Wallflower In Bloom (3 page)

Think Tag, he’s It.

Being gatekeeper to the family star was a pretty good gig, if you didn’t mind not having much of a life of your own. And the more brightly my brother’s light seemed to shine, the less I had. Basically, I worked 24/7, and if Tag could find a way to jam some more hours or days into the week, I’d be working those, too.

Yesterday, I’d flown from San Diego to Detroit, then on to Des Moines. Tag liked me to check out potential venues in person before we booked events, so whenever I could make it work, I set out a few days early and crammed some extra stops into my already overloaded
schedule, then rendezvoused with Tag and my parents at the next gig. Which meant my brother was still at home eating bonbons when I crawled out of bed in Des Moines at the crack of dawn this morning to fly to the Austin event.

As I walked across the empty hotel lobby, I stopped in front of a long fish tank to take a sip of my room-brewed coffee. A kaleidoscope of fish were nibbling on flakes of food scattered across the surface of the water. I was riveted. I’d once read an article about the calming and meditative effects of watching marine life. Maybe I’d get some fish of my own someday. Or at least start visiting the aquarium on a regular basis.

The woman behind the front desk was whispering sweet nothings to someone on the phone when I walked over to check out. A sweat suit–clad couple holding hands passed me as they headed out for some morning exercise.

When I climbed into a cab, I stared past the driver’s head to a picture of his wife and kids clipped to the visor. The day had barely started, and the universe couldn’t wait to point out that perhaps there should be more to my life than work, work, and more work.

My cell phone released a tinny instrumental version of “She Works Hard for the Money” the second we pulled away from the curb.

“What?” I said.

“Failure is a brief and necessary layover on the way to success,” my brother said, “but you’ll never reach success if you check your bags at failure.”

“Can it,” I said. “It’s way too early.”

“It’s good, though, right?”

I could picture it at tomorrow’s Austin event. Tag spouting this mumbo jumbo, his bleached white teeth gleaming, his scruffy pre-beard beckoning, his fans hyperventilating.

I yawned. “Genius,” I said. I checked my watch. “Don’t forget your ten o’clock interview. Your notes are in the red folder on the upper right-hand corner of your desk.”

When it comes to Des Moines and Austin, you can’t get there from here, so I had to switch planes in Milwaukee. Except that once I got to Milwaukee, the plane to Austin had been canceled. So I had to fly to Dallas–Fort Worth and then take a new plane to Austin. By that point, I was ready to drive, or maybe even walk, the final leg. Until I pulled up the MapQuest app on my cell phone and saw that it was two hundred and eleven miles.

I’m not that ambitious.

When I eventually landed at the Austin airport, I was seriously late. I yanked my carry-on out of the overhead bin, then pulled my yoga pants up to meet my baggy white T-shirt. I raced through the terminal so quickly my carry-on kept twisting off its wheels. After the third time I gave up and just dragged it.

The smell of Texas barbeque called out from the Salt Lick at the edge of the airport food court and reminded me I’d barely eaten all day. I didn’t have time to wait in line, so I grabbed a packaged turkey sandwich from Java Airport Coffee House instead, plus some peanut M&M’s to hold me over until I got to the sandwich. I stopped to check out a live band playing next to the overlook near the top of the airport’s central escalator. If Tag were with me, he’d have insisted on stopping long enough to play a song or two with them. I settled for wiggling my hips in time to the music while I inhaled the rest of my M&M’s.

I rode the escalator down to the ground level, checking out the cool guitars on display over the luggage carousels as I headed out for a taxi. Apparently Austin took its reputation as live music capital of the world seriously.

Outside, a wall of heat hit me like a sauna. I dove for a taxi. I guzzled half a bottle of lukewarm water and turned on my cell phone. Five zillion new messages for my brother popped into my in-box. I ignored them.

I unwrapped my turkey sandwich, trying not to think about how germy the backseat of the taxi was. My phone rang again.

“What?” I said through a mouthful of turkey.

“Have you seen my green golf pants?” my brother asked.

“Have you tried the closet?”

“Which one?”

I rolled my eyes. “The master bedroom walk-in. Halfway down the left side, with your other golf pants.”

“Hmm, I didn’t know I had a golf section. Hang on . . . Okay, got ’em.”

“Whew. What a relief.” I covered the phone and took another bite of barbeque-less turkey.

“So, how’d I do?”

I swallowed. “Finding your golf pants?”

He laughed his million-dollar laugh. “The interview.”

“I didn’t listen.”

“Why not?”

“Uh, because I was up in the air? Don’t worry, they’re e-mailing me an MP3. I’ll give you notes as soon as I listen to it. And don’t forget, your car for the airport will be there at seven fifteen tomorrow, a.m. Your carry-on is packed and waiting by the front door.”

“Seven fifteen? Seriously?”

I rolled my eyes again. “There’s exactly one nonstop flight a day from Boston to Austin, so buck up, bro.”

By the time my taxi turned onto University Avenue and pulled up in front of the massive conference center, I had exactly seven minutes.

“Deirdre Griffin,” I said to the guy at the desk as I reached for my company credit card. “I’m checking in. And I’m supposed to be meeting your events manager in the main restaurant at four thirty. Can you please let her know I’ll be a few minutes late?”

