The Quimby Hotel

━ 02: To Stay Or To Go

Practically every family had that especially estranged member of whom everyone refused to speak aloud. And as Cairo tore off his helmet and parked his motorcycle in the rain, trudging ahead to approach the front doors of the ever-looming Quimby Hotel with its vintage sign and pristine windows, he realized that was him. Everything looked exactly the same as he remembered, as if no one had noticed he'd ever left. The mahogany double doors with crystal knobs, the balconies on the upper floors lined with potted plants, the familiar umbrella holder by the entrance—it had all been frozen in time. He was surprised by the bitterness that flooded him. There was something about the fact that the hotel was starkly unaffected by his absence that left a bad taste in his mouth.

Cairo stood before the hotel for a few impossibly long moments, staring unblinkingly up at the glimmering cursive letters that spelled out The Quimby Hotel. He was forced to wrestle with his judgment before finally ducking under the canopy and out of the rain, hand closing hesitantly around the faux diamond handle. His good eye flicked to the signs plastered to the windows on either side of the doors, reading OPEN 24/7 and FAMILY OWNED & OPERATED respectively. Family owned and operated indeed. This was precisely the reason he could not bring himself to turn the doorknob.

Get ahold of yourself, Cairo, he snapped at himself, and pushed both doors open.

He entered soaking wet and particularly angry, so it was no surprise that heads turned in the lobby as he stomped his way to the front desk, refusing to look around and take in the view of his childhood home. He refused to admire the intricate, gleaming chandeliers, the red lounge chairs or the paintings hung that he knew had been done by Berlin—there were many more of them now. He tightened his jaw, biting down on his persistent pain, and finally brought himself to look the receptionist in the eye.

Tokyo Quimby stared at her older brother in unbridled shock.

Their gazes locked together in contest for what felt like hours but was probably only moments. Finally her mouth quirked upward in a smirk.

"Well, well, well," Tokyo murmured. "The one that got away. Seems like the grand world is treating you well," she quipped, smiling wider.

He watched her blankly, too exhausted to properly react. Apparently, the sarcasm she'd wielded when she was ten was still going strong. "I'd like to be checked in."

"Would you now?" Her eyes glimmered, and Cairo found himself suddenly jealous of anyone who had both eyes intact. If she didn't hurry up and give him a room key, she wouldn't for much longer. "Let me just check and see what's available."

He sighed, shifting his weight and glancing up at the enormous clock above them. A family heirloom, allegedly—of his stepfather's, not his mother's. The piece of furniture that had started the Quimby Hotel, back when it was nothing more than an abandoned building and a dream. His early years after his mother's marriage to Richard Quimby were filled with endless hours in this very place, playing with his brothers and occasionally helping as plumbing was installed, walls were painted, and furniture was moved in. Cairo had watched the hotel grow up with him, from nothing to everything.

"Ah, yes," Tokyo said brightly. "We have a room ready for you on the fourth floor. It's called the Abandonment Suite. There's a nice big balcony for you to throw yourself off of." Her straight white smile was sharper than before, and her eyes fiercer. She could do that; subtly make her appearance scarier for just a flash, enough to make you wonder if you'd imagined it. But Cairo knew better. He rolled his eye and wished he hadn't after it made his head hurt again.

"Fine. You know what? Don't give me a room. Where's Father?"

"Go to hell, Cairo," she told him cheerily. He huffed his annoyance and left the desk, abandoning that idea. He would just have to find Father himself.