After Lunch
Ninety minutes later we were back in the ballroom.
I looked around as people began finding their seats. This conference was at least 70 percent men, and I nodded to myself in approval. I mean, come on, could you blame the GMs out there for hiring male news directors? We all knew men made better leaders. I would never say that out loud, of course, or the woke mafia would come after me, but everyone knew it was the damn truth. Men got shit done and didn’t let emotions come into play. Women were too wishy-washy. I had seen them cry in front of their own employees. You could burn my condo down and I still wouldn’t cry in front of coworkers. I couldn’t think of a single scenario in which I would. I hadn’t cried since third grade when I got pushed on the playground by Tommy Reece. My teacher had called Mom, and when she didn’t answer, she called my dad. He came to get me and chided me in the car for crying and being a pussy and, above all, not shoving Tommy back. That about ended my public crying.
Settling into my seat at the conference, I glanced at the program for the afternoon. More bullshit. A slew of speakers talking fluff, including a panel who was supposed to speak to us about mental health in the newsroom. I hated buzzwords like that. “Mental health”? What did that even mean? You’re in a good mood some days; you’re in a bad mood others. Period, the end. Why was it so fucking hard?
This conference was a snoozefest. I started to plan my escape. Maybe I could cut out early, grab an Uber to some hip part of San Diego, and start cocktail hour. Convince Stephanie to come with me. Speaking of Stephanie, where was she? I looked around for that pink blazer, but it was nowhere to be found.
Dorothy and Alan were headed my way, though, walking together and talking, Dorothy’s hands gesturing about something while Alan nodded. I had seen them sit next to each other at lunch too. Luckily I had avoided their table and had just outfoxed someone else to slide into the seat next to Stephanie. It was almost like musical chairs when you had to pounce on the available spot. It was a good move, and I thought I had made some headway with Steph at lunch. She answered my questions when I asked her where she went to college (DePaul), where she was from (Indiana), and if she had any kids (a son named Evan). I didn’t ask about a hubby or a boyfriend, but she didn’t have a ring on her finger, which meant she was open for business, as far as I was concerned.
She asked me some questions back, and I told her about my divorce and how my ex was bilking me for money. I had sidled up to her as we took a group picture, and I pushed against her behind, just to give her a hint of the fun we could have together. I think she loved it. It was a start. Get some cocktails in her and see where we might go.
“Hi, Trent, did you enjoy your lunch? What did you have?” Dorothy asked as she reached our table and sat down. Alan said nothing and simply took his seat.
“Stephanie and I both had chicken. Delicious,” I responded, and then did the polite thing by asking them the same question back. Truly, I didn’t care what they thought of their lunches but figured I needed to have proper etiquette.
“We both chose the fish. It was divine, really straight out of the ocean,” Dorothy responded, then added, “I’m looking forward to the speakers this afternoon, aren’t you? Particularly the therapists talking on mental health. Such a crucial topic for any newsroom. In fact, I can’t think of a more important one.”
I grunted a response and looked around for Stephanie again. She had lingered back in the courtyard while the rest of us were headed into the ballroom. Maybe she had to check in with her assistant or something. But still no sign of her, and now the emcee was climbing the stairs to the stage again and welcoming us to the second part of day one.
Seventy-five minutes into one excruciatingly long session about how to better cover crime, and not one sign of Stephanie. What the hell? I had spent most of this session ignoring the speaker and trying to imagine what could have happened to Steph. Did she ask to be moved to another table? That would piss me off. More than once, I swiveled my head around the room to see if that had been the case, but there was no sign of her.
Did she get sick? We both had chicken and I felt fine, so I didn’t think it was food poisoning; plus, it doesn’t hit that quickly, does it? Did she call her assistant and find out there was an emergency back in Madison? Or … and this was the thought that both annoyed and titillated me … did she bail on this conference just because she was as bored as I was?
If she pulled that, I was irked that I hadn’t done it first, annoyed that I was forced to sit here and endure the blah-blah-blah of nonsensical talking heads while she was out tanning by the pool or whatever she was doing. But it also impressed the heck out of me. It took some balls. I loved a woman with balls, and it made me feel a surge of further attraction. Maybe we were kindred spirits. We could ditch the rest of the entire conference and find a hot tub somewhere. Hmm …
“OK, folks, quick bathroom and beverage break. Back in ten,” the emcee said, and people began standing up and milling about, the din of voices creating a hum in the room as the house lights went up a touch and light classical music came across the PA system.
This was my chance. I sure as shit wasn’t going to sit here for another ninety minutes next to Dorothy and Alan and listen to someone lecture me on mental health. The best thing for my mental health was to get away from this talk on mental health. If Steph bailed, why not me? I could just rejoin the group at the evening cocktail party. There was only that one session left anyway. No one would miss me.
Dorothy and Alan had turned to speak to some people at the table next to us and were ignoring me. Bitch. Geek. Fuck them. I grabbed my messenger bag from the back of the chair and strode out the exit and straight to the elevators. The thought of hitting the pool for a bit and then turning on the TV—maybe there was golf—and flopping across my king-size bed with a twelve-dollar beer from the room minibar was pretty appealing. I would charge it to the company.
