Room Service

by Poppy Dunne

  What is happening to me?

  Mom practically throws herself into the room. Now she’s also looking at me like I cracked the da Vinci code or some nonsense. She holds out her phone—or probably Todd’s phone, since she thinks being available to talk to people sends the wrong message—and shows me an online article. I take the phone, scanning the article.

  It’s a picture of Ben, alongside a picture of the guy that I instantly identify as the hipster dude in the hotel café from a few days ago. Underneath the pictures, I catch little bits of the article that got written up in Tech News or Global Tech or Tech on the Move or whatever they call their media these days.

  “BEN WILLIAMS, 32, already successful entrepreneur and CEO of WillTech, sold rights to his smartphone app, WaitNoMore, to DOUGLAS SCHILLING of GlobalEnterprise. The deal, which is estimated to be somewhere in the high eight-figure range, is a huge step forward for WillTech. The San Jose born entrepreneur has long been noted in the industry for his commitment to what he calls ‘people problems’ as well as new algorithms. When reached for comment, Schilling described Williams’ app as ‘fresh, exciting, primed to make money for investors and keep money in the pocket of customers. Ben has this incredible ability to see right into people’s heads, zeroing in on exactly what they want. With this new app, people will be able to order gourmet meals for delivery better, faster, and they won’t pay as much. It seems almost like robbery, which is why I always call Ben the tech world’s Robin Hood. He takes surplus money from the big guys and puts it back in the pocket of the everyday man on the street.’”

  My brain’s shut down now. High eight figures. Ben’s now loaded. Fully loaded and ready for action.

  “I thought you were just settling for anyone to keep you from dying alone. Turns out you’re a better lay than I thought you were,” Todd says, as though it’s a compliment. I’m too numb to respond, but Katie handles business by shoving her stilettoed heel into Todd’s calf. While he hops back and hisses at the pain, Mom actually pecks me on the cheek. Careful not to get lipstick smeared on me, of course.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she says, and the most horrible part is that she sounds like she means it. Is she crying a little? Didn’t she get the tear ducts removed when they realized not crying could save moisture for her skin, to prevent wrinkles?

  For Todd and my mother, a guy having a lot of money is all it takes to give him a seat at the VIP table of my loins. Seriously, how could I want for anything more? Well, maybe it’s really asking too much, but I’d like honesty as well.

  Because as the shock wears off, I realize there’s one huge problem here: Ben lied to me. As I look back at his handsome, grinning face on the phone’s screen, I think about how we met. He never told me he wasn’t actually a waiter, never told me he was developing an app. He deliberately kept all those things a secret. Was it part of some sick game for him? Was he trolling around, looking for easy women to pick up? Desperate ladies who need a good roll in the hay from a man who’s So Sincere, Honestly. Such a breath of fresh air. Such a gentleman.

  He’s been playing me this entire time. For all I know, he was going to get me weak at the knees, make me believe he wanted something more serious, and then, on the dance floor at the wedding, break up with me and ask for his three hundred. Just to be a douche.

  A rich douche. Like all the other rich douches I know. Messing with other people for sheer entertainment value, because humiliating strangers is far more entertaining than anything you can actually buy with money.

  Then my own phone buzzes, with another Ben text. Katie’s the only person here who’s monitoring my reactions and not Ben’s big revelation. She can tell what’s really going on, and looks sad. Instead of typing back a reply, I tuck my phone into my sweatpants pocket.

  I’m done with texts today.

  17

  I have a face of perfect makeup, hair curled and softly glowing, and I’m wearing gray sweatpants and a ‘Party on Garth’ tee shirt when I go down to the lobby to meet Ben. He said he’d be getting back from ‘work’ right around now, and I want to make sure to greet him head on. I don’t want him showing up at my room.

  He moves in through the revolving doors, swiping sleet off his leather jacket. The leather jacket that was old, faded, and looked like he’d bought it about ten years ago. Probably it was pre-faded or stretched or whatever in some fancy leather goods shop out in Kalamazoo or something. Or Australia. Or London. The jacket’s as much a fake as he is.

