Destiny (Waiting for Forever) (6 page)

“Uhmmm…. Yeah, I’d like to rent a room?” My response was supposed to be a statement, but it came out as more of a question.

“I’m sorry, you need to be over eighteen to stay here without a parent,” she replied and went back to the book she’d apparently been reading before I arrived. Setting my backpack on the floor between my feet, I pulled the battered wallet out of my pocket and handed her my Alabama state ID. She looked at it for a minute, probably trying to find my date of birth.

“What kind of room and how many nights?” she asked, seeming a bit more animated now. The excitement that had perked me up outside was slowly starting to fade, and I could feel my body sagging. Leaning against the counter, I actually had to work to focus on her questions.

“Just a basic room, I don’t need much. I’ll probably need it for… two days, maybe a few after that?” Again, my response came out as a question, and I hoped she was seeing more exhaustion than confusion. Of course I had a plan, a vague concept of what I was supposed to be doing; it was somewhere in the slush that my brain had become. After some sleep, I was sure I’d have a better idea of where to go next.

I handed over my debit card, signed my name half a dozen times, and received a plastic card that she said would serve as the key. She pointed me to the elevator and reminded me when the free breakfast would be in one of the conference rooms. I thanked her and hoisted my bag on my back, almost dragging my duffel to the elevator as I made my way to room 816. While I waited for the elevator, I sent a group text to Carolyn, Adam, and Sarah, letting them know I’d arrived in San Diego. Two minutes later, I had three texts in reply, and I stood in my hotel room. I turned on the light just long enough to find the bed before shucking my jeans and T-shirt. Crawling under the covers as I closed my eyes, my last sleepy wish was of Jamie lying next to me.

T
HE
harsh rays of light were brutal when I could finally open my eyes hours later. With the amount of light streaming in through the gap between the heavy curtains, I thought it must be just past dawn. My muscles ached, and my legs felt cramped and sore. I didn’t want to wake up or move, but my bladder made that decision for me. As I sat up, my head spun a little, and I scooted to the edge of the bed before throwing my legs over the side. The last few days had been grueling, and I had to put my head in my hands to try and stop it from spinning. Finally, after forcing myself to breathe slowly for a few minutes, I got up and went into the bathroom.

My eyes were red and bloodshot as I caught a glimpse of them in the mirror. I turned on the water in the shower and then peed for the first time in two days without having to look over my shoulder or hold on to a bar because the floor was moving. The shower felt wonderful, and I just stood there under the spray, letting the last few days wash off me and down the drain in a swirl of suds. Closing my eyes, feeling the water run down my back, I thought about all the things I had to do that day. Slowly, as I organized my thoughts under the constant pounding of the shower, a plan came together in my mind.

Finding a place to live had to be my first priority, no matter how much I wanted to look for Jamie.

Wrapped in a scratchy white towel, I walked back into the bedroom and got my first real look at the hotel room. I’d never stayed in a hotel before, so I had nothing to compare it to, but it looked nice enough. The cream-colored carpeting was plush under my bare feet. The bed had been comfortable, even with the sheets tucked under the bottom of the mattress and the thin floral blanket tossed onto the floor. A small desk stood up against the wall with a wooden chair pushed in against it. There was also a small chest of drawers and a stand with a small dorm refrigerator and microwave.

I wasn’t sure how long I would be staying, so I didn’t unpack. Instead, I pulled a wrinkled pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt out of the duffel. I checked the time on my phone and saw it was nearly seven in the morning, although it felt much later. I’d slept for about twelve hours but still felt tired. After very little sleep on the bus, my body must have really needed it. My stomach snarled, reminding me that sleep wasn’t the only thing my body needed. Remembering the free breakfast, I decided to save my money and take advantage of it, so I threw on the clothes and headed downstairs.

