I stumble through the snow outside the bar and head back to the Marriott hotel, dizzy and light-headed. I'm not drunk, I don't think, but I've never felt this way before. I hate my mother for refusing to stand up to Bill, hate Bill for what he did to her, and hate myself for almost telling everyone what happened.
Snow crunches beneath my shoes and my breath clouds out before my face. My eyes sting as the frigid winter air tries to freeze the tears welling in them. Automatic sliding doors part when I reach the Marriott. I pull my ugly band uniform tight around me.
"Rebecca," says a voice.
I'm half-chilled by the arctic wind, half-warmed by the heaters in the lobby and so upset I can't even roll my eyes. "Kyle, I don't want to talk about it," I say, without turning around.
"It's Jesse."
I turn to see him standing in the entranceway, snow falling from his black dress shoes into a rubber doormat with the name of the hotel in fancy lettering.
"Rebecca. I'm really sorry. It wasn't supposed to go that far."
"Yeah, well, it did." I make my way down the hall and stab the elevator button to take me to my room.
Jesse grabs my arm. "Don't go back. Stay with me."
I watch the numbers over the elevator doors illuminate. Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Hurry up, already.
"I'll make it up to you, I promise," says Jesse.
I pull my arm free. "How? Are you going to buy me another drink? Suggest another game?"
People in the lobby are looking at the two high school kids arguing and Jesse becomes uncomfortable. "Look, let's just get out of here. Just come with me to my room."
"Yeah, right."
"Listen, Rebecca," says Jesse, "I have my own washroom. If you're going to puke, better to have some privacy."
My stomach heaves and I feel Long Island Iced Tea and vodka climb the back of my throat. I can't argue with that. "Let's go."
* * *
I stand in Jesse's washroom and rinse my face with a perfectly folded white towel. By some miracle my stomach settles. I don't trust myself to stand, so I sit on the toilet seat and study the tiny free bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Ten minutes pass before I feel like myself. When I'm sure my legs won't fail, I flip off the light switch by the electrical outlet that says Razor Only and open the door to find Jesse making a pot of coffee with the hotel's complimentary electric kettle.
"It's not Starbucks, sorry," he says. He removes paper covers from two of the hotel's non-descript mugs.
"I can't have coffee now, I won't fall asleep," I say. To be honest, I don't drink coffee at all, but I want to appear mature.
I sit on the bed's cheap polyester comforter. Kyle's probably looking for me. Annie and Megan are probably text-messaging all their friends. I don't care where Alex is. Jesse ditching her to console me was probably the last straw.
"Are you feeling any better?" he says.
"Yeah, a little." The spinning room slows a touch and I study a framed painting of a killer whale hanging on the wall. "I think I've had enough to drink for one night." Really, for my entire lifetime.
"You hold your liquor pretty well, Red," he says.
I snort. "Sure, Jesse. I'm a real boozehound."
He indicates the room with a wave of his arm. "We can watch television for a bit, if you want. I don't mean to be a jerk about this, but you can't stay that long. I need to get my beauty sleep. If I don't get eight hours I'll be grouchy as hell tomorrow."
I blink. That's the last thing I would have expected a guy to say to a girl in his hotel room. Still, at least he doesn't have any ulterior motive. I relax.
"Well, that's good to know," I say. He flicks on the television with the remote control. Welcome to the Marriott, Mr. James. We hope you enjoy your stay appears on the screen. Jesse lies down at the far side of the bed and I glance at his bare legs sticking out from his shorts. He's left a gap between us big enough for a marching band. He knows how to give a girl her space. If Kyle didn't hate Jesse so much, he could really learn a thing or two.
I skim through the photos of skiers, snowboarders and families enjoying fine dining in the Discover Whistler pamphlet that rests on the bedside table. There's even a photo of two couples chatting in a Jacuzzi with glasses of champagne. My romantic Whistler fantasy of drunken revelations and near vomit probably wouldn't make publication.
Jesse flips with the remote control. "Is there anything you want to watch while your head clears? There's actually a Canadian team in the NHL finals."
This is weird. Jesse's treating me like I'm a guy. I relax some more. I think I want him closer.
"Anything but Antiques Roadshow," I say. We watch David Letterman crack jokes about the latest White House scandal, then run his Top Ten.
"Do you wear perfume, Red?" says Jesse. "You smell nice."
A shock runs through my spine. "No," I say. "It's Herbal Essences. My shampoo."
Jesse leans in and smells my hair. "It reminds me of spring or something."
My skin tingles. I've never had anyone smell me before. It makes me feel wanted, on some sort of animalistic level. Part of me hopes he'll just reach over and kiss me, but that will never happen. I mean, he's just talking about my shampoo. I must be imagining things. He has Alex.
"Hey, they have the Discovery Channel," he says, bringing up the hotel's viewing menu on the television. He changes the station and we watch a pair of penguins swim around each other on a background of deep dark blue.
"I saw this documentary on lions once," says Jesse. "Apparently they pull on each other's manes as part of a mating ritual. It's some sort of evolutionary thing."
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. "Try it," I say, sheepishly. Why am I doing this?
"What, pull your hair?"
"Sure. Not hard."
Jesse wraps his fingers in my hair and pulls slightly. Sparks rush down the back of my neck. I've been attracted to him since I first saw him, but this is different.
I want him to kiss me so badly my lips are burning.