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I hear footsteps outside the door and wonder if the clandestine occupation of a hotel broom closet is a crime punishable by law. Even if it were, no jury would have the heart to convict me after the morning I’ve had.
Mitigating circumstances—a failed lab experiment, finding out I’m surrounded by liars, almost being run down by a car in my mad dash to downtown LA—would make the case for me. What would the police even charge me with, anyway? Excessive sobbing? Undignified self-pitying?
The footsteps near, and I hold my breath. Whether or not I’m convinced of my justified presence in this closet, I’d rather not have to explain myself to a stranger.
But thankfully whoever was out there walks past, none the wiser about me having taken residence in one of the supply storage rooms of the Peninsula Beverly Hills.
I unlock my phone to check if something has changed—it hasn’t. The proof that my life is in shambles is still there, spelled in colored pixels. My eyes have barely adjusted to the bright light when I lock the screen again, plunging the tiny room back into darkness.
Emotional and physical distress mingle in the shadows, making it hard to discern what’s real from what’s imaginary.
The sensation that my brain is about to explode from the million thoughts swirling inside it? Probably a mental projection.
The burning in my throat? I’d say fifty-fifty. It could be from all the sobbing or, equally possible, an emotional manifestation.
The sharp edge of the rack behind me boring holes into my shoulder blades? One hundred percent real. And the only symptom I could fix.
When I can no longer stand the discomfort, I shuffle toward the rear of the room, opting to lean against the back wall in a less thorny position. Also, my butt is hurting from sitting so long on the hard floor. I finger the shelves in the dark, until I come in contact with fluffy towels and stash a couple underneath me.
That’s also when I realize I’m impossibly hot. The air conditioning of the hotel doesn’t extend to its closets apparently. I lean away from the rack and remove the blue lab coat I hadn’t realized I was still wearing. How did I even keep it on until now? The adrenaline must’ve been cooling me. Ha! Maybe I should introduce it as a new bio-coolant in my research. Nah, hormones and rockets don’t mix.
As I sit in near total obscurity, the only light coming from the sliver of space underneath the door, I contemplate all the wrong life choices that brought me to this moment.
There was that time as a two-year-old when I thought it’d be a good idea to befriend the neighborhood’s twin kids. That decision at least half backfired on me as one of the twins just stabbed me in the back.
Then there was school and my natural predisposition for scientific subjects that led me to pick aerospace engineering as my major in college. So far, something I’d solidly filed in the pros column of my qualities. Now, I’m reconsidering. A philosopher would be better equipped to deal with the situation and take it, well, with philosophy. Or at least use the experience as a case study for deranged humanity and the loss of common social values like friendship, loyalty, basic decency…
But I’m digressing. The gold medal of poor life decision has to go to that day in freshman year when I assumed it’d be harmless to sit next to the hot, dark-eyed nerd in a Statics and Strength of Materials lecture. He was lounging in the first row of the auditorium, acting as if he owned the place. That should’ve been a red flag for selfish, egocentric tendencies.
In my defense, attractive, non-socially awkward engineers are a rare breed. Most of my fellow freshmen fit best into the nerdy nerd category. Skinny, thick-glassed introverts who are more at ease solving partial differential equations than talking to women—not that I’m famously an extrovert.
Even so, is it really my fault that I sat next to the tall guy with broad shoulders, cute dimples, and dashing smile who also gave the impression of being a decent conversationalist?
I’d rather call it a series of unfortunate events that started in year two of my life and culminated in year twenty-eight with a neurotic meltdown in a broom closet.
But, hey, the greatest fantasy saga of all time started with the protagonist living in a broom cupboard. I’ve only been here an hour. What if this is the beginning of my story?
Yeah, right. Not going to happen. I read too much fiction. Not how real life works.
No matter the angle I consider the situation from, I can’t put a positive spin on it.
The sting of the betrayal resurfaces, and fresh tears spring down my cheeks.
Before I can get the waterworks under control, outside noises distract me once again from my misery. Someone is thundering down the hall in a hurry.
