Ann Aguirre - The Shape Of My Heart

Since I had plenty of space on various cards and a fair amount of cash on me, plus my ATM card, this didn’t present as much of a challenge as it might have for someone else. My style hid the fact that my family had plenty of money, though not like Angus, of course. Better for me to blend into the neighborhood anyway, especially at this hour.

“Okay, thanks.” I smiled at her.

“There’s a decent place four blocks away. I can draw a map if you want.”

“No, that’s fine. If you tell me what it’s called, I can map it on my phone. Is it safe to walk in this neighborhood? I’m not from around here.”

She nodded, naming the hotel. “Just keep your head down and stay alert. The first block is iffy, but there will be more people when you hit Little Italy.”

After thanking her again, I memorized the route, then put away my phone. Even during the day, it wasn’t a good idea to show you had no fucking clue where you were going. At night, it would be insane. Maybe I should just call a taxi but it seemed dumb as hell to wait twenty minutes for it when I could walk it in less than ten. The waitress was right about the first leg feeling sketchy, so I speed-walked. A few guys stared from their stoops as I jogged by, but nobody made a move.

More lights sprang up as I turned, and by the way the architecture changed, I could tell I’d found Little Italy. The buildings looked more European, painted in brighter hues. Checking the street sign, I saw I’d found De Pasquale Avenue, just as Google promised. I felt better here, as a number of restaurants were still open, mostly bistros and trattorias that reminded me of Rome. I found the hotel, no problem; it was a three-story building—canary yellow with white accents. The front rooms appeared to have balconies, and it didn’t seem like a flophouse, even from the outside, though I could tell it wasn’t posh.

My phone read 9:50 p.m. No messages from Max. Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken off. But as I put my hands on the door, my cell rang.

“Where are you?” he demanded.

“I’ve been kidnapped by super generous criminals, who let me keep my personal electronics. It’s too late. I’m a sex slave now, don’t try to save me.”

An older woman coming out of the restaurant next door aimed a shocked look at me. I beamed at her, waving like we were old friends. That made her quicken her step, lest she be forced to talk to me. She crossed the street to continue her journey.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”

He sighed. “Just tell me where you are, please. I admit it, I shouldn’t have left. I was just trying to catch up with Michael but I fucked up and he won’t talk to me. I turned around when I realized how weird it was to chase him on the bike.”

“You hurt his pride. And I didn’t stay there because the diner was closing. I hate being the asshole who can’t take a hint, even when they’re cleaning up around you.”

For a millisecond, I considered giving him a hard time, but it had been a shitty enough day, and it wasn’t like anything horrible had happened to me. I’m not a damsel in distress. I can handle my own business.

“Kaufman.”

“Fine.” I gave him the address for Hotel Dolce Villa. “I’m getting a room. See you later.”

Inside, the hotel was purple and white, surprisingly modern. No frills, but the lobby was clean, with an efficiently-designed counter and a vending machine against the wall. If the rooms were like this, clean and simple, then this would be nicer than the place we’d stayed in last night. Certainly the area was better than the interstate.

The receptionist looked slightly annoyed when I walked up. I tried a smile. “Sorry, I don’t have a reservation, but I was wondering if you had anything available?”

“You’re lucky,” she muttered.

“Huh?”

“Check-in shuts down at 10:00 p.m. As it’s nine fifty-seven and—” she checked the computer “—this guy’s still not here, I’m making an executive decision and giving you the room.”

Oh. That explains the irritation. She’s about to shut down and go home. Some hotels had twenty-four-hour desk service, but apparently this wasn’t one of them.

“That’s awesome—thanks.” I didn’t feel like wandering Providence in hope of finding shelter, and after the tension at the funeral home and his argument with his brother, I imagined Max felt the same. “Is the hotel small?”

“Yeah, only fourteen suites. This is our last room. How many nights?”

The funeral was tomorrow, and there was no way we were heading out straight after. Max needed to make peace with Michael, if nothing else. That’s the whole reason we’re here.

I made an executive decision on my own. “Three. Can you put it on my card?”

“Sure. Are you alone?”

“No, a friend will be joining me shortly. He’s parking the bike.”

“We don’t have a proper lot but he can stash a motorcycle out back.”

I texted him that information. Ten minutes later, Max blew through the front door, weighed down by helmets and backpacks, wildly disheveled but hotter for it, somehow. It was frustrating to notice that about him. Pushing out of my chair, I waved at the receptionist and led the way to our suite without speaking. Our room was two flights up. I had a combination instead of a card, so I keyed in the code and let us in. Like the lobby, it was clean and modern, painted bright blue. White furniture and a tile floor made it seem like a small apartment, complete with separate bedroom and kitchenette. The room smelled overwhelmingly of plug-in air freshener, not the worst possibility.

Max glanced around in surprise. “Better than I expected.”

“According to the brochure, the bed and pull-out couch have memory-foam mattresses.”

“I’ll take the sofa.”

“Like I’d give you the bed after you ditched me.”

He caught my shoulder as I brushed by. “Hey. I really am sorry. It was a dick move. If you want to punch me, go for it. Just...not the face, okay?”

I laughed and pulled away. “You’re such an idiot.”

“I’m trying to make it up to you.”

“You know I’m not a dude, right? If I was upset, I wouldn’t get over it by hitting you.”

Max sighed. “Okay, tell me what to do.”

“The apology was fine. But if you ever do anything like that again, I’m making a quilt out of your underwear.”

“That’s disturbing on so many levels.” He paused a beat. “For instance, you can sew ?”

“Don’t judge. Junior year, I made my own prom dress.”

“I don’t know what’s blowing my mind more, you being domestic or the fact that you went to prom. Do you have pictures?”

Normally I’d never go to the archives. Eli’s there. Eli. These days I didn’t talk to him in my head as much as I used to. Back in high school, I couldn’t go a whole day without those fictional convos to get me through. Now I sometimes went as long as a week without asking his opinion. Which qualified me as beyond crazy. For Max, though, I plopped onto the love seat and connected to the free Wi-Fi on my phone. Then I flipped through the cloud gallery where I’d stored five years of precious memories. Pulling up my junior prom picture created an actual physical ache.

I’d worn a black taffeta strapless gown embroidered with silver skulls, fishnet stockings and black Converse, my hair done up in an Amy Winehouse–inspired masterpiece. My date stood only an inch taller, though I was in flats. I’d made his matching tie and cummerbund, too. I stared at his sweet, ridiculous face, so covered in freckles that I’d never finished counting them. I hadn’t dated a blond guy since, but it was Eli’s eyes I’d loved most, impossibly blue, and always trained on me, waiting for me to say something clever or make him laugh.