A guy stood at the desk as I passed, and he looked up just long enough to nod at me as I followed the signs to breakfast. A counter against the back wall was set up with all kinds of breakfast food. My outlook on the day couldn’t have been any brighter: I had finally made it to San Diego, I had a place to stay, I had food, and I had a plan. Pulling the straps of my backpack over my shoulders, I grabbed two plates and loaded them up with food. My stomach screamed in protest when I left the plates on a nearby table to get a cup of coffee. As the coffee streamed from the machine into the cup, I looked around at the various different kinds of creamers and sugars and, to my delight, found caramel. I had no idea how that would taste with toaster waffles and syrup, but I had a feeling I would need the sugar-fueled energy. Smirking to myself, I remembered there was no one around to tell me what I should and shouldn’t have.

It was frightening and liberating.

Sitting down at the table, I pulled out a list of options I’d printed for rooms to rent and decided to start with the five that were closest to public transportation. I shoveled another forkful of the rubbery scrambled eggs into my mouth and grabbed the local bus schedule I’d found at the station. I used the map, schedule, and list of addresses to figure out how to get to each of the places on my list. If I didn’t find anything with that list, I would have to ask the guy at the hotel desk if there was an Internet café or public library nearby so I could find something else.

The sausage was cold and the waffles were like cardboard, but the coffee was fantastic. I was really starting to like the taste and the kick from the caffeine. I finally saw what all of the fuss was about and why Carolyn swore she wasn’t human without at least one cup in the morning.

I missed Carolyn.

Even though I’d texted my parents the night before to let them know I’d arrived, I felt compelled to text Carolyn again. It felt good knowing that I could text whenever I needed reassurance. My text explained that I finally understood her coffee addiction and that maybe I was starting to form one as well. While waiting for her response, I grabbed my bag and refilled my coffee to take back upstairs. Carolyn’s reply came as I was walking down the hall from the elevator to my room. She swore it was a love affair and not an addiction. I laughed and swiped the card through the reader.

For the next week, I grabbed my notes each morning and the newspaper left by the hotel staff, taking them down to the breakfast buffet. I started with the apartment ads, going through each one carefully, trying to find something, anything, that would work for me. Each place was more expensive than the one before it. There were few listings for roommates or rooms for rent; mostly the paper contained apartments, condo sublets, and houses. Not only were they out of my price range, they would also need furniture that I didn’t have. I wrote down the cheapest ones because even if they were too expensive for me in the long term, staying in this hotel would quickly drain all my savings.

After the apartments, I checked the help-wanted ads, and they were even less promising. Each listing I read required special training, or a driver’s license, or experience I just didn’t have. The only reference I could give a potential boss was the dojo, and looking at the requirements for some of those jobs, it wouldn’t be much help. Once breakfast was over, I returned to the room to make the calls I’d listed and then explored the area around the hotel looking for retail or fast-food jobs.

During those first few days, the size and noise of the city overwhelmed me. People crowded the streets, and I felt panicky and claustrophobic in the wall of bodies around me. Memories of Mosely and his friends dragging me into that room and blocking out the sun assaulted my mind. The second day, I stuck to the side streets where it was more open and there were fewer crowds. Once I started to remember and recognize different buildings and street names, the tightening in my chest lessened and I started to feel more in control.

The job searches, the apartment searches, even the crowded streets of San Diego were easy compared to the next task on my list. Mitch Mayfield’s work address sat in the stack of papers and notes I’d brought with me from home. I knew which bus to take, had a map of the area around his building, and I had even called to ask the receptionist what their office hours were. If Jamie had gone back to his parents after leaving the center, I would leave and allow him to work on repairing his relationship with them. I wouldn’t stand in the way of their progress, even though I’d come to search for Jamie after his parents had forced him to move to California. His father and I had always been friendly, so I hoped he would tell me if he knew where Jamie was. Of course, I was relying on the idea that Mrs. Mayfield had been the one responsible for putting Jamie in the Sunshine Center. After the day we’d spent fishing, when Mr. Mayfield had told us how uncomfortable he was with his wife’s fanaticism, I had a feeling Jamie’s father had only gone along with it to make his wife happy.

