the men around here. She crept over to the door again and opened it an inch, peering out, sure he was going to be standing there still. He wasn’t. But she noticed a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the knob of the other motel room. Of course, they had a guest.
Closing the door, she went into the bathroom to throw some cold water onto her face. She had been rejected before; she should know how to handle it by now. If she could make it through the rest of her shift, she’d figure everything else out tomorrow. That was all she had to focus on now, getting to the end of the shift. She stood still, centering on just the feeling of her bare feet on the carpet. Then quickly and cleanly she put the Band-Aid on her other heel and, gritting her teeth, pulled her shoes back on.
Back in the kitchen, Jean was flipping a burger on the grill. It sizzled and smoked. Rose’s nose felt itchy with the acrid smell of burning, but she didn’t say anything. She would never tell Jean how to cook and not just because she was her boss. No one would say a word to Jean even if their meat was as black and rubbery as a tire, which was often the case. Even though she was nearing sixty, no one would want to cross her. You’d know it if she didn’t like you.
Rose still remembered the one and only time someone did insult one of Jean’s steaks. Some dickhead friend of Steve Cunningham’s had demanded a refund. He’d told Jean that if she wanted to cook bush tucker she should go back to her campfire. That man had never got his refund, and he had not been allowed to set foot in Eamon’s again. Rose herself would have made sure of that if she’d had the chance, though Jean never needed any help. Even thinking about the guy now made Rose’s blood boil. Steve was lucky; he’d apologized repeatedly to Jean, and Rose could tell he meant it, so eventually he was allowed back.
“Do we have a guest?” Rose asked as she bent down to install the keg she’d brought in earlier.
“Yep. William Rai.” You could hear the pack-a-day habit in Jean’s voice.
“What’s he like?” Mia called from behind the bar.
“Quiet.”
Rose wiped her wet hands on her shorts and went around to the bar. She put a jug under the beer tap and began running the froth out, happy to be away from the stink of singed meat.
“Have you seen him yet?” Mia asked, quietly.
“Yeah,” Rose said. His eyes had looked so shiny, but surely that was just the light.
“And?”
“What? You think he might be your soul mate?” she joked.
Mia shrugged. “You never know.”
Rose smiled and leaned back, watching the white creamy froth overflow from the jug as it slowly turned to beer.
“So I’m guessing you haven’t heard back from Sage yet?” Mia said, looking at her carefully.
Rose flicked off the beer tap. “No.”
“Don’t stress about it—one more day won’t make a difference.”
Rose looked up at Mia and smiled feebly. She wanted to tell her, she really did, but she was afraid she might start crying again in front of all their customers. Just as she was opening her mouth to ask if they could talk about it later, the tavern went silent. It was the sudden, loud kind of silence that felt wholly unnatural. Mia and Rose looked around.
It was the guest. Will. He was paused in the doorway, every single pair of eyes in the bar on him. Rose had been right before—this man was not from Colmstock. He took the stares in, not appearing unsure or uncomfortable, and sat down at the far table. The cops turned back to their beers and the talking resumed.
“Wow. He’s not bad,” Mia said quietly.
“He’s all yours,” she told Mia. She could feel the humiliation crawling back. He must think she was such a weirdo, sitting there with the door open, crying. Hopefully he wasn’t staying long.
Rose watched Mia peel a plastic menu from the pile. She walked swiftly over to Will’s table and put the menu down in front of him. Mia put her hand on her hip and, even without being able to see her face, Rose could see that she was flirting. The girl was hardly subtle. Will smiled at her, only politely, Rose noticed, and pointed at something on the menu. He didn’t know yet not to order Jean’s food. His eyes flicked away from Mia, and he looked straight at Rose, making her breath catch ever so slightly. She turned away and busied herself washing glasses.
By the time his meal was ready, Mia was on her break. She was sitting up at the bar, eating what she normally did for dinner: a burger bun, the insides slick with tomato sauce and nothing else.
“Order up,” Jean called.
Mia shrugged at Rose, her mouth full. “I donf fink he fanfies me.”
Rose looked around, trying to think of a way to avoid a second encounter with the stranger. Maybe she could ask Jean to do it? But she knew then they’d want to know why and telling them would be even worse.
Grabbing the plate, fingers below and thumb on top, she strode toward him. Looking down at it, she saw that he seemed to have ordered a burger without the meat, just limp lettuce, pale tomatoes and cheese on the white bun. He was leaning back in his chair, reading a book, but she couldn’t see the title. As she stepped in front of his light, he looked up at her.
“Here you go,” she said.
He leaned forward. “Thanks.” He paused. “I wanted to ask...are you all right? Before I—”
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She looked him right in the eye then, daring him to mention what he’d seen. He didn’t.
“Just checking,” he said and half smiled, creating little crinkles around his dark eyes.
* * *
At closing time, when all the stools were on the tables and the floor was mopped and drying, Springsteen was singing about dreams and secrets and darkness on the edge of town, and Mia and Rose sat on the bar, drinking beers. Their aching feet feeling blissful now that they weren’t on the hard concrete. Jean stood behind them, counting the money in the register.
“How long is our guest staying?” Rose asked, trying to sound casual.
“He’s booked in for a week,” Jean muttered, writing down figures on an order pad.
“You keen?” Mia asked.
“Nah, the opposite. He seemed like a dickhead. Really patronizing.”
The sound of something banging on the window interrupted them. It was Frank, rapping his knuckles on the glass. He waved good-night, his brown eyes so hopeful that he looked more like a small scruffy street mutt begging for a scrap than a policeman in his thirties. They waved back.
“That man needs to take it down a notch,” Jean said, slight disapproval in her voice.
Rose didn’t respond.
“He’s a nice guy,” Mia said, pushing it.
“It’s not about that,” Rose said. “There’s just no