I relax. No one could be that hard-pressed to reach cleaning supplies.
The moment I dismiss the threat, the pounding footsteps stop abruptly outside my hidey-hole.
The handle rattles and my heart jumps into my throat. Then the door opens in a flash of blinding light that prevents me from seeing who the invader is before they close the door behind them just as quickly.
That’s weird. Am I now confined in a broom closet with a serial killer? Who else would shut themselves in a storage room without turning on the lights? Except for me, of course.
Would anyone hear me if I screamed? Maybe, but then again, what would I say to my rescuers? Help, someone broke into the closet that I have no right to occupy?
“Is someone in here?” a deep male voice asks in a sexy British accent, cutting through my thoughts.
Do serial killers have sexy accents?
I race down the service hall until I find a door with a “personnel only” sign. I try the handle; it turns. In a flash, I rush in and shut the closet door behind me.
Without the outside light, the small room stands in complete darkness, but as I entered, I thought I saw someone sitting on the floor, or… was it just my imagination?
“Is someone in here?” I ask, unsure.
“Who’s there?” a shaky female voice replies.
“Sorry to intrude,” I say. “I need a place to hide.”
“Well, this closet is taken,” she wails. “Go away.”
“Are you crying?”
“Nooo.” Her reply comes out in a howl.
Clearly, the woman is crying.
“Should I turn on the lights?”
I grope the wall for a switch, find one, and flip it. But I only get a quick flash of metal racks filled with linens and toiletries before I’m hit over the head by something white and fluffy—a towel.
“Put that along the threshold and keep your voice down,” my fellow stowaway orders. “People outside might notice the light or hear you. You’ll get us caught.”
I do as she says and then turn around to assess the situation. The hideaway is minuscule and cramped. Two silver racks crammed with supplies are pushed against the walls with only a narrow space in the middle. Exactly what one would expect from a hotel storage room.
The woman sharing this impromptu refuge with me is a young brunette in a white T-shirt with Science Matters written across the chest and jeans. She’s sitting cross-legged in the sliver of space between the racks, her shoulders leaning against the back wall, a crumpled blue mass of fabric at her side tossed over a messenger bag. Hands in her lap, she’s clinging to a phone, its screen dark.
I sit on the opposite side of the closet, resting with my back against the door with a sigh. I’m knackered. I fold my legs close to my chest so as not to invade her space too much—even like this our knees are not three feet apart—and study her. She isn’t looking at me; she’s too busy blowing her nose and wiping tears from her face. But even with a runny nose, red-blotted skin, and tear-streaked cheeks, I can tell she’s pretty.
When the lady finally lifts her eyes to meet mine, their color is breathtaking. A deep, vibrant blue that reminds me of the Pacific Ocean on a sunny day. I wait for those two sapphires to widen in recognition as she takes me in, but nothing happens. Not a blink. She barely spares me a glance, then goes back to blowing her nose.
Could she really not have recognized me? Must still be too shocked a random bloke barged in on her hiding place. I wonder what a crying woman is doing stashed away in the broom closet of the Peninsula.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.
“Do I look okay to you?” she fires back.
Yeah, Christian, kind of a stupid question.
“I meant, what happened? Why are you hiding in here?”
“Why are you?” she retorts.
Should I tell her I’m running from the paparazzi? No real reason why, but a gut feeling is telling me not to. So I decide not to mention the paps.
“Fair enough,” I say. “Want to swap stories?” I tilt my head at her in a silent question.
She nods, so I go ahead and give her an edited version of the truth. This is how, “I met privately with Ridley Scott to discuss his next movie, but the paps busted us as we were leaving,” becomes, “I had a meeting about a project I’d like to keep under wraps, but a bunch of people I’ve worked with in the past appeared in the lobby. Small world, huh?” I try to be casual. “And I couldn’t have them see me here today. Hence the closet.”
“Secret meeting?” She frowns. “Sounds shady.”
