“Sir?” came the receptionist’s sharp voice, tinged with impatience and discomfort, which was the last thing Ian Randolph wanted to hear cutting across the hotel lobby. “Sir?”

Gritting his teeth, Ian’s hand darted across his opened notebook, pencil in hand. He had little opportunity to finish these building perspectives for Reed on the plane, with his rowmate perpetually leaning into him for the entire flight. “Just a sec,” he hissed, immediately feeling a cold shiver of regret crawling up his spine. It came out too thin, the words too burned for Ian to consider normal for him.

“Sir.”

Yellow light spilled through the unadorned dormer skylight two stories above, and whatever gentle crooning from the hotel’s speaker system blurred out with the commotion of people checking in. Sweat dripped down the back of Ian’s neck, and he knew every second he wasn’t stepping forward had another five people lining up behind him. His hand started shaking.

“For God’s sake,” someone said behind him. A group of three sidestepped the sketching man and cut in front of him.

“I’m...almost...” the 31-year-old whispered, his face warm. To his horror, one of his focal points was off by mere millimeters, resulting in one side of the building being off-kilter. Ian clenched his jaw and cursed his hands, flipping the notebook closed and under his arm. He’d try again when things were quieter, though the number of times his phone left his leg perpetually tingling meant otherwise.

The group that cut in front moved into the hotel’s crowd. The receptionist looked at Ian expectantly.

“S-sorry,” he whispered, the low second floor dropping to what felt like inches above his head, and Ian’s breath hitched a little. The dark, almost black ceiling matched the rest of the hotel – a medley of horizontal lines, stucco, and stone stretching into the distance in mid-century style. Recessed light shone gold in the shadows. Ian would’ve stopped to take pictures, sketch the whole thing out, if the front desk agent wasn’t staring at him with a subdued look of irritation.

“Ch-checking in?” Ian breathed. He clenched his jaw, eyes unfocusing for a moment. He pressed fingers to the bridge of his nose. “S-sorry. I – Ian Randolph?” he offered, holding out his ID to the agent.

The receptionist took it and considered it before handing it back.

The seconds ticked by. Ian started running his thumb over the sides of his fingers, hoping to calm himself down, though the summer heat and commotion behind him left him on edge, regardless. The day had been too long already – the hotel was marvelous but so long; the single parking spot he found was furthest away from the lobby; he got lost trying to find the damned lobby building. His flight from Boston was delayed and nearly canceled, Reed was messaging him relentlessly, Rachel wouldn’t stop texting him –

“What brings you up this way?” the front desk agent asked.

‘Come back. Come back,’ he willed, and Ian pressed an easy-looking smile to his lips. He crossed his arms over the cool dark marble desktop, condensation sticking to his skin. “The wedding tomorrow. The...Ozechov/Hammond wedding?” Ian glanced around the lobby, noting the three other wedding signs taking place that weekend. Something in his stomach sank at all the faces around him, watching him, waiting for him. “Supposed to be great weather all weekend, right?”

“That’s...what...yeah, that’s what I’ve heard. Nice and hot.”

He exhaled a little steadier than before. Despite the summer heat, it was a beautiful day; the hotel’s decor oozed 90’s flair while the structure was an interesting take on Frank Henry Sullivan. He got to the hotel in a decent amount of time, even with the setbacks. He didn’t have any serious reason to complain. Now, all he needed was somewhere to sit down, shower, and sketch.

The front desk agent’s eyes darted about the screen – blue and bright against their face, highlighting the nooks and grooves of a life unknown to Ian – before they asked, “Is it possible it’s been booked under a different name?”

His stomach sank through him, burning and leaving him dizzy. “No, it should be under Ian Randolph?” His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Yes, but I don’t...I don’t see your reservation in our system. Give me one second. Do you have a confirmation email?”

Ian’s smile strained. He unlocked his phone – the time cast as 02:47 – and pulled up the confirmation email, his hands shaking as he offered it to the agent. He ignored the four texts from Rachel and five from Reed. “This is the Sheridan Springs Resort, right? I know there’s a few other resorts in the area with kind of similar names, but, uh...” He said nothing else. His thumbs ran over the sides of his fingers, dry and haphazard. Ian swallowed and said something but did not process his words.

They took the phone and studied it. “Yes, it is, but – ah.” They returned the phone to Ian, lying it flat on the counter as they scrolled over the email. “Okay. Your reservation is for tomorrow.”

He shivered, his hands laid flat on the smooth counter. Everything screamed in his ears in an indistinguishable mess. “Sorry. I...what?”

“It’s for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Ian opened his mouth, fire ready to spew, but the expression on the receptionist’s face made him reconsider. Their eyes were fixed on him, observing him. No doubt they’d been on the wrong end of a guest’s ire before, and Ian wouldn’t let that happen. Swallowing back his rage, swiping his phone and putting it away, he inhaled, eyes down. The murmurs around him grew louder, and something inside him twisted at the stares into the back of Ian’s head, waiting and impatient and glowing red. He could have moved off, accepted the reality he’d be sleeping in his rented car tonight.

“Sir?”

‘Fuck. Fuck.’ He pressed his elbows on the desktop, covering his eyes. This is where he was supposed to be. Melissa’s fucking wedding was tomorrow. He was going to be coming to the rehearsal dinner tonight. “Is there...anything you can do?” Ian asked, stammering. He hated that he was stammering. It made him feel small, powerless, burning up with the stagnant summer air. “Shift the reservation or something?”

