Pulling my old, worn suitcase from the closet, I filled it with my tattered clothes. All my money went to the retreat, so there would be no new wardrobe on the trip. The day before I was supposed to leave, I was able to sober up for a while, spending the morning in the bathroom of my small apartment, giving myself a shave and a haircut. I couldn’t afford to go to the barbershop, but I wanted to look decent for the trip. Afterward, I devoted the afternoon to checking my travel information and organizing my luggage.
I knew getting sober was going to be difficult. I had been drinking for so long that I didn’t know if I could function without alcohol, but I also understood the importance of this trip. It had the power to change my whole life for the better, and I sincerely hoped that’s what was going to happen.
I grabbed my luggage and took a cab to the airport. I avoided talking to people during my time at the airport. I wasn’t there to make friends. I’m used to flying coach, so that’s where I ended up. Closing my eyes, I slept the whole flight. It made the time pass faster. A trick I had learned back in the heyday of my career.
I dreamed of becoming what I once was, a highly successful author. Maybe that was a glimpse of my future, but I seriously doubted it because I didn’t believe in things like fate or destiny.
The plane landed smoothly. I grabbed my carry on from the overhead bin, joining the line of passengers waiting to get off the plane. We moved slow, like a herd of cattle. This made me wonder about the other authors at the retreat. What kind of genres did they write? The industry could be extremely competitive, and the high stakes made people mean. This had me worried because it had been so long since my last book. I tried to stay up to date on the latest science fiction novels, but with almost no income, that was pretty difficult to do.
Once we were off the plane and inside the airport, I made my way to the baggage carousel. My tattered suitcase stood out amongst all the other luggage. I hurried to grab it and then looked around. Needing to find a way to get to the fancy hotel where the retreat was being held, I walked up to the information desk and inquired politely from the girl there.
“Yes, a shuttle goes out there. If you hurry, you can catch it,” she informed me with a polite smile. She pointed me in the right direction before turning her attention away.
I grabbed my bags and walked off, used to being treated that way. People had been looking down on me for years. Women avoided me like they could sense my failure and despair. Life was lonely.
I found the shuttle and managed to get a seat. It was filled with couples and family members. I avoided everyone, and they avoided me. I think I actually let out a sigh of relief when the shuttle stopped outside of the hotel. I hurried out of there as fast as I could. The door slammed shut behind me, and the little bus drove off.
I paused briefly to look at the hotel, needing a moment. As advertised, it curled around a small Gary. The Broadmore was expansive. Rolling green hills, spotted with trees, flanked it on the East and West. There were more buildings than I could count, but nothing was run down at this historic resort. The tannish-pink walls were topped with red tile roofs, with little hints of brick here and there. All in all, it was fancy and lush. Just being there made me feel rich again.
I hoped I was ready for this. I needed to be prepared. This was my moment to reinvent myself. I grabbed my suitcases and walked inside the opulent lobby. This place could undoubtedly inspire the right writer.
There was a line at the check-in desk that ended with a young woman — early twenties, from what I could tell of her perfect backside. I couldn’t see her face. I waited in line behind her, trying to not stare at her hourglass shape and round ass.
The girl was on her cell phone. I could hear pieces of her conversation. Her voice sounded very familiar, but that would be crazy. I had never been to Colorado before. The more she talked, the more I listened.
The stranger hung up as she reached the desk. Hoping to hear her every word, I tried to act nonchalant as I hovered too close to her.
“Yes, the writers’ retreat. I have a reservation,” she explained to the concierge.
I strained to listen but couldn’t hear a name. I pretended not to be watching as she was handed a key. She turned to grab her luggage off the floor. As the woman bent to grab her bags, I saw her face. It was Gray’s daughter, Hazel.