I smile. “More confidential, really. What about you?”
“I… I…” She starts the phrase multiple times before collapsing into another fit of sobs. “I’m s-sorry…”
“No, it’s okay… err… What’s your name?”
“Lana,” she says, blows her nose, then looks at me expectantly. “And you?”
Unbelievable. She really has no idea who I am. Not to sound arrogant or anything, but I haven’t had to introduce myself to anyone in, well, forever.
“Christian,” I say. “Christian Slade.”
No reaction. Zero recognition in her eyes. Well, that’s new and 100 percent unexpected. Anonymity doesn’t happen to me—ever. People know who I am. Everyone does, especially women. My face has been on the front page of practically every tabloid, magazine, and online publication in
the world. The city is plastered with posters of me, I’m on the side of buses, on billboards, and on digital screens… and, yet, this woman has no clue who she’s talking to.
“Hi, Christian.” Lana cracks a small smile and, wow, her entire face transforms. “Sorry for breaking down on you. Not my best day.”
She reaches into her bag for a stainless-steel bottle and takes a small sip.
“You want some water?” she offers.
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
I’m not thirsty, but I’m dying to know what’s going on with this woman. Still, it doesn’t feel right to pressure her to share. The last thing she needs right now is a nosy stranger. So I watch Lana as she drinks, unlocks the phone in her lap, and stares at the screen for an eternity without uttering a single word. When the display goes dark on its own, a fresh flood of tears rolls down her cheeks.
“Can I do anything for you?”
She sniffles. “Could you check if there are tissues somewhere in here?” She shows me the crumpled white paper in her hands. “This was my last one.”
I get up, search the shelves for a box of Kleenex, and hand it to her.
“Thanks.” Lana lets out a bittersweet chuckle. “At least I won’t run out of tissues.” She noisily blows her nose again.
“Are you planning on staying here long?”
“I’m not leaving until they do.” She points a finger at the dark screen in her lap.
“Who’s they?”
“My boyfriend and my best friend,” she says.
Bloody hell.
“Or,” she continues, “more like my ex-boyfriend and my ex-best friend.”
“Are they… mmm?” How do I ask tactfully? Impossible. “Sorry, I don’t want to meddle if you’re not comfortable talking.”
She shrugs. “Talking is better than crying, and at least you’re a total stranger. It’s not like
you can judge me.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say, and relax against the door. “Shoot.”
“You have an iPhone?”
Weird question, but I answer anyway. “Yeah?”
“Ever used the Find My app?”
“No. How does it work?”
“It allows you to share your location with your contacts, and for you to see each other’s whereabouts at all times.”
That sounds like my very own personal hell. Imagine everyone being able to geo-target me at any moment. Oh, the paparazzi would love to have me pinned down like that.
“But you can turn it off, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. To access their location, a contact has to approve you.”
“And your boyfriend approved you?”
Seems like a stupid move for someone having an affair.
“Yeah, they both did.”
Even more stupid.
“But it was ages ago. I’m talking five or six years ago.”
I low-whistle. “Long relationship.”
Especially considering I’ve never made it past the one-year mark.
Lana winces. “Longer, unfortunately; we met in college.”
“So, the app?” I prompt.
“Yeah, sorry. We all followed each other on a weekend we went hiking in Big Bear, in case someone got lost. And I guess neither of them thought of withdrawing the approval.”
“And the app is telling you they’re both here?”
Lana swallows and nods.
“Could they not… I mean, could it be innocent?”
“Two adults booking a room at the Peninsula? They’re not here to play Scrabble,” she hisses.
No, probably not.
“I’m sorry,” I offer. “First time this happened?”
“No, I-I don’t think so.” Lana takes a deep breath, possibly to stop more tears from coming. “I like to check Johnathan’s location from time to time…”
“I’m guessing Johnathan’s your boyfriend.”
“Yeah. And I’m not a psycho-stalker who likes to track her boyfriend’s every move or anything. It was more to see when he was coming home from work so I could set the table or other silly things like that. Always knowing where he was felt… I don’t know… comforting?”