The front desk agent grimaced.

The expression made Ian’s skin prickle, his ears burning. His heart started following his stomach’s free fall.

“Since it wasn’t booked directly with us – you booked with Expedia – we can’t touch it. Third-party bookings are like that.” They turned back to the computer. “If you called them and asked to shift it, they’d be able to, but tonight is –”

“Well, if you have a room available, I’ll pay for it. I’d be more than happy to.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we are fully committed this evening.”

“Oh, no. Really?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes unfocused, and Ian swallowed back a scream peeking over the crest of his tongue. The second floor seemed to compress down, sucking away any light that spilled in from the lobby just behind him. The sounds of people checking in – the line stretching across the whitewashed-soaked space to the coffee shop less than fifty feet away, dulled into a muffled hum. His thumbs, still tracing over the sides of his fingers, felt nothing. ‘This is all fucking Rachel’s fault. If she hadn’t asked me to fly in early to help move shit, which she didn't even really need me for, anyway, I wouldn't be here. If she hadn’t asked me to get those goddamned invites sent out, if she –’

“Sir.” Impatience reemerged from the receptionist’s voice, soft but clearly there.

Ian smiled, leaning forward. “Damn.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No, no. That’s my fault. That’s on me.” He breathed, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Would it be possible to...be put on some kind of a waiting list or something?” Ian’s hands trembled. “A guest doesn’t check in and...you know. I’ll happily pay.”

“I’ll make a note, but we usually don’t know anything until later. Is it okay if we call you if it happens?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” He stepped back, hand drumming on the desktop. “Sorry for all this.”

“No worries, sir. Anything else I can do?”

Ian shook his head, waving as he turned away. “No, thank you, but have a great rest of the day.” He ducked out of the shadows of the second floor and into the light flooding every inch of the space from the unadorned dormer skylight above. He weaved through people, backpack swinging off his shoulder before he pressed his back against the coffee shop, the window’s stone frames digging into him. His phone buzzed once, twice, three times before falling dead in his pocket.

The smile on his face hurt. His hands were tucked into his pockets. Ian glanced down, fidgeting, seething under his skin. He pressed his hand over his forehead, squeezing as his eyes focused on the polished, faded flagstone floors. The air smelled wet, dusty, and closed his throat with short, angry breaths descending down his throat. Pushing off the coffee shop wall, Ian excused himself to no one and moved out a side door by the indoor pool into the hot summer air. His thumbs ran over the sides of his fingers, too fast to be rhythmic and calming.

The path was bright and lush with greenery, and the parking lot beyond glittered with countless cars trying to find a vacant spot. Heat wiggled against distant treetops, and the lack of breeze grated Ian’s dry throat. The sky was cerulean. The world was burning.

Long lines and dark colors stretched into the distance. Bouncing his foot, Ian drew in one slow breath, trying to steady himself. He took in another. Another. Rage perfumed the air around him, already scented with pine and car exhaust.

And then he kicked one of the outdoor lights lining the sidewalk. The light’s body toppled backward, and the metal top ricocheted away into the thicket and against the concrete wall of the indoor pool. The glass of the light cracked.

He stared down at it. Ian’s fingers tingled, numb at his sides, as he nudged the light with his foot, debating whether to leave it before pressing his hands over his face again. He inhaled slowly, the sound thin and pale, too hot against his palms. “Fine,” Ian breathed, crouching down and righting the light, shuffling dirt around its base to straighten it. Teeth chattering, Ian searched through the bushes for another few minutes for the lantern’s top before giving up when a group of guests moved past him. He smiled, waved them off, and waited for them to go inside.

Ian moved further away. He planted himself on a shaded bench facing a silver Lexus, pulled out his phone, ignored the bridal party’s and his coworkers’ messages, and messaged Cat. Hey, they don’t have a room for me for tonight. He didn’t send that. That made him feel pitiable, and he could almost hear Cat saying this was his fault. Hit a snag with the wedding. Text me when you’re free? That Ian did send. The seconds ticked on, his foot bouncing against the pavement, and Ian pocketed his phone again.

“Okay,” he whispered, trying to calm himself down. “Options. Options. If there’s no room tonight, I could...” The thought irritated him, made him warmer, and Ian’s fingers started drumming against his legs. ‘This could be good,’ he told himself. He barely believed the sentiment but pushed it along like a stubborn toddler. ‘An opportunity. An opportunity. This gives me the chance to...check out the area. Might lose my parking spot, but who cares?’ Ian cared. There were already too many people, and he knew he’d never find a close one again if he left the hotel’s grounds. ‘There’ll be parking spots anywhere.’

A car alarm started blaring in the distance. It stopped a second later. A breeze over the treetops brought with it more sticky heat.

Ian’s heart, having fallen before, started to rise in inflated opportunity. ‘I bet Lake Yerkes’ got some great souvenir shops. Haley’s been looking for a new bottle opener, anyway. Might get struck with inspiration to design something.’ No matter how sour his expression looked, a smile forced itself onto his face, and Ian pulled out his phone again, scrolling through the messages he missed, mostly the list of requested items from the bridal party. ‘Who knows. Maybe I’ll find another hotel that’s super cute and charming closer to town. Meet some great people at it. Cancel my reservation here and –’ He stopped himself. He was too tired to hope.

Newly resolved, Ian stood and glanced at the sea of cars, diminished only when he realized he had to walk back around the lobby for his car in the other parking lot.