Page 62 of Strict Confidence (Rochester Trilogy 2)
He’s dropped me off here hundreds of times before. It should be the most natural thing in the world. Instead it feels foreign, like a place I no longer belong.
“It’s a good thing they didn’t sublet your spot,” he says. “It would have been a pain in the ass to find a new place. Especially on such short notice.”
Probably about as painful as having to call my roommate and explain that I’m back in town months early. My old room is still available, with its top-bunk twin bed. I won’t need a full half of the rickety dresser. I didn’t bring all the clothes Mateo bought for me. Only what would fit in the small rolling suitcase. It’s a Louis Vuitton suitcase that a guest once left in the Lighthouse Inn. Marjorie found it in storage. Imagine being rich enough that you can forget a four thousand dollar suitcase and not bother to send for it. Between the luggage, the clothes inside, and my phone, I’m like a completely different person than the woman who left Houston.
“Yeah. It’s better this way.” A lie I’ll keep repeating until it becomes the truth. If it ever does.
It’s better this way, a million miles away from Beau Rochester. Never seeing Paige grow up. Not having the family that had seemed for one shining second like I belonged.
I open the door to his car and get out before I can beg him to drive me back to the airport. It hurts so bad to be here, alone and adrift. My chest aches from it. And everything is wrong. My clothes are too hot for Houston. Ironically the clothes are more expensive than anything I could have purchased here, but the fabric is too thick. They’re not made for heat like this. The yoga pants that felt so good in Maine make my legs feel constricted now.
Noah gets out with me and comes around to hand me my bag. “You sure you don’t want me to come in? I could stay with you for a while. Get you settled in.”
We used to hang out for hours at a time without any particular plan. We’d binge-watch something on the Netflix we shared with the rest of my roommates. Or we’d lie in bed watching TikTok, showing each other the funniest ones. I can’t imagine doing those things now. It feels like a different woman did those. I don’t know who I am now, but I know that I’ve changed. “I’m sure,” I say, giving him a smile to soften the rejection. “I’ll text you later.”
He puts his arms around me for a quick squeeze and kisses the top of my head. His arms around me feel wrong. Not because he’s too rough or anything. He’s just not Beau Rochester. “People like you and me, we don’t stay in one place for long.”
If you leave early enough, you won’t miss them when you’re gone.
But I already know it didn’t work. I’ll miss them forever. “I know.”
He waits in his car while I walk up to the door. This is an old habit, too. Noah and I have never lived in the safest neighborhoods. We don’t just drive off before the other person is safely inside.
The key sticks in the door, and it takes several turns before I can get the lock to pop open. Once it does, I turn around and wave to Noah. He waves back. It’s a minute more before he actually drives away. I step inside the familiar crowded vestibule with the peeling laminate floor and the coat tree that’s packed with hoodies, umbrellas, and backpacks.
I’ve walked through here a thousand times, but it feels smaller now. I’ve gotten used to the Coach House. I’ve gotten used to the inn. Which is unfortunate, because I live here now. This is my life. I’ll use the money from Beau to go to college, but I’m not going to live a life of luxury.
The heat from outside has crept in with me.
It feels suffocating.
No. I can still breathe. In and out. I force my breathing to even. It’s hard because my chest hurts so much. I would love a few minutes to cry in peace. I didn’t want to cry in front of Noah in the airport, and I don’t want to cry in front of any of my roommates now. Though it sounds quiet enough in the apartment that everyone may be at work. It is the middle of the day, after all. Some of them are in college, some are working. We’re all busy, only catching each other at night, usually. I’m sure they’ll want me to share everything tonight, but I can’t imagine opening up about Beau and Paige. It would be like opening a wound.
Nobody’s on the couch, or in the lumpy armchair in the corner, and I let out a big breath.
