I rush back upstairs and take a quick shower, attempt to make myself presentable, to appear relaxed. As I comb my wet hair in front of the mirror above the dresser, I hear Melody’s door open and close, then the noise of her television. I sit down on the edge of my bed and imagine that if this were some parallel world, she and I would be getting ready at the same time in the same room, that we would share idle conversation, discuss the plans of the evening, comment on the way each other looked. Instead, we are two layers of drywall apart, strangers connected by the worst of circumstances. I recall her statement of how we might’ve never met had it not been for my father’s murdering of the Rat. Forget how unlikely it would’ve been for an intelligent girl from suburban Jersey to run into a thug from the city, but had we done so, would we have shared anything more than a passing glance, an excuse me as one moved out of the way of the other? How selfish I feel for considering the upside to the disasters of her life.
Despite what’s in store for her tomorrow—for us—I want to take her mind off of it tonight, give her at least one evening of normalcy before the challenges of true escape. And if everything goes as planned tomorrow, this will act as the first of a lifelong series of peace-filled evenings for her.
A few minutes later, her television goes off and her door closes again. As I’m about to walk out the door myself and meet her in the hall—no reason to meet in the lounge if we’re both here and ready—my cell rings: Ryan. We resolve two minor issues, but the conversation distracts me enough that I run a few minutes behind; I force a wrap-up of the call on the way to the elevator, end it before I get in and take the car to the second floor.
I stroll around the opposite side of the hotel from the spa, follow a rounded corner that leads me right to the entrance of the bar. From the hallway, I can see the city buildings and lights through the tall windows. The bar is broken into sections, could easily handle multiple large gatherings at the same time. The entire room possesses a sleepy haze, feels like I’m viewing everything through a blue filter lens. I just walked into a giant aquarium.
I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and study the patrons. At just a few minutes after five the place is mostly empty, but the happy hour crowd is growing, slipping by me as I scan the room for Melody. I finally spot her sitting casually with her legs crossed at a table near one of the windows. I first recognize her by her dress: the sundress I purchased in Norfolk. And though I can’t identify the difference in the way she looks, I know a difference exists. I take steps in her direction, and once I’m a third of the way there I notice some man sitting across from her. She sees me coming—she’s facing him and looking at me from the corner of her eyes. I can only see the back of the guy’s head, but he’s motioning with his hands, seems intent on making some point to her.
I slow down as I study him: young, professional type, wearing a suit, sitting in a manner that suggests he’s planning to get up at any second. Not a fed. A toddler.
I bring my pace back up to full speed and approach the guy. I’ve had it with inconveniences. I can’t take two extra minutes to finish a phone call without some clown stepping in and creating a hassle?
Melody looks at me. “A friend of yours?” I ask, putting my hand on his shoulder.
She does this thing where she sort of smiles and frowns at the same time, shakes her head No.
Then let’s take out the trash. I grip his shoulder with all the strength of a firm handshake, yet the guy collapses like I’d smashed his knees with a bat. I grab him by the collar of his suit, lift him out of the chair like a bag of potatoes, and fling him off to the side. He stumbles across the room and knocks over two tables, crashes to the floor and doesn’t move.