way I’m not stranded in the middle of Rolly’s stuff and collapsing into the black hole that is my life.

And I thought it was ruined before…

My suitcase almost flips over the entire luggage rack when I toss it on. The whole place seems insubstantial, weak, like it might cave in at any second.

Or maybe that’s just me.

This is all my fault.

If I’d been honest with him from the beginning, it wouldn’t have been such a big deal for him to find that stupid notepad. Writing marry rich had truly been a joke. It’s not as if I have a sterling reputation among the upper class. All I’ve done since high school is work a series of unpaid internships until the moment they bored me. A real catch, right?

Fuck this. I’m going out.

I stalk back to the suitcase and rifle through. Everything was sent out for cleaning a couple of days ago—Charlie is a real adult, unlike me—and the little black dress I brought for going-out purposes tumbles into my hands, ready to go.

In the bathroom I put on too much makeup. I look dark and mysterious and a little on edge. I feel on edge, but in my chest a kind of bleak optimism hums. So what if I am going back to my old ways? So what if I didn’t keep my promise? So what if the future is going to be nothing but a long string of disappointments? This is what works. This is the only thing that’s worth it. 

The hotel bar is all shadows and mahogany, even in the middle of the afternoon, and it makes me feel right at home. 

Only something is off.

I ignore that feeling and let my hips swing while I walk up to the bar. I take my time, letting everyone’s eyes linger. 

Before I met Charlie—met him again, anyway—I would have reveled in this feeling. This moment of anticipation before the partying got underway. Before one of those men got the courage to come up and talk to me, maybe more. Maybe it went well. Maybe it went badly. All that mattered was feeling good.

I put my hands on the edge of the bartop and slide onto one of the stools.

This doesn’t feel good.

My sister’s voice echoes in my mind, a memory that wrenches my heart right out of my chest. In the hospital, her body betraying her, a panicked cry. This doesn’t feel good. I gasp for breath against the heartache. And then my mother’s voice, calm, though I could see in her eyes that things would never be all right again. We’ll help you feel good, Buttercup. That’s what matters. It matters to all of us.

I drop my face into my hands and let the memory sweep over me. I let it hurt. I let it smart alongside the sting of Charlie rejecting me, against the horrible embarrassment of Rolly, against all the things that led me to this barstool, in this hotel, alone.

“Can I get you a drink, miss? You look like you need one.”

The bartender’s voice is gravelly, like the bottom of a river, and I pick up my head.

I look like I need a drink. 

I’ve heard those words a thousand times before.

This time, I’m completely defenseless. After that night with Charlie—the night I let him see how much I’m hurting—and after he dumped salt in the wound by leaving me behind, the words hit me like a punch in the gut. 

I look like I need a drink because I’ve convinced myself that I need a drink. I need a party. Just in case the worst happens.

Well, the worst has already happened. 

I should rise above this. I should stop doing this to myself. Otherwise, I’m doomed to a life that’s nothing but this—this bar, this rejection, this hurt—until the end of my days. Feeling good has taken me exactly as far as it’s going to go, and my sister is still dead. I am still without Charlie. I’m still lost.

It’s about time I found myself.

What’s the alternative? Wallow in this hotel for another week, then go crawling back to my parents? God, the thought makes me sick. 

I let myself think of Charlie one more time. Charlie, who was so insistent on doing what was right. When was the last time I did anything that wasn’t for pleasure? For selfish, ridiculous pleasure? 

For one heady instant I think about giving in. I could have one cocktail, and then in the morning I can get down to business. I could meet one of the men in here, and—

—and none of them will ever measure up to Charlie.

That’s my cross to bear. 

But for once, the way forward seems clear. There’s nothing stopping me now. No boyfriends. No vacations. No parties. It’s just me.

If Charlie can run a massive business empire despite a little ambivalence, I can get my own life back on track even though my heart is shattered.

“No,” I say finally, flashing the bartender a smile. “I have somewhere to be.”