After a brief but successful negotiation with the house keeper on Mr. Walsh’s behalf, Elizabeth suggests retiring to her room for coffee, on account of Eddie sleeping off his stupor in mine. I agreed in an instant, but as she leads the way it is clear something is still off. Elizabeth was her confident, commanding self when we’d spoken to the keeper but the moment the creature was gone, she retreated into herself. The difference was subtle, an air of reluctance to her walk, her unburdened hands fidget in small nervous motions and the silence between us felt heavy when it is normally comfortable. I’m trying not to overthink it. At least she doesn’t hesitate when we arrive at room 815 and pays me little to no mind as she unlocks her door and heads inside.

Like Mr. Walsh’s room, and very much unlike mine, Elizabeth’s is far from a stock hotel room. She’s decorated in warm, cozy colors and arranged several separate zones for herself. A workstation, overflowing with files, boxes for projects and endless calendars. A little reading nook with a shelf of carefully chosen favorites, each worn with love but still well cared for. A coffee bar with a little breakfast table nestled close beside it. Every item seems to represent a different time period or culture, like she’s been collecting little traces of all the people she’s met while staying here and has been adding each one to her cave like a little treasure. It smells of herbal teas and old paper and the light that trickles in her windows is golden like summer. It feels like a home.

We stand awkwardly, just inside the doorway a moment before she seems to realize herself and offer me a seat.

“I’ll make coffee,” she announces and busies herself with the coffee bar.

I weigh my seat choices and find all of them unacceptable. The bed is obviously off limits. The needlepoint armchair in the reading nook has a handcrafted delicacy to it as well as being a work of art I don’t intend to sully with my clothes still reeking of the bar. The little wire bistro seat is far too small and flimsy for a man of my size. The chair at her workstation appears study and unadorned but sitting at her desk feels like an invasion.

I finally settle on keeping my eyes to myself while I move the wooden desk chair closer to the breakfast table.

She catches me making the move, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” quickly shifting things around on the table to clear space for me, “I don’t normally have guests.” She explains sheepishly. While the room is not unorganized it is far from uncluttered.

“I don’t mind at all.”

She smiles and fidgets with cups while the coffee brews. I sit gingerly and try not to feel as if I’m taking up so much space. The pot gargles and sputters steam while Elizabeth avoids my eyes and fixates on cleaning a coffee ring from the bar top.

The homey, coziness of everything is glaring at me, like each lovingly chosen item is staring at me as some sort of intruder, a new arrival that is not part of the set and will never belong.

I stand, “I should go,” I tell her quickly, coming here was a mistake. The relationship I have with her is invaluable to me and I was greedy and foolish to have wished for more, “It’s been a long night and we both need our rest. I’m sorry to have intruded.” I know better than to venture into the lives of people I work closely with and yet my excitement got the better of me.

She catches my arm as I turn to leave, “You don’t have to go,” she insists, “you’re not intruding,” and besides,” flashing me her first halfway genuine smile of the night, “you still owe me an explanation for the guest in your room.”

In the time we’ve worked together I’ve never thought of Elizabeth as hard to read. She’s outspoken, comfortable addressing her concerns, quick to praise or laugh or tease, when she does keep something to herself, her discretion feels like wisdom. She’s keeping something from me now.

I pull away, breaking our connection and creating distance. I feel a squeezing pain in my chest that would be concerning were I not already dead, “I don’t intend to pry,” I start, trying to gather my thoughts and phrase them in a way that keeps my feelings out of them, “but it is clear that something about this night has upset you, and that you do not wish to discuss it with me.” This would be so much easier if I was wearing a suit, I have nothing to hide behind without it. “I do not begrudge you that in the least, but I do think I should go, and that you should seek the company of someone you are comfortable talking to. You don’t… you don’t owe me this.”

I move for the door immediately. I don’t want to see her face, don’t want to fall further into the foolish desire to be the someone she can rely on. I will keep our relationship professional, keep it safe.

“Wait,” she catches me again, this time her fingers twining between mine and gently tugging me towards her, “Isaiah, please, stay,” the vulnerability in her eyes stabs me like a knife and cuts out all the resolve I’d mustered, “You are the person I want to talk to,” she insists before taking a deep breath, “But that’s what makes it hard,” chuckling at herself, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“I don’t see that happening,”

She laughs, “that’s the danger, you have too high an opinion of me.”

“I disagree, you are likened to diamonds, being nearly perfect only means that imperfections add to your luster.”

She blushes, soft pink across her cheeks, and lets me go to hide her face in her hands, “You’re ridiculous,” she informs, peeking at me over the tops of her fingers, her eyes twinkling with golden light.

Her compliment has me soaring and I sit back in my seat without another word, donning a posture of expectancy.

She laughs again and runs her hands through her hair, wincing at the prospect of speaking, “This is difficult for me to talk about,” she gets out, beginning to pace across the floor, “But, well, obviously we all come here with some problem, or a need,” using her hands to talk far more than she usually does, “and this, well, innate desire to move on. We’re not supposed to stay, not forever, and I’m not an exception,” glancing nervously at me while chewing at her lip, “but, well, my problem kind of conflicts with that desire. You see, I don’t like to let things go. When there’s a need, I want to fill it, and then I have a hard time letting that responsibility be passed on to anyone else. Which is incredibly hypocritical of me considering I spend most of my time encouraging other guests to work on their problems and move on as soon as possible.” She gives herself a quick break, taking a breath, “We’re pretty open about our goals here, but if the information isn’t offered, people don’t ask. Most of the time I can just sort of ignore it. Pretend I’m not stuck and happy to be so. But um, with the similarities between Kernan’s problem and my own,” she says carefully, “he’s difficult for me to handle. And as hostile as he was when he arrived, he was pretty quick to pick up on that and use it against me.” The shame in her voice has me wanting to punch that old man again. “So, yeah,” she continues with an air of relief, “that’s why I needed your help tonight, and why I really, really hope you’ll stay a while and just be here with me, because at the moment, I’m a mess, and confused and angry and hurt and conflicted and I, I could just really use you right now.”

My answer is easy, “I’ll stay.”