T
AKING
a deep breath, I stepped off the bus into a swarm of people, worker bees buzzing around. I looked around for a street sign, trying to orient myself. According to the map, I needed to walk two blocks north in order to find Mr. Mayfield’s building. Bars, restaurants, and stores lined the street, each sitting almost on top of the one beside it. The block was so big that all the stores and businesses in Crayford could have moved into the spaces and still have had room left over. As I approached the corner, I saw that a small open-air café took up most of the sidewalk. I followed the guy in front of me as he moved to the outside of the sidewalk, circumventing the railing that enclosed a group of bistro-style tables covered in white linen. My stomach growled as the scent of garlic and tomato sauce came from an open door behind the last row of tables. A server came out of the door with two plates of pasta and headed for two guys at a table just ahead of me. The men were older than I was, maybe in their late thirties, both in crisp business suits. What really caught my attention about them, however, was the way their hands lingered together on top of the table until the server left, almost reluctant to let go. My chest ached as I imagined Jamie and me in their place, and I forced myself to keep walking to the next intersection.

As I reached the other side of the street, I looked up to see a building that dominated the entire next block. The huge, black structure was easily the tallest building I had ever seen. The trees and shrubbery at the base hid the doors and most of the first floor, making it that much more imposing. My plan had been to sit in front of the door until I saw Mr. Mayfield and then confront him so he couldn’t just send me away. If I didn’t do it around his colleagues or somewhere that could embarrass him, there was a much better chance he would talk to me. Unfortunately, I saw the problem with my plan: a building that size would have doors on all four sides, and I couldn’t watch them all.

I would have to enter the building and find Mr. Mayfield.

Crossing Third Street and then Broadway, I found myself in front of a large sign that read “NBC San Diego” with a colorful symbol I recognized from television. Following Broadway toward Second Street, I saw another section of tables in front of a Mexican restaurant across the street before turning onto Second. A line of news vans with the NBC logo sat silently on the curb, as if they were just waiting for some hot story to break. When I looked at the building again, I saw a door nestled in a large alcove near the vans and headed for the stairs that led to the doors.

The lobby was cavernous, with leather seats and low marble tables throughout the space. I walked up to the security desk and signed a ledger, showing the guard my Alabama state ID before heading up to Mr. Mayfield’s office. Even though the elevator had to travel dozens of floors, it seemed to stop before I was ready and opened up onto the doors for his office. A huge, intricate geometric logo etched into the glass doors made the receptionist beyond it a bit hazy. With Jamie’s face etched into my mind in a similar fashion, I stepped off the elevator and opened the door.

“Hello. How can I help you?” the woman behind the desk asked pleasantly.

“I’m here to see Mitch Mayfield, please,” I told her, trying to be just as pleasant. She paused as if she wanted to make sure she’d heard me correctly. The article I’d read a few weeks before said he was a senior vice president with the firm, and they wouldn’t interrupt him for just anyone.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, turning to her computer monitor and making a few clicks with the mouse, probably to check his calendar.

“No, ma’am, I don’t,” I replied, wondering what would make the most impact with her. As she opened her mouth, no doubt to send me on my way, I decided to tell her the truth.

“Please, my name is Brian, and I’m a friend of his son, Jamie. He’ll want to see me.” Okay, mostly the truth; I had no idea whether Jamie’s father would want to see me or not. She looked at me for a long time, probably trying to decide if it was worth her job to bother Mr. Mayfield about some kid. “Please,” I repeated.

“What is your last name?” she asked, reaching for her phone.

“McAllister,” I told her, and then added quietly, “thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she whispered and then smiled. Almost immediately, her attention focused back on the phone as someone on the other end answered.

“Hi, Karen, it’s Nancy at the front desk. Is Mitch in his office? I have someone here to see him,” she said and then paused, listening. “I know, I checked his calendar, but he said it’s about Mitch’s son…. Yes, that’s what he said. Okay, I’ll hold.” Nancy looked up at me and offered me a tentative smile. Then she perked up and gave the phone her full attention. “Yes, Mr. Mayfield…. Brian, sir, Brian McAllister…. I… yes… yes, sir.” She hung up abruptly, and my heart sank.