Crash Into Me: Hotel D, #5

Lane

F ucking socks. Why is it always fucking socks? I mutter to myself.

I swipe the offending socks from our bathroom floor and toss them into the washer as I walk past. Rage wells in my chest.

This is it, I think. This is my villain origin story. Someday, when I’m on trial for bumping off my husband, I’ll be on the stand. I’ll shrug delicately, toss my magically longer and shinier hair, and tell them my tale of woe. No jury in the world would convict me.

Mooooom! Camila’s bellow distracts me from my imagined life of crime. Dad wants to talk to you. Come say hi!

My muscles tense. Ugh. I have shit to do. This laundry won’t magically fold itself. I’ll call him later —

Moooom!

With a sigh, I walk out of our bedroom and into the family room. Mila and Val are making goofy faces into the iPad. Gabriel’s laugh ripples through the speakers, warm and low, and my heart does a weird squeezing kind of thing. I haven’t heard him laugh much lately. I’d forgotten how wonderful that sound is.

Val sees me, and runs across the room, throwing all four feet of her eight-year-old self in my direction. Come here, Mom. Dad, show Mom your funny face.

Later, chicken, I tell her, stroking her hair. I’m sure Dad needs to settle in after his trip.

Val quickly moves on to telling Gabe about the video game she’s currently obsessed with. I listen for about thirty seconds, but tune out as I stare at my husband’s image in the video.

His hair is a little too long. When he’s in a busy travel season, like now, Gabe never remembers to schedule a haircut. Frankly, the longer length suits him. Despite being a corporate suit wearing CEO ninety-nine percent of the time, he’s a bit of a hippy at heart. His skin, browner than usual from the sun, glows with health. I would flatter myself it’s because of my excellent cooking, but I know better. Since my best friends and I started our business six months ago, the thing I’ve made most is a group order for delivery. My kids have the menus of every Thai place in town memorized.

You okay, Lane? Gabe’s dark eyes fill with concern. I must have zoned out a little harder than I thought.

Yeah, I’m fine. A little tired. Mila said you wanted to talk? Our fifteen-year-old briefly lifts her head at the mention of her name, but goes right back to her group chat.

I did. It’s nothing big — just a slight change of plans. I’ll be gone longer than I expected. My trip got extended for another week. He smiles at our girls, trying to soften the sting. They whine. I curse under my breath, mentally rearranging the week. I’ll need to find someone to pick Val up from her rock climbing class on Wednesday and Friday. Maybe her friend Ty’s mom can do it. I scroll through my phone and send her a text.

Girls, I’m so sorry, Gabe tells them. You know it’s not my choice. I’d always come home to you all if I could. Unless the deal was come home or endless ice cream. Then I’d have to think about it.

Dad! Val’s outrage makes him laugh again, as does Mila’s pronouncement of Rude.

All right. You know the deal: place your orders now.

I breathe deep, whoosh it out. Whenever his trips get extended, Gabe brings back an extra present from the girls. I don’t love this tradition — I worry that they’re getting a bit spoiled — but I guess it makes him feel closer to them. I know it helps them to feel like their dad’s thinking about them, even when he can’t be here.

What about Mom? Val asks. Doesn’t she get a present?

I don’t want anything, I say. At least nothing I want to discuss in front of the kids.

There has to be something, Lane, he says. He smiles warmly, with this tender expression on his face. When was the last time he looked at me like that? I can’t even remember.

No. Nothing you can buy me. I blush a little after I say it; that was much flirtier than I intended.

Oh, ho! Gabriel says in a teasing tone of voice. He waggles his eyebrows at me as Mila gags, no doubt embarrassed at how utterly cringy her parents are. I never imagined I’d reach the levels of uncool our kid tells us we have daily, but here we are. The bedtime alarm on my phone dings, and I sigh in relief.

Off you go, Scoot, I order. Get your jammies on.

Bye dad! I gotta go brush! She yells into the camera before running upstairs. I wonder how long she’ll tolerate that nickname — and if she’ll ever stop running in the house. Camila, always conscious of her teenaged dignity, waves goodbye to her father and heads to the kitchen to pack her lunch.

I have an early meeting tomorrow; I’d better go, too, Gabe announces. Now that the girls are gone, I see the tightness around his eyes, the exhaustion he hides from them. These long flights are no picnic. In spite of how much his change of plans wrecks my week, a twinge of sympathy pings in my gut.

You’re three hours ahead, right?

Yeah. He runs a hand over his hair. Crossing multiple time zones is not for the weak.

I murmur something sympathetic, but my heart’s racing. It’s time. I need to tell him. I’ve put it off over and over, but no more.

Hang on a sec? There’s something I want to chat about. My jaw tightens.

I take the iPad into our bedroom. Before I close the door, I listen for the girls. The two of them are in their shared bathroom singing along to some rowdy pop song. I think they’re brushing, too. At least, I hope so. I remind myself to check Val’s teeth later on.

What’s on your mind, Lane? Gabe tries and fails to suppress a yawn. I set the iPad on my vanity, not sure I can hold on to it with my shaking hands.

Lane, are you all right? His voice gets sharper. What’s going on?

Am I