She Begged for Me Back After I Left novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Motel Lot

Nolan refuses Dalton's ride, and a drunk Alana kneels in a motel parking lot begging him home while his score climbs and Camille's stays at zero.

"No, thanks," I said to Dalton.

He leaned across the back seat and kept the window open, which let the cold in on him.

He did not seem to mind it.

"It's three miles to the nearest bus stop," he said. "You look pale, brother."

"I'll walk."

"Camille is worried sick. So is Alana."

"They didn't look worried."

"They're afraid of me dying, that's all." He gave a small, brave laugh. "I'm sorry you got caught in the middle of it."

"You asked them to ask me."

His smile did not move.

"I asked them to save my life, Nolan. You did. I'll never forget it."

It was exactly the right thing to say, and he said it without a pause.

I looked at his hands on the window frame.

They were clean and smooth and very still.

"Goodnight, Dalton."

"Goodnight."

The window slid up.

The sedan pulled away without hurrying, and I stood on the shoulder with my bag and watched its taillights go.

I walked for an hour.

The motel I found was a low gray building off the highway, with a vacancy sign missing two letters.

The clerk wanted thirty-nine dollars for the night, cash, and did not ask my name.

The room smelled of old smoke and cleaner.

I sat on the bed with my coat on and watched the panel in the corner of my eye.

0.3 percent.

It sat there a long time.

Then it did something it had never done in three years.

It split in two, one line stacked above the other.

The top line had a C beside it and read 0.0 percent.

The bottom line had a D beside it and read 0.3.

So the System had finally shown me my real scores.

Camille was at zero.

I looked at that C for a while, until the numbers blurred.

I did not cry.

I lay down on the bed with my coat on and my bag under my arm.

I was nearly asleep when someone started pounding on the door.

"Nolan!"

It was a woman's voice, slurred and wet.

"Nolan, open up, I know you're in there, the clerk told me!"

I opened the door on its chain.

Alana stood in the parking lot light in a ball gown and a man's overcoat that belonged to one of the drivers.

Her shoes were gone.

Her makeup had run down to her chin.

She smelled of champagne.

"I took a cab," she said. "I walked from the road. I walked, Nolan."

"Alana, go home."

"No."

"You're drunk."

"I'm very drunk and I'm very sorry. Open the door."

I took the chain off, because it was freezing and she was barefoot.

She did not come inside.

She stood on the concrete with her arms wrapped around herself and looked at me.

"I didn't know," she said. "When Camille said it. When Dalton said it. I thought it was a number."

"I know."

"You looked at me, in the hall, before the toast. I said something nice to you."

"I remember."

"And then I stood there and let her tell you to give it all up, and I didn't look at you. Not once."

She started to cry, with her whole face.

"I'm a horrible person."

"You're cold. Come inside."

"I'm not coming in until you say you'll come home."

"I'm not coming home, Alana."

She sank to her knees on the wet pavement.

It was ten past two in the morning in the parking lot of a highway motel.

A trucker across the lot, sitting in the cab of a rig with the engine idling, rolled down his window and stared.

The night clerk came out and stopped under the awning with his arms folded.

Alana did not notice either of them.

"Please," she said. She said it to the pavement, and then to me. "Please, Nolan. Please come back. I'll do anything."

I had spent three years wanting to hear her say that.

I had imagined it in good light, with a ring.

It was worse and much plainer than that.

"Get up," I said.

"No."

"Alana, get up before you catch something."

"I'll catch it. I'd like to catch it. Say you'll come home."

My knees ached for her.

I did not move.

"Say it," she said again, and her voice cracked in half. "Please."

"I can't."

She put her forehead down on the concrete.

Her shoulders shook.

The panel in my eye lit up.

D 0.5.

D 0.7.

D 0.9.

I felt it, a warm thread pulling taut in my chest, and I understood that she was giving it to me without knowing, with every sob.

It was warm, and I hated how good it felt.

I crouched, lifted her under the arms, and stood her up.

She leaned into my coat and cried against it.

"I'll sit with you in the room," I said. "Only until you're sober. Then you go home."

"Okay," she said. "Okay."

The clerk shrugged and went back inside.

The trucker rolled his window up.

I got her through the door and onto the chair.

I put the room's one blanket over her shoulders.

In the corner of my eye the bottom line held steady at 0.9, and the top line sat where it had been all night.

C 0.0.

Her sister had not called, or texted, or come.

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