The scrubbed young man behind the dull laminate countertop wears a pained expression. “I do apologize,” he says with the utmost sensitivity, ignoring the flickering florescent light overhead, “we only have a room with two twin beds left.” He’s little more than a teenager, and Allie finds his professionalism adorable.
“No worries, that’s perfect,” she rushes to assure him as she pays and takes the keys. After seven hours on the road with Chase, she welcomes the prospect of a peaceful night’s sleep. No one poking her because she snores. Not having to impersonate a corpse all night because the insomniac can’t abide the slightest tremor. No, she’s free tonight to toss and turn to her heart’s content. She can’t wait. She’s gonna flop around on that mattress like a tuna.
They’re in a tidy, sparse little one-room cabin and agree they need showers, especially since the air conditioner in her car wasn’t working. No one is in good spirits. He’s faster, so he goes first. But only a minute in, Allie hears the swearing begin. The drain is clogged. It’s flooding, and Chase has to take a Navy shower, soaping up with the water turned off and rinsing quickly so it can drain. She shouts through the door that she’s calling the front desk.
Having never worked in hospitality, she can only assume that the last things hospitality staff want to see when summoned to a guest’s room (that don’t require a call to the authorities) are: a stuffed toilet, a clogged drain, or some random stranger’s privates. Two or more is an unpleasant night indeed. So when the knock comes upon the door and Chase still hasn’t dressed, Allie is mortified. Without opening the door, she asks the manager to please wait a moment. This lovely, unsuspecting young man did not buy tickets to an exhibition.
Whispering angrily, she says to Chase, “Would you get dressed already! I have to let this guy in.”
“What’s the big deal?” he says, striding around the room naked. Suitcase open on the bed. Fresh clothes within reach. His shower ended a good five minutes ago.
“The big deal is that his job description doesn’t include satisfying whatever sick fantasy of yours this is.”
“God, you’re so uptight.”
This is his favorite accusation. Any time he disagrees with her, he’s expressing himself. Any time her opinion differs from his, she’s a hopeless square.
“Save it. Just put your fucking pants on so I can open the door. Trust me, no one wants to see your dick.”
Her hand on the doorknob, she can feel the normalcy ebbing farther from reach with each weird second she doesn’t open that door.
The young manager knocks again.
“I’m so sorry,” she speaks into the door crack, “my boyfriend is getting dressed. He couldn’t find the key to his suitcase.” She hates lying to the boy for him. Hates that she has to.
Allie glares. Asshole.
There’s silence on the other side of the door. She presses her ear to it, afraid the manager has left. Or, he’s squirming out there like she’s squirming in here. Allie pictures herself taking her backpack and keys and just leaving Chase stranded in this cabin with the clogged drain. The vision gives her a little thrill. Behind her, she hears the rustle of fabric and turns to see that Chase has pulled on a pair of boxers. Not quite dressed, but it will have to do.
She opens the door.
The hairball is removed, and the manager apologizes awkwardly for their inconvenience. Allie thanks him and, for some reason, says sorry, too. He laughs it off and says it’s been a quiet night and that he was bored and wasting time on Facebook anyway.
Chase tuts and throws up his hands dramatically as the door swings shut. “Why are you apologizing? It’s his job.”
“I’m not apologizing for the clog.”
She showers and gets ready for bed without another word.
They’ve had this argument before. He didn’t get why it wasn’t cool to be in her driveway packing his car at midday buck naked. Why waving a hand is the greeting preferred by neighbors everywhere. In response, he called her “bourgeoise.” That confused her more than anything because she took it as a compliment. When she said “thanks,” he threw up his hands and put on his pants.
But that should have been her first red flag: What kind of person says “bourgeoise” in the first place?
Nevertheless, he abided by the dress code at her home. But whenever they went hiking and nature called, he stopped right on the trail and whipped it out. Where a typical person would, say, go behind a tree, he made no attempt to hide it. She asked—begged—him to use some discretion. Next time, he stopped in mid-path as a family with two young children approached. Then in an open field. And a busy parking lot. She tried ignoring him. Or kept walking, pretending she didn’t know him. And she vowed the next time he did it, she’d leave him there. Let him find his own ride.
Allie is grateful for the twin beds, pushed as far to opposite walls as they can be. After the lights go out, a long silence follows. She hears Chase breathing loudly, his gears turning. She grits her teeth and thinks again about her backpack by the door, the keys in her coat pocket. He’s a late sleeper… But, no, she’d never—not like that, anyway. Would she?
“Why don’t you come over and snuggle?”
Allie turns to scowl at him across the darkened room. Chase can’t see her, but she knows he can feel her stare. “Are you kidding me?”
“Why not?” He sounds confused. Hurt.
“Keep it in your pants.” She rolls over to stare at the wall. In the dark, she fantasizes about her keys until she drifts off to sleep.