Emily had absolutely no intention of eavesdropping on a domestic dispute, but she stood completely frozen against the railing. The cadence of the man’s voice, the specific way he dragged out his syllables when he was angry, snatched her undivided attention.
“Are you mocking me right now? I brought you to a perfectly decent resort, and it is still not enough for you! You want the Bahamas! You want Hawaii!” he continued to rant, his voice echoing against the stucco walls.
“This place is a complete dump! Do you not see that? It is a four-star roach motel masquerading as a luxury getaway!” the woman laughed, a loud, grating, and utterly mocking sound.
Emily stopped breathing. The man’s voice was too familiar. It was impossible to ignore. And then, he dropped his volume, speaking quietly but with a heavy, simmering irritation that pierced straight through Emily’s soul.
“What will you be like at forty?”
Her heart completely stopped beating in her chest. The glass in her hand trembled. That was James’s phrase. It was his signature, favorite, patronizing line. It was the exact emotional weapon he always deployed to shut down an argument when he felt cornered.
“No, it cannot be!” Emily squeezed her eyes shut, digging her fingernails into her palms, desperately praying to any listening god that she had simply misheard him. Pure, unadulterated panic surged through her bloodstream.
“Ethan, stay right here. I will be back in just a second,” she called over her shoulder, tossing the glass onto the patio table and bolting off the balcony. She ripped open the heavy hotel room door and darted out into the carpeted hallway. She forcefully smashed her thumb against the glowing elevator button, but impatience and adrenaline immediately sent her sprinting toward the emergency stairwell. She practically flew down the concrete steps to the floor below.
Ignoring every basic rule of propriety, common sense, and personal safety, Emily crept down the quiet hall and pressed her ear flat against the cold wood of the neighbors’ door.
Inside, the man’s furious tirade was still going strong. “You really think I am going to chase after you? Where exactly are you gonna go? Who in their right mind would put up with your attitude for more than a month?”
“I do not care! I have got plenty of options waiting for me!” the woman shrieked back at the top of her lungs.
“Then go! Go wherever you want!”
“You are going to regret this, you scoundrel!”
The heavy brass handle suddenly clicked. The door violently slammed open, and the blonde woman stormed out into the hallway, a rolling suitcase trailing behind her. Emily barely managed to throw herself backward, ducking around the sharp corner of the corridor just in time to avoid a head-on collision. She pressed her spine against the floral wallpaper, her chest heaving as the woman marched angrily toward the elevators, muttering curses under her breath.
The terrifying, suffocating thought that her legally deceased husband could be standing just ten feet away behind that open door simply would not let her go. This was way past the realm of coincidence. The man on the airplane, the distinct mole on his chin, the familiar voice, and now that incredibly specific phrase. It all pointed to one impossible, mind-bending conclusion. Or was she finally having a complete psychotic break?
She quietly tiptoed away from the door and stepped over to a large window at the far end of the hall, desperately trying to compose herself. “What on earth am I doing?” she scolded her reflection in the dark glass. “I am hiding in hallways, eavesdropping on screaming matches, and stalking a total stranger like I am the crazy ex in a cheap, late-night thriller.”
But then, the squeak of hinges echoed down the hall. The door opened completely. The man stepped out into the corridor. Emily instantly averted her gaze, staring hard out the window, but she caught his reflection perfectly in the glass pane. Her heart performed a violent flip against her ribs. That specific, arrogant profile. The way he rolled his shoulders to release tension. The familiar, rhythmic stride.
Emily blindly followed him. She kept a safe, generous distance, trailing like a ghost as he descended the sweeping lobby staircase. He completely bypassed the front desk and headed straight into the hotel’s swanky, dimly lit lounge bar. He slid onto a leather stool at the polished mahogany counter and immediately waved the bartender over, gesturing for a drink.
“This is completely insane,” she thought to herself, her palms sweating profusely. Yet, some invisible, magnetic force pulled her forward. She walked into the bar, took a seat just two empty stools away from him, and ordered a club soda with lime, pretending to take tiny, disinterested sips. Every single muscle, every nerve ending in her body, was hyper-focused on the man to her left. She prayed that the low, moody amber lighting of the bar would keep her face cloaked in shadows.
After about twenty minutes, the amber liquid in his rocks glass seemed to effectively loosen his tongue. Without any warning, he suddenly swiveled on his barstool and looked directly at her.
“Lady… tell me something…” he slurred slightly, waving a finger in the air. “Why are women so impossibly complicated?”
Emily violently flinched. He was actively talking to her. Hearing that voice directed at her, full of its old, familiar cadence, drove her right to the absolute edge of her sanity.
“Complicated how?” she managed to ask in a low, raspy voice, keeping her chin tucked and staring hard at the condensation on her glass. She was terrified to look up and meet his eyes.
“Complicated… unpredictable. Just… entirely irrational,” he fumbled for the right words, taking another heavy gulp of his drink.
“You probably just got into a massive fight with your girlfriend. And now you are sitting at a bar, looking for a total stranger to pat your back and tell you that you are the one who is right.”
He paused, the glass stopping halfway to his mouth. He was clearly struck by the blunt accuracy of her words. “You are pretty sharp… What is that, female intuition? Go on, what exactly do you mean by that?”
Emily let out a long, heavy sigh, letting years of suppressed bitterness leak into her tone. “Nobody is forcing you to chase after young, naive girls who throw tantrums. It is your own personal choice to cheat on and abandon smart, mature women. Then you sit around and complain that the young ones only care about the balance in your bank account.”
“Wow, you just read me like an open book,” he chuckled, a dark, self-deprecating sound. “But look, there is this little biological thing called hormones. They push us guys toward the young, pretty ones. It is science.”
“How incredibly convenient for you to blame your bad choices on hormones,” she shot back, her voice tightening with anger. “Controlling our basic, primal instincts is exactly what makes us civilized human beings, not wild animals in the woods. Why default to the hormone excuse? But, you know what, I have probably said way too much to a stranger.”
“No, no, it is totally fine. I am the one who asked for your opinion,” he agreed smoothly, snapping his fingers to order another heavy pour from the bartender and downing it with practiced ease.
“I am already pretty buzzed, to be honest,” he admitted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can I ask you one more question?”
“Go ahead,” Emily nodded slightly, still keeping her face angled away from the light.
“You seem so incredibly smart—so tell me, what the hell do I do now?”
“I have absolutely no clue,” she shrugged coldly. “Maybe start by learning to actually control your selfish instincts. But I would bet my life savings that your angry girlfriend will come crawling back to your room in a day or two. What you decide to do with her when she knocks on your door is entirely up to you. I am just a woman getting a drink, not a licensed therapist.”