+ JACK +
There was something special, I felt, when it came to spending a night or two in a hotel room. I couldn't really put it into words; whether it was the grandmother-scented soap in the bathrooms, the newly-made king-sized beds, or just the very feeling entirely, you found yourself enjoying the experience. It didn't matter to me, really, the state of the hotel room, either. I mean, of course, like most human beings, I'd much prefer a spacious room with a gorgeous view of the neighbourhood, but, somehow, even the grungiest of motels could provide you with the same experiences, ones just as special as those you could get with any two-hundred-dollars-per-night hotels you could wind up with.
Fortunately, however, Felix had been wise enough to choose one that didn't risk us eventually having a dead body on our hands – the twelve-hour flight with him was dramatic enough.
"I guess it'll have to do," he sighed, wheeling his suitcases in ahead of me.
I shut the door as he lunged onto the bed, the one furthest from the door to the room. As he'd specified on-board, he wanted the one that was least likely to get him killed in his sleep first. I let him have what he wished, for I was certain killers didn't usually have an "I'd like to kill this person first" motive, and I wasn't up for hours of non-stop whining on how I clearly wanted him to die before me. He had a way of making things much bigger deals than they actually were.
"It's fine, Daddy Warbucks," I said.
"Please don't call me 'daddy,'" he pleaded, toying with a stray strand of hair. "It's gross. And besides – the pugs give me enough parenting as is."
"And I'm sure they're gonna miss you because of that," I smiled, plopping myself on the other bed. "But Marzia will take good care of them. I'm sure of it."
"Please don't mention her."
"Why not?" I wondered.
He sighed again – one of his big, traumatic sighs. The ones that said "I've got such a difficult life despite the fact that I've got enough money to fly to Los Angeles and check the real estate in case I wish to move there."
"I think we're in a bit of a falling out," he explained. "I don't know what it is. Period problems, most likely. She just... she doesn't know if it's right to move to Los Angeles. The big apple."
"That's New York City, I think."
"Tomato, potato." He shook his head. "She keeps telling me 'We don't have to move,' 'We're perfect where we are,' and 'We can just stay here.' What she doesn't understand is that my job is here – sure, I can work over the computer, but do you know how much money I could be making if I were to physically show up at the office every day?"
It took me a few moments to realize that it hadn't been a rhetorical question. I shook my head in response to it.
"A lot. I could be making a lot of money that way."
"But, judging by your house, your pugs, and your girlfriend with her own fashion line, I'd say you have just about enough," I said, hoping to sound more soothing than judgemental. "Wouldn't it be easier for you, too? Stayin' where you are?"
He rolled onto his side, his back to me so that he could stare out the window that took up one entire wall of the room, covered by a shade of translucent white curtains.
"I don't know."
"You've got a great life," I kept going. "A family. A home. A girl that loves you."
He scoffed to himself. "She doesn't love me enough to come with me on this trip. I swear, her emotions change by the second – just last week she was planning for it, enthusing about all of the amazing places she wanted to visit. But just when we're about to leave? 'I can't go.' 'You go have fun.' 'Bring a friend!' As if it's that simple."
