I should laugh or cry. This hotel—the place that Stevie and I had talked about when we first came in—was where my parents had been all along.
I paid the driver, mentally thanking Cary for his cash, then walked up to the entrance to the hotel, hoping that it wouldn’t be too hard to find wherever this engagement party was. And I was well aware that I was going to be in big, big trouble. But you reach a point where you just want your parents.
I was tired of being scared and being by myself and having to navigate New York City without a phone. I didn’t want to think about how I’d hurt my best friend and made a huge mistake when I’d chosen myself over her. I didn’t want to see the people who I’d believed in suddenly turn on me and reveal their true selves. I didn’t want any of it anymore. It had seemed like such a fun, adult adventure when Stevie and I had headed into the city, but clearly I wasn’t able to handle it.
I wanted my mom and dad. I wanted to go home.
And the thought of being able to get into my parents’ car and have my dad drive us home over the bridge, heated seats on and NPR playing softly in the background, getting to fall asleep in the backseat, knowing that someone else was navigating and getting me home—all at once, nothing sounded better than that. I was just done. Goodbye to all this.
I walked up to the door, which was pulled open by a doorman in an overcoat, who looked at me a little questioningly. But I just gave him a nod and raised my chin. I was going to act like I belonged, and hopefully it would work.
I looked around the lobby. There were purple chandeliers and lots of white marble surfaces and very high ceilings. There was a check-in desk, and chairs grouped around a fireplace, a mostly filled bar, and a number of truly gorgeous people just kind of lounging around the lobby. Had the hotel hired them to be there? Or did they just appear in New York hotels on Friday nights?
I looked around, wondering who I was supposed to ask. I had thought there might be a sign, or something directing me to the engagement party. I realized a moment later that I didn’t even know who it was for. My mom’s colleague Sarah’s daughter, I knew that much, but that did not seem to be a huge amount to go on, especially if I was trying to pretend I was friends with the couple, and invited. Was I supposed to say I was there for the party of “daughter of Sarah” like we were in biblical times? As a last resort, I figured I could always throw a fit at the check-in desk, tell them I was alone in New York and demand they contact my parents. It would be embarrassing, but I was nearing the point where I no longer cared.
I noticed a woman, all in black, sitting behind a desk, who looked like someone I could ask. The whole lighting scheme of the hotel seemed to be set to dim, so maybe it wasn’t that surprising it took me a minute to spot her. “Hi,” I said, walking up to her, trying to look like I knew what I was talking about and wasn’t grasping wildly at straws. “The engagement party is…?”
She looked at me for a moment, like she was assessing something, then gestured down the hallway. “Second event room,” she said, then added, “Invitations checked at the door.”
“Wonderful!” I said, and patted my pocket, like I was indicating that was where mine was. She just raised an eyebrow at me, and I hurried down the hall where she’d pointed. The hall led to another room that also seemed lobby-like, though smaller, with another fireplace, an elevator guarded by a guy wearing an earpiece and carrying a clipboard, and little groupings of armchairs. So that… you could rest before getting on the elevator? In case your walk from the other hallway had been too taxing?
I didn’t know where the event rooms were, but they couldn’t have been far; this was New York, after all, and real estate was at a premium. I was looking around, trying to figure out if I should ask the intimidating guy with his clipboard, just as the elevator doors opened.