Chapter 8
The conference room was smaller than I remembered hotel conference rooms being. Four chairs around a laminate table, a credenza with a coffee maker that hadn't been run that night. The air was warmer in there, too warm after the lobby.
I didn't take off my coat.
I sat with my suitcase on the floor against my shin, the leather handle still in my right hand. My hand wouldn't stop trembling. I tried to hold it still by tightening my grip, but that just made the tremor move up into my wrist. The owner sat across from me. He hadn't asked me again if I was Walter. He was just looking, and that was worse.
His eyes dropped to my coat. I knew what he saw. The two small holes near the second button, where the wool had worn thin and then given out. I'd tried to keep my hand over them in the lobby.
"You've been out in that rain a while," he said. His voice was low, like he didn't want anyone outside the door to hear. "Your coat's soaked through. Let me hang it. It'll dry a little while we talk."
I shook my head before he'd finished. "I'm fine like this," I said. My voice came out rougher than I wanted. I cleared my throat. "Don't need to make a fuss."
He didn't reach for it. He just nodded, his hands flat on the table. I noticed his stubble up close then, and the gray at his temples that hadn't been there when I knew him. He was breathing slow, deliberate, like he was trying to lend me the rhythm.
"It's not a fuss," he said. "That wet wool can't be comfortable. Just over the back of the chair. I'll have it right there where you can see it."
I looked down at my hand on the suitcase. The knuckles were pale. The trembling had gotten into the suitcase handle now, a faint rattle against the metal corners. I was tired. I realized I'd been tired for a long time and my body had just stopped pretending otherwise.
I didn't want to take it off because underneath was just the gray shirt. The one I'd worn for three days. The collar was frayed and there was a stain on the cuff I couldn't get out at the gas station sink. The coat at least made me look like a man who might have a room somewhere else.
But the heat in that room was making the damp wool steam. I could smell it. And my shoulders ached from holding myself upright.
"Just for a minute," I said. It wasn't quite yes.
He stood slow. Didn't come around the table fast. "May I?" he asked, his hand hovering near my sleeve, not touching.
I let go of the suitcase handle — and I felt the absence of it immediately — and I shrugged my right arm out, then my left. The coat was heavier wet than I expected. He took it by the shoulders.
Underneath, the gray shirt clung to my back where I'd sweated. I felt thin in it. I sat up straighter to make up for it, my hands going back to the suitcase handle where it rested against my leg. The trembling was more visible now without the heavy sleeves to hide it.
He draped the coat over the back of the empty chair nearest the little heater vent. He smoothed it once, careful, like it mattered. The holes showed plainly now, two dark eyes in the fabric. He didn't stare at them. He just adjusted the collar so the water wouldn't pool.
The door opened and the manager came in with a tray. He'd lost the stern look he'd worn behind the marble counter. He carried a white mug with both hands, steam curling off it.
"I brought tea," he said to me, not to the owner. "It's hot. There's sugar if you want it."
He set it on the table and slid it toward me. The mug was heavy, hotel-thick. The steam hit my face and my eyes stung. For some reason I had to swallow hard.
"Thank you," I said. I got both hands around it. The heat went straight into my palms and up my arms. The tremor eased just enough that I could hold it without spilling. I blew across the top, a short breath that wasn't quite steady, and then sipped.
It was too hot and too strong and exactly right. I felt my breathing slow to match the heat in my hands. Inhale, hold, exhale. The rain was still hitting the glass doors out in the lobby, a faint patter through the conference room wall. But in here the air was still.
May you like
The owner sat back down. He didn't pour himself anything. He watched me drink, his eyes watering a little in the warm light, his lips pressed together like he was holding back everything else he wanted to say.
I kept the mug in both hands. My coat hung on the chair, dripping faintly onto the carpet. My suitcase stayed against my shin, untouched, unopened. And for the first time that night, I wasn't bracing to be told to move on.
