“Yeah, I have a room booked? Ada Montgomery?” She put down her ID, tapping her foot against the flagstone floor that bordered the front desk. She wiped her brow. “God, it’s hot in here.”

Ada’s brother, Bo – “Robert”, but Bo always hated his name – ignored her. The air in the lobby was suffocatingly warm, intensified by the wavy strands of air wafting up the two-story lobby and into the blinding-white skylight. Even tucked into the shadows of the dark second floor, Bo couldn’t breathe. There were too many people around, too many people waiting for them to finish up; he tapped his foot, glancing everywhere except at Ada, trying to find nooks and crannies he could disappear into when necessary.

He could’ve stepped away from Ada, stepped off to the side, and waited for the physical cue they had checked in. Bo glanced around the hotel, avoiding people’s faces, and wondered how many times people got lost in a building this long. The space was dark and somehow open at the exact same time. The second floor hung low above everyone’s heads, enclosing them like a cave, the entire building clad in stone, browns, and greens. Lighting threw white or gold, a visual breath of fresh air even if the air was stale. He held his backpack and roller bag a little tighter, a little closer to him.

From the view of the two-story windows in the lobby lounge was the pool; stretched beyond was a forest laced with hidden hiking trails, its end obscured by rolling hills and the horizon. Bo and Ada had been driving for over an hour, farmlands, forests, and emptiness leaving an unnerved feeling in Bo’s gut. He knew where he was geographically concerning nearby cities. All he had to do was pull up a map, and he knew, but the effect made him feel thousands of miles from everything.

Yet, in the back of his head, he heard flutes. The gentle rumble of timpani drums. So many violins and cellos and harps that the melody was as sweet as fresh creek water, and Bo watched the horizon, the colors saturating as it followed the melody, feeling the flutter in his chest as this new song bloomed inside him, made him warm. He had to write it down. He couldn’t let this –

“You’re booked in for 2 nights. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I need to take a charge for incidentals. It’s just a hold.”

“Do I get it back?”

“At checkout, yes, but that’s also if you don’t charge anything back to your room. This is also for you.” A white bag appeared on the counter, handles wrapped in pastel ribbons.

And the music was gone. Bo’s heart settled into that familiar place of gray and still. For the life of him, Bo couldn’t remember its composition and the throb of irritation presented itself on his forehead. The forest was just a forest again. Everything felt so far away again. Bo settled back beside his sister, making himself as small as possible.

“You’re in Building 3, second floor. Wifi details are there, and if you have any questions, comments, or concerns, don’t hesitate to let us know, okay?”

“Thank you. Bo?” Ada stepped off to the side, bumping into her brother. “Bo.” She pushed him, nudging him out of line.

Bo stared. “Bite me, Ada.”

“Oh, my God. Bo,” she muttered, dragging him towards the valet parking stand by the front doors as she packed away her things. “You are the fucking worst.”

“Just trying not to be in the way.”

“Doing a great job.”

“You’re such a joy. Have I told you that recently?” he muttered.

“What?”

Bo swallowed back a groan, his lips downturned, gently snarled. ‘Naturally.’

Ada sighed, the sound stilted and tangible in its frustration. Words of regret hung between them, but Bo knew she wouldn’t say them. Neither would he. They never did. “Come on, dude. Bright side. Bright side. It’s a pretty building, right?” She trotted into the distant smell of chlorine, leaving Bo in her wake to follow.

He did. Bo had to know where he needed to retreat for any reason. The hotel seemed ready to burst with people already, so getting lost was definitely not an option for him, though what he expected from a hotel this long was beyond him. The staircases between the buildings had no rhyme or order, surrounding empty wells of green carpet, stained dark wood, and cobbled stone walls ascending up and down from landings haphazardly. Wide plate glass windows were partially cloaked in vines. “You should’ve just left me behind, Ada,” he told himself, the words so hollow an echo could be heard behind them.

She turned and stared, frowning.

“You should’ve just asked Taylor to come with you.”

“She’s out of town.”

“Michael?”

“Busy.” She looked at him. “I assure you now, Bo, you are the last person I wanted to bring.”

Bo held his backpack strap a little tighter, a familiar inky sadness washing through his chest; it only numbed his hands and inched up his arms until he felt cocooned. Frustration crawled under his skin, and a part of him wanted to bark at everyone who took up too much space.

But it was his fault, though. There was no other explanation, no one else to blame for his agitation. He was in everyone’s way. His movements were too awkward and too big to not have people stare. Bo mumbled quiet words as apologies before catching up with his sister.

Hallways of recessed lighting and beige walls stretched out before them, indistinguishable and disjointed from the lobby building they came before. These spaces were familiar, eerie in similarity; empty, they would be catastrophically unsettling and uncomfortable. Their room was nice and standard. The bed was positioned closest to the hall door to accommodate a small seating area by a balcony. The view beyond was lawns stretching down to a man-made pond, the dense forest reminding Bo of quiet isolation.

“God, it’s hot here.”

He dropped his backpack on a chair, drifting lazily across the seating area towards the balcony doors. “Feels like we’re completely alone,” he muttered. Bo turned away.

