Page 67 of Hot Nights in Morocco
What the hell did I do now?
Lifting my head with a groan, I survey the scenes of devastation all around me. The courtyard is littered with catatonic bodies and a recycling center’s yearly quota of bottles. Max is sprawled out across a hot pink floatie in the middle of the pool, snoring gently and clutching a cocktail glass to his chest like some Club Tropicana hooligan who sampled too many of the song’s eponymous free drinks. He’s lost all his clothes apart from a pair of black Calvins and one sock. The other has been hoisted to the top of an outside light fixture and is currently flying the colors for over-the-top decadence.
I think hard—as hard as my throbbing head will allow. I have a faint recollection of a conversation with Zoe, and then of a cockroach climbing the wall, but everything is a bit hazy after that. Automatically, my thoughts turn to Jake.
Jake.
The full force of his actions hit me like a punch to the gut, along with the aftereffects of seven flaming sambucas.
I stumble to my knees, throwing up all over the undergrowth.Not so pristine now.I retch and retch until there’s nothing left but bile. Afterward, I raise a trembling hand to my mouth and notice bruising around three knuckles. There are spider cracks of dried blood in-between, too, sending sharp, jagged spikes of pain up to my wrist. If it’s not my blood, I hope its Jake’s. I really, really hope I smacked him one.
Somehow, I make it to the outside staircase. It feels like some horror movie character is drilling holes in my brain, and I have to hold on tight to the banister as it starts spinning like a Hitchcock vortex.
Fifty-five steps and two dry heaves later, I’m slotting the keycard into my hotel room lock. Someone’s pushed a note under my door, but I kick it out of my way without reading it. Jake is everywhere. There’s a discarded white T-shirt of his hanging over the back of my chair, and his iPhone charger is sprawled across my desk. He’s still claiming my personal space, just as he claimed my thoughts, and I hate him, hate him,hate himfor it.
Walking over to the bed, I yank the nearest pillow toward me and bury my face in it. Cedarwood. Citrus.
Liar.
That’s when his loss hits me like a diabetic’s sugar crash. My legs give out, and I slither to the floor in a crumpled heap.
I cry for the man I thought he was.
I cry for the man he’ll never be.
Just like my father.
I recall Brad Wilson’s warning in L.A. So many people tried to tell me the truth about Jake, and I ignored them all.
I lie on the floor for the longest time, until my rivers turn into oceans, until I’m hollow and exhausted and I can’t cry anymore.
Swiping at my cheeks, I crawl blindly toward the bed and drag myself up by the quilt. Picking up the telephone on the nightstand. I dial down to reception with shaking fingers.
There’s a click on the line and then a friendly voice is wishing me a good morning.
“I’d like to book a taxi, please.”
“Certainly, madam. For what time?”
“Straightaway. To the airport.” I pause for a beat and sniff loudly. “And I’d like to check out.”
“Not a problem. The paperwork will be waiting for you downstairs. Your taxi will be here shortly. Good day, madam.”
I hang up and survey my hotel room with a mixture of inertia and despair. Moments later, I’m flipping drawers like pancakes and hurling belongings into my suitcase. I’m in such a state that I don’t notice Rachel slipping into the room behind me.
“What’s going on, Charlie?” she asks softly.
She’s still wearing her party dress, and her bob is nowhere near as sleek as it was ten hours ago. I haven’t seen her since last night when I still had a wing and a prayer for Jake and me. I know it’s totally irrational, but for some reason this makes me really angry with her.
“What the hell areyoudoing here?”
“I c-came to s-see if you were okay,” she stammers, quailing at the look on my face. “What happened last night?”
“I woke up.” If bitterness were a pill, mine would be cyanide.
“Has this got something to do with Jake?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I drawl, turning back to my suitcase.