  “Hope that’s your outfit for the wedding. Wayne’s World always got me hot,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. I yank away, crossing my arms, and now he knows that something is Wrong. It could also be the serious bitch face I’m giving him that rings some alarm bells. “What?” he asks, looking genuinely baffled.

  I will genuinely baffle the hell out of this man. I will baffle him until he cries for mercy.

  “Congratulations on your major deal with GlobalEnterprise,” I say sweetly before jamming my phone in his face. It’s open to his big news. He takes it, scans it, and his face goes kind of an ashy color.

  “Let’s talk upstairs.”

  “No. There are fifteen harried caterers running around the bridal floor right now. I don’t want to disturb any of them.” I stomp to the side of the hall, to another set of plush armchairs. These probably have historic significance too, because what doesn’t? Ben joins me, sitting quietly, though his eyes are more Blue Steel than ever. He is thinking hard right now. Probably he’s trying to come up with a way where this situation doesn’t make him look like a raging jackwad. “So. Do you get your jollies from room service carrying, or did you have the most unbelievable rags to riches story of all time?” I ask him. “Was the story about your hard upbringing with your mom and sister even real?”

  “Of course it was real. I wouldn’t lie about something like that. I was going to tell you today,” he says, adopting that tone that indicates he’s the one who’s trying to sound reasonable and I should maybe get with the program. Well, that program won’t be got today. I’m canceling it. The federal funding didn’t come through.

  “You were going to tell me as a surprise? As a sort of a ‘hey, guess what, I’m rich, now pay me my three hundred because it’s so damn funny?’” I snap. Ben goes into full glower mode. Even the gentle blond giant can be pushed too far, apparently.

  “Well, given how much rich people seem to annoy you, I thought disclosing that particular information would make you less horny than usual.”

  Because god forbid he not get quick and easy access to sex.

  “And you just needed a few quick lays before jetting off to Paris or Budapest or wherever you have beachfront property?”

  “Paris doesn’t have any beaches. I’m not sure about Budapest.” He looks like he’s on the verge of whipping out his phone and checking on those details.

  “Don’t change the subject!”

  “You’re the one who brought up inaccurate geography!” he snarls. God damn, even that attention to detail gets me hot. I think he notices it, too, because he leans closer to me. “Alex, I was doing that room service job to get an idea of how long it takes to serve a customer. Of how customers react when they’re kept waiting. My friend works at the hotel, he offered to help me with my research. Reading people was part of what I needed in order to develop my app. I needed the human side of the story. I needed to perfect the last glitches, and you helped with that.”

  I snort. “If the food arrives within the fifteen minute window, you may also get laid?” Ben shakes his head.

  “You showed me the human interaction most people are desperate for. You’d been locked away for days, stressed, angry. For you, it wasn’t as much about the food as it was the human interaction. I redesigned the entire look of the app based around people. There’s a person’s face that talks to you when you log on, a person who walks you through where your food is being prepared, and when it’s on its way. If you want, that person can tell you jokes while you wait. It’s about
human warmth and connection, and being taken care of, not just getting fast food to serve some basic need. Schilling saw that dimension of it, and he wanted it immediately. That missing link was what I needed to finally get Doug to buy it! I started thinking that way because of you.”

  I’m not an idiot. I understand that he’s trying to tell me something flattering, something about how special I am or some other thing. In another world, with another person who had a different kind of wiring in her head, it might actually work. But that’s not the point. He’s undoubtedly being totally sincere right now, but that’s not what I need. What I needed was someone who wouldn’t play games with me, who wouldn’t lie to me, who wouldn’t view me as research or base apps around my lonely, pathetic, uncanny valley feeling or some shit like that. Because using personal interactions and feelings for financial gain? That’s something rich assholes tend to do.

  And I don’t need any more of those in my life.