“This hotel needs an update. Kind of dated, if you ask me.” She moved to the air conditioning display, a fading white plastic thing mounted by the door to the hall. “How do you use this?”

“How is it possible to build something an hour away and feel so much farther away?” He started rifling through his belongings for his tablet.

“Oh, it’s just the same system Mom and Dad have.”

“Must be pretty creepy during Halloween.” He withdrew the worn electronic and tossed it onto the bed.

“I think the Perlmans came here for their anniversary or something.”

“Winter might be nice. They have snowboarding, right?”

She turned to Bo. “So? Did they?”

Bo stared at her. He frowned, glaring. “Did who what?”

Ada blinked, expression blank, before the 30-year-old closed her eyes and sighed. She pressed her fingertips over her lips. “I could’ve left you at home.”

“I told Mom and Dad I didn’t want to come.” Also, because she wouldn’t ask anyone else to go.

“I know, but I – we talked about this, Bo,” she sighed, her tone flattening in frustration. “We said this was –”

“Just because I was there doesn’t mean anyone actually heard me,” Bo pointed out, his words so melancholic they were tinted blue. “I said I didn’t want to go because I knew I’d weigh you down. Dull the fun of coming here, but did anyone listen? No. You thought bringing me was what’s best for me.” The 29-year-old wouldn’t add that he also said he didn’t want to come, that he didn’t want to sit at a table for hours on end, making empty small talk with equally pointless people he couldn’t connect with. That he didn’t want to connect with. This whole wedding was a timer waiting to go off – time spent somewhere foreign and unfamiliar before returning to the safety of his room. “What are you hoping for? Some kind of...cathartic moment where I suddenly wake up and realize my life’s shit?” He stood. “I know my life’s shit, Ada.”

“Bo, we listened, but you...” She grunted, hands on her hips as she turned her gaze away.

Finally, Bo withdrew the charger and tablet, eyes scanning for an outlet and somewhere to sit. “Whatever. Don’t listen. It’s a serious fault of our family, anyway.”

“You’re one to talk.”

‘I know,’ he thought. “Maybe it’s hereditary.”

“Bo –” Ada groaned again. Her nose wrinkled, and several sentences left incomplete later, Ada tossed her bag onto one of the two beds and pulled out her clutch. She turned sharply and headed for the hall door. She stopped, glancing back at him. “Bo...you know, sometimes, you’re just –”

“What? I’m what?”

She sighed.

Bo knew he’d pushed something in her too far and met her stare with taunt. It was too easy to do this to her, over and over and over again.

Ada wrinkled her nose, grunting. “Whatever. The rehearsal dinner at 7:30, okay? Great.” She started back towards the door.

“Is it on property?”

“Yes.”

“Do I have to dress up?”

“It’s at 7:30. Read the schedule in the welcome bag.”

Bo stared, and whatever questions or requests for more information were met with the sound of the door closing hard, leaving him to suffer in the gentle hiss of the air conditioning. He could feel Ada lingering on the other side before disappearing into the vastness of the hotel.

‘Fuck.’ He tried settling, not thinking about his obtuseness. Bo rifled through the welcome bag for anything good, but it all felt standard – two tiny water bottles, mints, a few scattered pieces of candy, and travel-sized sunscreen. The weekend itinerary had been bent gently out of shape. Bo abandoned it on the coffee table, the bag toppling sideways.

He flopped into the cold leather armchair nearby, opening one of the three musical composition apps on his tablet and studying what he had been working on for the past year. ‘Come on,’ he willed himself, gritting his teeth for some kind of spark of inspiration. Some sort of colorful rhapsody that would leave him breathless. He tapped the pen against the screen, scattering notes alongside the unorganized swells of trumpet notes, trying to hear the crescendo of the music. What was once gold and the color of fire turned cold and black in his hands.

His tablet turned off. His reflection stared back at him, aching and tinted blue.

‘God.’ The isolation brushed on his skin, harsh and chafing. Bo tossed his tablet onto the coffee table and stood. He’d never finish another piece, never feel the fluttery thrill of a composition finished to completion, decorated with images of dancers and pops of color.

And then he remembered the stares. The side-eyed look when Bo shared it with the world. Cold, distant, and confused, as if Bo had grown three heads and snapped his back.

The room settled quietly against the heat. Condensation started building in the corners of the glass doors onto the balcony. Bo drummed his fingers against his legs, waiting for something – anything – to happen. The wedding to be delayed or postponed, or called off. Work to call and say they needed him back in. The time to tick down to zero, and the weekend be over.

The room’s makeup – safe and beige and white – irked him in small ways before it radiated down to his fingertips. Unable to stand the silence, Bo threw open the sliding glass doors to the balcony, air rushing around him like frenzied snakes; guilt radiated through him as he stared off into the distance, covering his face with his hands as he leaned forward.

‘What’s the point?’ he wondered, accustomed to the silent suffocation. Comforted by it, even. “Suck it up. Do it for Ada. It’s the least you can do for having her drag you along.”

Under his breath, he hummed a ballet overture, hoping to settle his nerves.