He handed me back the credit card and ran a room key card through the coder machine. “The main restaurant is on the mezzanine level, between the gift shop and the business center,” he said without looking up.

I weighed the energy expenditure of convincing this idiot to pick up the phone and call the restaurant for me.

Decision made, I turned and bumped my carry-on in the direction of the elevator.

When I got off on the fourteenth floor, I followed the little signs with the arrows to room 1423. I scanned my key card. The light flashed red. I tried it again. Red again.

I dug for the little cardboard key folder and saw that my room number was really 1432.

I sighed, but couldn’t resist taking a moment to extend my non-suitcase-pulling arm and pirouette on my toe while I wheeled my suitcase around in a perfectly executed 180-degree turn. Maybe it was a combination of the anonymity and the long hallways, but hotels always made me feel like dancing.

After double-checking that I had the hallway all to myself, I did a few chorus kicks as I rolled my way back down the hall and around the corner. Maybe someday I’d make my own dance exercise video: The
Hot Hot Hot
el Workout for Solo Travelers.

I found my real room, scanned my key card, and actually managed to get a beep accompanied by a green light this time. I jerked the door open and hurled my stuff on top of the king-size bed. I unzipped the front zipper of my carry-on and pulled out my regulation-size travel Baggie.

I sent my flip-flops flying with two final chorus kicks, circled my hips while I peeled off my yoga pants, then pulled my T-shirt over my head as the grand finale. I switched dances and pony-stepped to the bathroom with the Baggie and peed as quickly as I could. Then I rolled fresh deodorant on not-so-fresh armpits, squeezed some toothpaste onto my toothbrush, and ponied my way back to the carry-on.

It’s not like I’d never kept an events person waiting before, but I was pretty sure I remembered this one saying I was her last appointment and I didn’t want to miss her. I brushed my teeth with one hand
while I rummaged for something to wear with the other. I pulled out some overpriced black stretchy travel wear. I found a scarf I hoped was funky enough that maybe the wrinkles would look like they were supposed to be there.

My clean undergarments seemed to have disappeared, so I settled for twisting my bra back to center and gave a tug to the baggy old underpants I’d chosen for flying comfort rather than flair. My fingers tore a hole through the worn cotton fabric. When I opened my mouth to swear, toothpaste drizzled from one corner.

My door beeped.

The handle turned.

A man walked in.

I heard a loud scream and realized it was coming from me. Toothpaste mixed with saliva was pouring down my chin like a waterfall.

The man put up his hand like a stop sign.

I screamed some more.

He scrunched his eyes closed and reached behind him for the doorknob.

“My bad,” he said as he backed out of the room.

You don’t have to be a winner to start, but you have to start to be a winner
.

A
s soon as I’d chained the door and spit the toothpaste I hadn’t managed to swallow into the sink, I dialed the front desk.

“A man just walked into my room,” I yelled.

“Probably maintenance,” a voice said.

“He had a suitcase!” I screamed. “A hunter green suitcase. On rollers.” My throat was really starting to hurt from all this screaming.

“Oh.” It sounded like the jerk who’d checked me in.

I waited.

“Oh?” I finally said. “A man walks into my room and all you’re going to say is
oh
?”

“The computer must have messed up. It does that sometimes.”

I had a lot of respect for computers and I hated it when people blamed them for their own personal shortcomings. I shook my head. The movement cleared my brain enough to remember my appointment with the events person. I stretched the cord as far as it would go and pulled on my stretchy black travel outfit with the hand not holding the phone.

When I brushed my hand over my hip, the flesh freed by the rip in my underpants bumped out like a tumor. I swallowed back another scream. I decided to dump out my suitcase in order to find
underpants, and when I finally did, I began to undress and dress my lower half again.

“You’re both going to have to come down and get new key cards,” the voice in my ear continued.

“Why do
I
have to get a new key?” I held the phone in the crook of my neck while I finished pulling up my pants. “I was here first.”

“Hotel policy.”

“Ohmigod. You have a policy for this? What kind of place
is
this?”

“And one of you is going to have to switch rooms.”

“Well, it’s not going to be me,” I said. And then I hung up as hard as I could.

If this stupid hotel gave that guy my room, I’d move my brother’s event. Or I’d sue. Or I’d move my brother’s event
and
sue. I’d only packed and unpacked my suitcase about a zillion times this week. There was no way in hell I was going to pack up twice in one hotel, especially since everything I’d brought with me was now strewn all over the bed and floor.

The elevator took forever getting down to the lobby. I tapped one foot impatiently while I checked my phone to see if I had a direct number for the events person.

The elevator beeped.

When the door opened, I was looking right at a hunter green carry-on.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” the guy attached to it said.

The elevator door started to close between us. The guy reached out and caught it with one hand.

“Ha,” I said. I looked past him to the lobby, not wanting to make eye contact.

“They’ll offer you a coupon for a free breakfast for the inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience,” I repeated. The guy and the carry-on were blocking my exit, which seemed to me to be the current inconvenience. Not to mention awkward. And embarrassing.

“If you hold out, you can bump them up to dinner.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m just saying.”

Even without quite looking at him, he was actually kind of good-looking. Dark hair, wide-set eyes. Strong jaw. Lean torso. No wedding ring.