  “Here.” I flip open my purse, take out my checkbook, and start writing out the three hundred. I have to scrap the first attempt, because I get the date wrong, because I am that damn rattled. My hands are shaking, but I manage to get my arm to steady. I’m like a leaf on the wind. See how I soar. And then not die in a horrible, pointless spaceship accident, because fuck you Joss Whedon. Fuck you for ruining my Firefly feelings. I’m breaking up with an asshole right now.

  “You can’t be serious,” Ben says when I rip out the check and hand it to him. Now he’s got the mad glint in his eye, not just the hot one. “You think what I did was that unforgivable? Keeping my business plans to myself?”

  “Look, I know you just made a shit ton of money, but I do believe in paying in full. This way, we both know our business is done. Consider your contractual obligations met.” I stand up, wishing I had some fabulous pumps or a tight-fitting skirt to strut away in, but I’m stuck with Garth and my sweatpants. Ben stands too, glowering over me, and neatly rips the check in half. He lets the pieces flutter to the floor. I watch them fall, my cheeks burning.

  “I don’t want this,” he growls. I step into him, looking right up into his eyes.

  “And I didn’t want to be lied to again, jerked around again, by some rich asshole who claims to know what I need better than I do.” That’s really it. It’s not simply lying, or having obscene amounts of money. I’ve been around men like that all my life, and no matter how innocently it starts, it always ends with a woman crying, or getting divorced, or sitting in her palatial apartment somewhere downing her feelings with alcohol.

  Any resemblance to my mother is purely unintentional, of course.

  “Alex, you haven’t let me talk,” Ben says. “You haven’t given me a chance to explain.”

  Nope. Haven’t. Don’t really want to.

  “You don’t have to come to the wedding,” I go on. “I prefer flying solo, anyway. I think I’ll be doing a lot of that from now on.” I try to keep my gaze focused and steely, but it’s misting over. The tears are close now. Better swallow them, along with a nice gin and tonic, and forget this entire nightmare. “Thanks for the service. It was really spectacular,” I say before I turn on my heel and march off. This time, Ben doesn’t say anything or try to come after me.

  After all, he’s got eight figures to spend. No reason to bother with me now.

  18

  When the processional music starts, the piping organ music that sends every one of us coral-dressed, pearl-bedecked bridesmaids up the aisle to take our places for the ceremony, I want to go on a flower kicking rampage. I want to knock every single pillbox hat off every single blue-blooded woman’s head. I want to tear up my own orchid infested bouquet, scream, and kick open the doors to go start drinking in the lounge.

  Why don’t I? A couple reasons. I love Rollie and Katie, and this is their damn wedding. They deserve to have the special day that they—and my mother, and my mother’s army of designers—have always dreamed of. Plus, I’d have to pay for all the damages, and considering my career has also been roughly plowed up the ass, I’m not in the mood for that.

  That’s another thing. Just as I was getting dressed and trying to keep from ugly crying in front of the bride’s entire family, I got a call from Nigel. He sounded so constipated when I told him about losing out on the chance to book Of Fire and Llamas. I’d expected him to start barking, French bulldog all the way, but instead it was worse. He sounded resigned.

  “Aw, love, you tried your best,” he said kindly. “We’ll find a way to soldier on. Maybe it was time we all considered a career change, anyway.” Then he shouted at someone to schedule him a bikini wax because he really fucking needed it right now. It sounded like he was about to burst into tears.

  This is how bad I am at everything I do. I sent my boss to get his pubic hair torn out.

  I find myself walking up the aisle without even considering what I’m doing. I feel like I’m in a virtual reality simulation, watching all the faces around me like they’re projected on a screen, completely untouchable. Todd’s there, beaming up at me in that oily way of his. He probably thinks he can still edge in on my ‘relationship’ and game it to his advantage. Disappointing him and Mom is going to be the one slight, silver lining in this cloud of shit. But it is really going to be a lot of shit.

  Before I know it, I’m standing on the opposite side from Rollie. God, look at him. His bright red curls are even curlier—they’re practically standing on end. He’s got his hands clasped in front of him, and he rhythmically unclasps and reclasps them to the point I’m tempted to throw myself over the space between us and grab them just to keep him still. But he’s nervous, and I get that.

