Without waiting for her to leave him alone, he pulled his shirt up over his head and dropped it on the tiled floor. Turning away, she lingered to catch a glimpse in the mirror as he reached for the dial that controlled the water temperature. Skin stretched taut across his rib cage. She followed the lean curvature of his upper arm to the plum-colored abrasion on his shoulder, road rash from the concrete half-pipe back home. On her way out she grabbed a pair of fresh towels from the metal rack above the toilet. William’s belt buckle jingled. She stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
Her eyes rested on the bedside table. It was covered in a layer of dust she hadn’t noticed before. No matter how hard the maids worked to clean a hotel room, there was always residue: microscopic sediments of hair products, particulate matter of powders and nighttime face creams and spilled drinks and fluids she didn’t want to think about. The suite was far dingier than it had looked a moment ago, when the mirror had drawn into its sparkling perfection the simmering magic of Next-Door Neighbor Friends sharing a bed in a fancy hotel.
Forcing William into the bathroom and ordering him to clean up felt like such a dumb motherly task. And for him to undress so casually in front of her as if she were some random boy in the gym locker room…
Her hand was at her scalp, nails digging deep. She winced as the sharp pinkie nail made a fresh, delicious gouge. Then she forced her hand down, crossed the room, and draped the towels over the TV, smoothing them flat to block the screen and the eye of the remote sensor.
The closed bathroom door and the tub’s running water muffled William’s voice, but his off-key singing was clear enough. “RUBBER DUCKIE, YOU’RE THE ONE.”
She pulled her laptop from its pouch in her camping backpack and sat down on the bed with her back against the formidable stack of elongated pillows. The laptop was named Kimmie, the diminutive of Kimberly in both size and power. She wriggled a hand into the pocket of her jean shorts and retrieved the seashell, which was disguised as an external drive, a sleek little Toshiba the size and shape of an iPhone. She fed the seashell into Kimmie’s port and cycled back in time to encompass the hours spent on Club Rooftop. As long as she kept the seashell in proximity to Melissa and Daniel, the device would have no trouble intercepting their communications and filtering out useless digital noise.
Heart quickening, she read Melissa’s latest chat with Ash: Hey girl, how’s life on the road? She added the Epheme session to her collection of intercepts.
“RUBBER DUCKIE, I’M AWFULLY FOND OF YOOOOUUUUU.”
What would Melissa do in this situation? Undress and barge into the bathroom? Dim the lights and wait beneath the sheets?
She advanced the seashell to join the present time. Daniel and Melissa were staying in room 240, just on the other side of the wall. She watched the screen idly for a moment, assuming they were otherwise occupied. But to her surprise, Daniel began to chat.DB837651:Your services have been greatly appreciatedxoxoPixieDustxoxo:Haha put it in your yelp reviewDB837651:On itxoxoPixieDustxoxo:How’s the trip? Homesick already?DB837651:Nah just helping myself to Melissa’s 40xoxoPixieDustxoxo:You in a hotel?DB837651:Yeah, she’s asleepxoxoPixieDustxoxo:Et tu?DB837651:Not tiredxoxoPixieDustxoxo:That’ll happen, just think nice thoughtsDB837651:About your roomxoxoPixieDustxoxo:Okay ending transmissionDB837651:Goodnight
Christina dutifully copied Daniel’s chat into her document. Comparing the intercepts side by side brought their differences to light. Melissa was obviously having some kind of ongoing thing with an older guy, which seemed like such a Melissa Faber move that Christina barely even felt like she was peeking at a secret. But whatever Daniel had with Pixie Dust was more enigmatic. Yelp review? Services? She collected her thoughts for a moment and typed a few sentences beneath the fresh intercepts. Then she disconnected the seashell, shut down her laptop, and stowed them both in her backpack.
Lying down and staring at the ceiling, she listened to William’s clumsy sloshing as he stepped out of the tub. Five minutes later he was sprawled on the bed in a thick white Ruby Soho bathrobe. She watched him sleep.
Daniel’s hangover drained the moat that surrounded his brain and left him vulnerable to what he called the Dread Army’s invasion. He imagined its commanding officers looking through binoculars, assessing his weakening position with glee, drawing up plans for their daybreak assault as he poured 120 ounces of malt liquor down his throat.
One Direction sang in crisp five-part harmony. Daniel made a noise that approximated a groan. “Come on, Otto, man, seriously.”
The song kept coming.
With great effort he sat up and opened his eyes. “Whose playlist is this even on?” His words sounded like they had been inflated inside his head and sent floating out into the car.
Nobody answered. Melissa sat up front watching I-76 unspool through central Pennsylvania as they headed west, moving from Eagles Country into Steelers Country. Christina tapped away at her laptop. William sipped a Coke through a Twizzler straw. He looked comically terrible, the spitting image of a hungover kid in a movie: dark circles around his eyes, demonically possessed hair, a shell-shocked countenance like he couldn’t believe what the cruel universe had visited upon him.
“Did this song always have a jackhammer in it?” William croaked.
“That’s the dysentery from the water tower infecting your brain,” Christina said without looking up from her screen.
“Honestly, I barely remember doing that.”
“Story of my life,” Daniel said.
William ate his straw and feebly tossed the empty can at Daniel. It landed on the floor. “I wish I could remember. It sounds awesome. How many people can say they swam in a New York City water tower?”
“How did you know there’d be water in there?” Melissa asked. “What if you’d fallen twenty feet into a big empty tank?”
“Can’t think,” William said, sliding forward and leaning his head back on