Definitely sounds more stalkerish, but better not to contradict an angry, crying woman.
“Anyway,” Lana continues. “About two months ago, I saw them in the same location, downtown, at lunchtime. But then afterward, Summer—my best friend—called me and told me she’d bumped into Johnathan and that they’d eaten together, so I didn’t read much into it. Not until it happened again last week.”
“For the first time in two months?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I check the app every day; it’s a random thing I do from time to time. When I’m thinking about Johnathan for whatever reason, I have a peek at where he is…”
“So, last week they were together again.”
“Mm-hm, lunchtime again, but in Santa Monica this time, which is as far as it gets from both their offices.”
I shift positions; the floor is hard and uncomfortable to sit on. “And I guess there was no call from Summer this time?”
“No, exactly.” Lana pulls her hair away from her cheeks and up into a messy bun. Tendrils trail down, framing her face. She’s cute. “And when I texted Summer to ask how she was doing, she told me she’d been stuck in the office all day.”
“A lie.”
“Yeah. That night I asked Johnathan about his day and he, too, lied. Said he had a business
meeting in Malibu. No mention of a pit stop in Santa Monica. As you said, I tried to come up with an alternative, logical, innocent explanation. The app isn’t super precise. They could’ve been in the same neighborhood without being together. But even so, why lie?”
“Only one reason I can think of.”
“Right.” Lana stares back down at her phone, unlocks the screen, grimaces, and locks it. “After that day, I turned into a real stalker. I’ve been obsessed with the app ever since. And today, bingo, I caught them in the same place again. So I hopped on the first bus and followed them here.”
“And you’re sure they’re in the hotel?”
“Both their cars are in the parking lot.”
“They could’ve gone somewhere else.”
“I called reception and asked to speak to Johnathan. They connected me to his room.” Lana grimaces. “He didn’t even bother with a fake name. Anyway, I pretended to be the concierge checking in to see if everything was okay. I could hear Summer’s voice in the background, asking who was on the phone. They’re here together, probably having sex right as we speak, and… oh… oh, gosh…” Lana starts hyperventilating. “There’s no air in here…”
She needs something to breathe into. I only find sanitary paper bags on the racks, which isn’t the best, but… she’s having a panic attack. They’ll have to do.
“Here.” I open one and give it to her. “Put this over your mouth.”
Lana follows my instructions and, after a few deep inhales, she starts to calm down. Or, at least, she stops hyperventilating, which I’m taking as a good sign.
“Sorry,” she apologizes.
“Don’t be. I don’t know what I’d do if our roles were reversed.”
Probably would’ve already knocked the damn room door down and started throwing punches. At least her way doesn’t end in an assault charge.
“Can we… Can we talk about something else?” Lana asks.
“Like what?”
“Tell me about you. What do you do? What’s the secret project about?”
Ah, a direct question. I could skid the truth again, but no, I don’t want to lie to Lana. She’s already had enough fibs fed to her.
“I’m an actor,” I say. “I’m working on a new movie.”
Her mouth curls into a little smile.
“What?” I ask, self-consciously.
“You’re just so LA.” Her smile widens. “Is this an actual movie we’re talking about, or are you really a bartender walking around with headshots in your pockets, hoping to be discovered?”
Maybe fifteen years ago.
“No, I’ve done some work already.” That’s, like, the understatement of the century. I’ve featured in so many box office hits, and I’ve been the top-grossing actor in Hollywood for almost a decade. “You might’ve seen me?”
“No, sorry,” she says. “I don’t watch TV.”
No kidding!
“You don’t go to the movies?” I ask.
“Nope. I prefer to read books or spend time outdoors…”
As she talks, Lana almost unconsciously unlocks her phone. Only this time, she jolts, sitting up straighter.
“They’re on the move!” Her eyes track the screen for a few seconds. “They’re both heading back to their offices. Guess they finished their business and now it’s life as usual. ...
