Page 108 of When We Had Forever
I turn away from the beaming smiles on television. “Yeah, I’m looking for Grayson Drake, but I’m not sure which room he’s in. Could you give me the number?”
The man does a head wobble that might mean yes, might mean no. “I’m sorry, but I cannot tell you unless you are family. Please understand.”
He looks deeply apologetic, and Idounderstand, given Grayson’s notoriety. But I have absolutely zero desire to stand around in the parking lot waiting or, worse, shouting his name, so I plunk down my driver’s license.
“I am family, actually. I’m his wife. Mina Drake. See? Same last name.”
The man peers down.
In the silence, I drum my nails against the Formica.Jesus. I could’ve said sister. I really could’ve said sister.
“My apologies.” He pushes a key with a wooden fob at me. “Room seventeen.”
I pause. I didn’t ask for access, but...what the hell, why not? I grab the key and head back outside.
Room seventeen awaits around the corner, at the far end of the lot. The curtains are drawn, but light leaks out from underneath, and I spot that sinful-looking red thing parked near the door.
My stomach tangles, but I knock before I can second-guess myself. When no one answers, I contemplate the key, then decide Grayson’s wife wouldn’t stand around waiting, anyway, and let myself in.
Inside, the room proves cozy and clean, if not overly luxurious. A brown, geometric-patterned rug complements a crisp white bed and two upholstered chairs. A desk lamp casts a warm net of light. Across from the bed lies a closed bathroom door; the waterfall roar of a shower drums through from the other side.
I try not to visualize too much of what’s happening in there and restrict myself to poking around out here, where it’s safe. On the bedside table, I find an antique-looking book with a fabric cover. Dante’sDivine Comedy. Not justInferno, like most people read, but all three volumes. I wish I didn’t find that choice so compelling.
I flip to where Grayson has marked his place with a dog-eared fold. Page three hundred. When I sift through, I find a straightened crease on page two hundred and fifty, another on page two hundred, another on—
With a shudder, I snap the book shut and toss it down. Which leads me to the desk, where a laptop and a ridiculously expensive camera jockey for space. The camera looks freshly disassembled, as if Grayson has just returned from an extended photo session. His laptop lies open, sleeping. Curiosity prompts me to scribble a finger across the tracking pad.
The screen flares. An array of snapshots greets me, all taken somewhere nearby, in the woods.
I sink into the swivel chair, clicking from one to another as if lured. The photos are magnificent. Living, pulsing slices of a world both timeless and untouched. I can almost hear the burble of birdcall, the trickle of streams underfoot. One picture seizes my attention and hangs on. In it, trees arc high overhead, bathing the forest with sapphire shadows. Above the latticed canopy, the sky appears to have caught fire. Light pours through the branches in rivers,waterfalls, even, filling up the frame, reaching and reaching for the forest floor but never quite making it.
I stare until the space between my ribs hollows out. The light raining through the trees sifts in to fill that up, too.
How beautiful must a man be inside, I wonder,in order to see the world this way?
Somewhere to my left, a door opens. I hadn’t noticed the shower turn off, but now the creak of a carpet-clad floorboard warns me, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
Briefly, I consider snapping the laptop closed, but I can’t bear to disrespect the photo that way, so I leave the evidence of my snooping as-is and swivel the chair.
The sight of Grayson hits me like a bullet to the chest. Not because he’s half-naked, towel clad, and glistening—he is, but I barely see that, because I can’t get past the look on his face. Someone’s smashed hope, dread, and adoration all together, tossed them into the oven to bake, then pulled them out again still raw and unfinished.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
I drag my teeth over my bottom lip. “I decided I should at least hear what you had to say.”
“Oh,” he says. “Good. That’s good.”
Neither of us seems to know what to do next. He tucks his towel tighter, then takes a few halting steps to where his suitcase lies by the bed. “Um...do you mind if I put on some pants?”
“Go ahead.” I tent a hand around my eyes and angle away.
Clothes rustle. The towel thumps against the rug. “Okay. I’m decent.”
I look again to find him wearing a pair of black joggers with white stripes down the sides. No shirt. I wonder if that’s part of some diabolical strategy, but if so, I’m not about to be swayed by the swathes of tattooed muscle and ropy sinew he’s putting on dis—
