But each time the logical part of me tries to make this a neat and organized list, my emotions crash down, and memories rain on me like a hurricane, pulling two years of stolen glances and smirks and kind gestures that he worked so hard to camouflage behind a wall of confidence and strength.
I consider if I should try calling him as I work to figure out where he might be right now.
My thoughts run freely, all ending with the same realization—this was inevitable. He told me from the beginning that the hotel was his future and that included traveling all across the world, constant meetings and obligations to honor his role. I knew he loved the company and that eventually, this choice would have to be made. This pain would have been felt now or later.
When we land in Seattle, the skies are as overcast as my mood, but the realization we have a ton of things we need to do before school starts in a few weeks helps distract my thoughts as we find the car that was arranged for us.
“He knew we had all our stuff in storage,” Cooper says as the car pulls up to the Banks Hotel in downtown Seattle.
The reservation is for two suites, smaller than the ones we’ve stayed in during our trip, but equally nice. Only now, I’m alone in a room that feels too big and foreign.
I take a seat at the small dining room table and find my notebook and one of the dozens of hotel pens I’ve somehow collected and start making a list of everything we need to do:
Make arrangements to pick up the car
Make arrangements to pick up keys for the apartment
Arrange U-Haul
Unpack storage locker
Moving day—move in to apartment
Go grocery shopping
Submit job applications
Talk to Cooper
Talk to Nessie.
There’s a knock on my door, and hope floods my heart, making it feel like an overfilled washing machine again as I glance at the clock and then back to the door.
Would he be able to fly back from England?
Did he leave?
I stand from the table and try to reel in my thoughts, knowing disappointment hurts nearly as much as regret, and I know because I’ve spent nearly twenty-four hours drowning in guilt for not admitting my feelings for Tyler two years sooner.
Nessie’s on the other side of the door, a pillow in her arms.
“What are you doing?” I ask her.
“I thought we could have a sleepover.”
My eyes begin to mist over. “Are you sure?”
She hugs me, the pillow pressing against my side, making me feel like we’re in a marshmallow. “You’ve been so quiet,” she says.
“I feel so silly,” I admit to her, taking several steps back as my chin begins to shake. “I knew this would happen eventually, and we were together for only days, so it seems like this would be the best situation because it causes the least pain—and yet it hurts so much.” I place a hand across my chest from where the pain seems to be radiating. “And I know you’re mad at me, and Cooper’s mad at me. I don’t know how everything just erupted all at once.” Tears blur my vision.
Nessie’s arms encircle me again, sans pillow. “I don’t think anyone could tell you how long it takes to fall for someone else. The heart doesn’t have a timer or a calendar or a set of rules. It wants what it wants. Loves who it loves.” Her voice is soft and gentle, an allowance for my tears and sadness that grow with her words.
I pull away from her again, my lips dry and my cheeks wet. I go in search of tissues and return to the living room where Nessie is sitting on the couch. She pats the space beside her, and I fill it, wiping more stray tears. “I don’t even know what to think or feel,” I tell her. “I mean, he just left. It’s like I haven’t even been able to register the reality of the situation because I don’t know what the reality is.”
Nessie’s eyes turn sorrowful. “I know. That has to hurt a lot.”
I nod, and the tears fall faster as she confirms what my mind has known and what my heart has been fighting. And then, as she has for the past twenty-one years, Nessie picks up the pieces as I shatter.
Tyler
It’s been the longest forty-eight hours of my life.
Every time a woman walks by with long brown hair, I turn. I know it’s not going to be Chloe, and yet, hope gets me every single damn time.
“Tyler, I’m going to have you sit with Phil and Lewis this morning. Let you guys cover what you both learned over this summer and see if there are any best practices you can exchange,” Dad says as we pull up to the Banks hotel in London—the second building my great-grandfather helped build and the first hotel site. The top floor is a presidential suite that is larger and grander than all those that we saw over the summer. It’s rumored my dad had intended to live in it at one time. Now, it’s rented a few times a year or donated for fundraisers. Below it is our corporate office. Two levels of private offices and conference rooms where I learned to sit on my hands with my back straight and not touch anything. I imagine what Chloe would say and how she’d react to seeing the lavish space. When we’d first arrived in New Orleans, her obvious shock as she openly stared and admired the hotel had bordered on uncomfortable. I didn’t know why it bothered me as it did, but after a few days I realized it was because her reactions were so pure. I was so used to people using me and being fake, that I assumed that’s what she was doing. But Chloe is one of the most genuine people I’ve ever met. She appreciates what others—what I—take for granted like the luxury of a
