Maybe that’s something cool about motel rooms. They are comfy because they are predictable.
I pause here to think about that.
Maybe that’s why Wendy won’t give in to me?
Am I not predictable enough?
Is she not able to be comfy with me?
All this rumination about the room is not even the point. Because I’m not worried about the table, or the phone, or the single-serving coffeemaker. I’m looking at the pen and little pad of paper sitting in the middle of the table.
I walk over there, take a seat, and then reach out and drag the little pad over to me.
It’s a familiar pad. It’s white and there is a vintage truck with the word ‘Americana’ printed in retro letters across the top. Underneath that is all the business details. Address, phone, web, etc.
I pick up the pen and have another flashback of that day with Sasha in the Wyoming motel.
I wrote her a letter. I like writing letters. So I left her a note with the pancakes and four hundred dollars. It said,
Dear Sash, I’m so sorry. But you and Harper—you two are the only reason I’m doing this. And if I took you with me, I’d be just as bad as my father. I’d be just as bad as James. I’m coming back, don’t worry. I paid the room up for two weeks and I’ll be back. I’ll find you a home, Sasha. I swear. You’re gonna have that life I told you about. Just stay here. Don’t call anyone. Don’t leave. Just please, stay here so I know you’re safe. I can’t be your promise, it’s wrong. But you’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted. I hope you know that. Nick.
The only way I could’ve handled that worse was if I had written the note on a napkin.
Is it any wonder that Wendy doesn’t trust me with her heart? Can I blame her when something like this is out there floating in the wind? And OK, I know, what are the chances that Wendy knows anything about this note I left for Sasha? Zero, right?
Wrong.
Wendy is like a bloodhound. She can sniff out information like a fucking dog on track. She doesn’t even have to try hard. When Wendy Gale has a question, answers quake in their boots. This is why people hire her. This is why everyone knows her. Indie was right. About that, at least. Wendy is connected.
I look at the pen in my hand. ‘Americana’ is splashed along the white plastic barrel in candy-apple red. Another piece of cheap promo material.
And now I have everything I need.
So I begin.
Dear Wendy,
I am so sorry for not understanding what you really needed from me all these years. But I get it now. You know that, right? I proved it last Christmas? And I know that you can take care of yourself, but I would like to put it on record that if Merc hurts you—he’s done. I don’t give a fuck how many kids—
I pause, then rip that piece of paper off, crumple it up, and throw it at the little trashcan, always next to the microwave.
Then I take a deep breath, let it out, and start again…
Dear Wendy,
Do you remember what it felt like when you came home last Christmas?
I pause again. But this time I do it so I can smile and conjure up the memory for myself.
There was snow on the ground, a chill in the air, and a queasiness in my stomach I almost mistook for the flu—until I realized it was nerves.
I was nervous.
This was the make-or-break moment for Wendy and me. I was putting shit out there. I had the whole grand gesture planned. By the time we left the cabin we’d know two things for certain.
One. Whether or not we’d ever see each other again.
And two. Whether or not we could forgive each other again.
Funny, though. Right now I don’t actually know the answer to number one even though I know the answer to number two. Because she stayed all week. We got over things. We started new things. We forgave each other.
But this whole ‘little girl shoots Donovan Couture in the head with a dart gun and sends him into a psychotic coma’ kinda put a kink in things. Wendy and I aren’t even supposed to meet up again until her birthday, which is a little less than two weeks away.
It’s also kinda curious that I even know she’s missing. Because I have gone years without seeing or talking to Wendy Gale and never thought she needed help. I never looked for her. I always gave her space.
But this time, everything is different.
She’s not avoiding me, she’s trapped.
And I felt it.
I knew it.
Even before I called Adam. Even before I heard about Donovan. Even before I knew he wasn’t dead.
I knew we’d end up here.