and unfold a green Ralph Lauren sweater and hold it up. “This… is something she would wear,” I say. “Yeah, this is her.”
Melissa laughs quietly. “Okay.”
“And jeans,” I add.
“Okay, trust me when I say that’s going to be a waste of your time. Women like to try on—”
“She’s about five foot six or so, got very proportional legs, you know? I mean, not very muscular, but the kind where you like seeing her wear shorts.” I stare at the pile of jeans on the table. “And the kind of hips for pulling someone close, that, sort of, perfect place for resting your hands.” I drift off a little. “And a full, round…” I look up, open my hands to the air.
She grins with a motherly approval. “Sounds like you know her better than you think.” Melissa starts getting into it. “Okay, so, like, maybe a lower-waist kind of thing?”
“What about undergarments?”
Melissa frowns a little. “Are you serious? Jeans are one thing, but bras and panties? Women really like to have what works for them.”
“You’re gonna have to help me out here.”
“You two seem to have a real packing deficiency.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, as I start playing with the sheer fabric of the sundress, “we’re running away together.”
With two bags in each hand, I slip the card between my knuckles and slide it in the reader to my room, kick the door open and the lights automatically come on. Turns out Chad took advantage of my I don’t care disposition and booked me a suite when all I really needed was a bed and a shower. The room has a king-size poster bed and a separate seating area with a pair of loveseats facing each other near a gas fireplace. The bathroom possesses toiletries for every possible skin type, a jetted tub, and a shower suitable for a small party. From the twenty-first floor, my window overlooks the Norfolk waterfront, a brick version of a boardwalk lined with shopping pavilions and restaurants and boat slips, a city center so inviting and pedestrian-friendly it reeks of planned development, of a calculated design assembled by some architect who rarely visits the city, who doesn’t appreciate the practicality of things like loading zones and alleys.
I stare at the deserted waterfront. In New York dollars, a condo with this view would cost seven figures and carry a thousand-dollar monthly fee, no matter how run-down the building, no matter what street it claimed as its address. Chad probably thought he was doing me a favor by giving me such an elegant and lofty room, but all he did was shellac my already vulnerable and exposed grain of guilt. Such is the nature of Melody’s life, of mine: She suffers tonight in a dank motel room, missing all of the necessities and niceties most women would request, guarded by a half-wit protector; I live in prosperity and comfort, will sleep the next few hours in a bed with a plush mattress and a new down comforter, will have a fresh breakfast delivered to my door as I shower. No two lives should be reversed more than ours.
I walk to the bed and sink into its softness as I sit. I set the alarm on the clock instead of requesting a wake-up call, having learned long ago that technology will always be more reliable than any human being.
I check my cell: three messages from my head chef, zero from my family.
I pull back the comforter, and the sheets are stretched perfect and smooth like a pool yet to be dived into. I strip down to my boxers and take the plunge, and within seconds I drown in sleep.
TWO
As I leave the hotel less than five hours after arriving—notably the most expensive per hour cost of sleep I’ve ever incurred—the city of Norfolk comes alive, the traffic thickening as I narrowly escape rush hour and return to the Bay Bridge-Tunnel. The chilly air seems held in place by a fog that will likely burn off before I get to the other side, disintegrated by a distinct spring-into-summer morning sun that has me reaching for my sunglasses.
On the bridge portions I pass all the vehicles I can so that the single-lane tunnel sections are more bearable, and within thirty minutes I can see the lonely expression of the Delmarva Peninsula, the remaining lengths of the bridge spans stretching out like waiting arms. I say a silent prayer that Melody’s are outstretched for me as well. Everything is running out: time,