  He’s nervous because he’s happy, and he doesn’t know how to contain his energy. I can read my ginger little brother like a book. A happy, wonderful book with a pornographic scene at the end.

  Hoo boy, I need to stop thinking about that. It’ll put me off the prawn cocktail I gobbled on my way downstairs.

  Then the music changes to the more traditional wedding march, and here comes Katie, floating down the aisle on her father’s arm. Katie’s dad is a prison guard, a job title politely referred to as ‘correctional supervisor’ by my mother. Considering that half of Katie’s family probably does time behind bars, it’s a really good way for them all to keep in contact. Her dad’s the gruffest, manliest mustached man I’ve ever met, but right now there are tears shining in his eyes as he hands his little girl off.

  And Katie, who I know isn’t nuts about the poofy dress, or the over-catered food, or the expensive champagne, or the dancing swans in the lobby (Mom insisted on that particular touch) looks like she’s out of her mind with happiness. There’s a halo or an aura of light around her, though it could be from being backlit so spectacularly. When she grins that wide, you can see the gold tooth all the way at the back of her mouth.

  Because no matter what Mom or the umpteen hundred meddling Harrington aunts did to the ceremony, the most important part is here, between her and Rollie as she nearly trips over her skirt and almost sends herself face down into the carpet. When he takes her hands, and they look into each other’s eyes, you can see the bone-deep trust and love. When he guides her up the steps to stand next to him, soon to be man and wife, you can see that she believes he’ll always be there to grab her hands, help hold her up.

  If I didn’t adore them with every ounce of my being, I’d protest vomit on this very spot. But I keep my stomach in check. Save my vomit for when it really counts, that’s my motto.

  At least Rollie got Katie’s brother to officiate the ceremony. That one touch they got to keep for themselves, and it’s the fun one. The brother, Leonard, is wearing a red bandana and looks like he had a speed-fueled night right before the ceremony. His eyes are red, his chin unshaven. He weaves back and forth, but unlike cousin Abernathy, he can hold his liquor. As he stammers his words off a piece of paper he’s got in his hand, I look at the parade of bridesmaids to my right. Everyone is spray-tanned, styled, and peroxided to perfect
ion. It’s the wedding Mom always wanted for her kids. It’s filled with beautiful women, handsome men, and a smidge of emotional repression.

  Then I catch her eye in the crowd, and I see that she’s actually crying. Like, real happy tears. No emotional repression at all, then.

  Like a bolt of lightning, I suddenly get struck by the idea that I’ve been a little uncharitable to my mother. Not completely—she’s still the person who thinks poor people’s brains are different, after all—but uncharitable enough that I haven’t been as kind to her as I could have been. Maybe this is why she’s so hard on me. Despite being thirty years behind the times, and not knowing how to offer emotional comfort in the worst way, all she wants is for Rollie and me to be happy with people we love. Granted, she also wants us to maintain residences in Bucks County and have summer homes on tiny Grecian islands, which is an unrealistic amount of pressure. But all her meddling comes from a good place.

  While I just come from a place of wanting to find the nearest open bar, stat.

  As the ceremony goes on—Leonard skipped a page and cut straight to the vows by accident, so they had to backtrack a little, to the point where Katie’s reading the words out for him—I start to wonder about how I ended things with Ben. That’s the tiny, niggling thought at the back of my mind that just won’t stop.

  I’ve been kind of like a tiny Communist this past week, talking about how much I hate wealthy assholes, like my family, especially my family, mostly my family. I haven’t threatened to redistribute all my family’s farmland, but it’s the next best thing. Maybe I let my anger at them and on the one percent in general overload onto Ben. Maybe I let my fear of getting screwed over by Todd again overload onto Ben. Maybe the fact that I’m a mess, and I’ve made a mess of my job and my friends’ jobs, maybe I let that overload onto Ben, too.