The elevator dinged at the sixth floor, and I stepped out and turned toward my room. A guy with a light blue worker’s shirt and dark blue pants with a ring of keys on his side was knocking on a door two down from mine.
“Maintenance,” he called. “Is there a broken refrigerator in your room?”
Glancing at the worker, I saw the guest open the door a crack. Ignoring it, I was about to swipe open my door when I heard a familiar voice.
“No, I’m OK. False alarm.”
It was Stephanie. My hand stopped an inch from the card reader, and I cocked my head to hear more.
“It seems to be working now,” she added.
“Do you want me to come in, ma’am, and take a look?” the worker pressed. “The kitchen staff told me you had to get ice to keep medicine cold.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine. I think—I think—it just wasn’t plugged in all the way. It works now. I must have bumped it when I was unpacking. I’m sorry for the hassle.”
“OK, ma’am, if you’re sure. We want you to have everything you need during your stay.”
“I’m good, thank you. I will call if there are problems.”
“OK, very good, ma’am.” The worker turned, saw me looking, and gave me a small nod. I nodded back to reassure him that he was doing a fine job taking care of his guests.
So that was why she left, I thought. She asked for ice to keep medicine cold in her room. Huh. A little odd but OK. Since we were both playing hooky, though, this felt like a perfect time to see if she wanted to hang out.
I waited for the maintenance guy to get on the elevator. Putting my key card in my back pocket and running my hand through my gelled hair to make it smooth on top the way I liked it, I tested out my breath into my hand to be sure I didn’t have any lingering effects from lunch and walked the few feet to her room.
For a second I stood silently and put my ear to the door, waiting to see if I could hear anything coming from her side.
It was all quiet. No TV noise, no talking on the phone, no hair dryer or anything else. Hotel walls were so thin you could often hear your neighbors rustling about or even tell when they were flushing the toilet. But in her room you would have no idea anyone was there.
Lifting my hand, I rapped my knuckles lightly on the door. Silence. Waiting for a beat, I rapped harder.
Now I heard someone stir and her voice.
“The fridge is fine, thank you.”
“Stephanie? It’s Trent. From the conference. How ya doing? You OK? You never came back after lunch.”
Silence again. I raised my voice, this time almost to a yell.
“Steph from Mad-town? Did you hear me? It’s Trent, from Atlanta.”
There was a further rustling, the door unlocked, and her eyes peeked out. She looked tired, eyeliner starting to smear. The room was dark behind her, and I guessed that the curtains were closed.
“Well, hey there,” I said cheerily and leaned my arm against the door frame in a casual but flirty stance to try and perk up her mood. “How ya doing? We missed you at table four.”
“Oh, hi, Trent.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I have a migraine.”
“A migraine? I thought you were having refrigerator problems.”
“No, that’s fixed now … and … how did you know that?”
“I just saw the maintenance guy talking to you. I’m two doors down. Listen, if you need any help with anything in your room, no need to call maintenance. I’m a super handy kind of guy. I fix everything. Just give ol’ Trent a ring and I’ll come down to help you.”
Truth was, I wasn’t handy at all. I called repair people for everything, but she didn’t need to know that. Women always seemed attracted to handymen. Maybe the idea of that would help. I flashed her my million-dollar smile, the one I had paid the dentist practically that much to create. From braces as a kid—twice—to the veneers I had on the front teeth now to the professional whitening every six months.
“Thank you, I’m fine,” she responded and started to close the door, but I stuck my hand out and stopped it from shutting.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down. I’m sorry you have a headache, but maybe a drink will help. I decided to bug out early from the conference too. Maybe you and I should just play hooky.”
“Really, Trent, I have a terrible headache. I get migraines and this one is bad. But if I rest tonight, I’ll be back tomorrow fresh, I’m sure.”
We both paused, looking at each other. My hand was on the door, still keeping it from closing. I could smell her floral perfume. How I would love to get more time with her. The thought of that ass walking away from me at the conference in the little black dress. I tried one more tack.
“Listen,” I said, fishing with my free hand into my back pocket. “Here’s my key card. I have another one. I’m going down to the pool for a bit. If you want to hang out, just let yourself in.” I winked at her.
She didn’t say anything for at least ten seconds, and I wasn’t sure which way this was going to go, but then, to my delight, she took the key card.
“Thank you, Trent. If I feel better, I’ll come down, but if not, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. I’ll be sure to look for you. I promise.”
“Right on,” I said with another million-dollar smile. “Mi casa es su casa—come on by. You don’t even have to knock, just come in. The minibar is stocked.”
She smiled.
“Goodbye for now,” she said with a flirty lilt to her voice that I hadn’t heard from her yet. She pushed the door closed, and I heard the latch turn. Silence followed.
Well, well, I thought to myself. The Trent-master strikes again. Now we were making some progress. She had opened the door a tiny bit, both literally and figuratively.
I whistled loudly as I walked back to my room, hoping she could hear me. I was sure she’d swing by. Even if she didn’t come down this afternoon, I felt we were on the right path and something might happen before my flight home.