The Layover

(This story contains mature topics as well as mild physical violence where one of the characters hits the other one with a pillow.)

I don’t know who screams first, if it’s him or me. I think it’s me. Luckily I have already pulled up my underwear (and my jeans, I think), but unfortunately I didn’t lock the bathroom door before I sat down to pee. 

The screams go something like this:

“Ah” (very high pitched by me), followed by a scream and a “sorry” (him), a bump into the wall (him), and sorry (me) and then more sorry (him). 

His name is Dave, and after one more “sorry”, he stops apologizing and stares at me. I’m zipping up my pants by now and am completing my obligatory 20 second hand wash (or is it 30?, I can never remember), and he asks:

“Am I in the wrong room? I thought this was 203?”

“It is,” I say. “But this is my room. 203. That’s my room. Look!”

I show him my room key. 

“Oh, shoot,” Dave says. ”They must have double-booked the room. We gotta fix this.”

This comment is followed by another scream (from him this time), because the door has flung open and a child is rushing into the hotel room and starts jumping on one of the beds. 

A family is standing outside. Mom and dad and two kids. The third child is using the beds as trampolines while screaming:

“Floor is lava!” at the top of his lungs, as he lunges from one bed to the other like a boomerang. 

“Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” the mom says mortified. ”I didn’t know this room was occupied.” 

“Excuse me,” the dad says in a slightly huffy tone, “but this is our room. 203.”

“Looks like they double booked this room,” Dave says. “You can take the room. We’ll get another room.”

“You’re giving them the room?” I say under my breath. ”But this is my room. You can’t give them my room!”

“I didn’t give them your room,“ he whispers back. "I gave them my room.“ 

The family, standing in the doorway, looks confused. 

“Is there a problem?” the mother says. “We can get another room.”

“No,” Dave says.

“Yes, please,” I say and smile at her. “Please do.”

The dad starts to protest, but I interrupt him. 

“I’m sorry,” I say and I turn to the mother, who seems to be the nicer one of the two parents, “but I’ve been traveling for five days. I’m tired. Would you mind?”

“Yes,” the dad says and clears his throat. “We do mind. We have traveled for six days. Kids are exhausted.”

Looks like it, I think, as I watch the youngest of their kids fly across the room, propelled only by his own energy. Seems exhausted. 

“Family of five,” Dave says, his eyes wide as he stares at me. “Sofia, please. Have a heart!”

“Fine!”

“No problem,” Dave says to the family. “We’ll get another room!”

As we walk through the hotel hallway towards the reception area, I’m fuming. 

“Rooms,” I say. “We are getting other rooms, not another room. And they didn’t double book it. They triple booked it!”

“Yes,” he says. “But that was too complicated to explain. And you haven’t been traveling for five days. It’s only been three.”

“Yeah, and I bet they haven’t traveled for six days,” I snort. “Those kids aren’t exhausted. They have more energy than the Energizer bunny. I bet they left their house this morning.”

Dave smiles. He is looking calm and relaxed, dressed in cargo shorts and a t-shirt, as if this never-ending trip and room mix-up doesn’t bother him at all. I, on the other hand, is looking both frazzled and tired. I’m in desperate need of a shower and a good night’s sleep. 

I’m in Newark. I’m not supposed to be in Newark. I’m supposed to be home in Kansas City by now, or to be more exact, I was supposed to be home about 72 hours ago, but this trip has not gone as planned. I’m also not supposed to know Dave. Dave and I are supposed to be strangers, because we were supposed to never have met. But we have, and that’s that. 

Dave and I have gotten stuck at the same airports several days in a row (at first in Munich, and then in Amsterdam and now in Newark). I have had breakfast, lunch and dinner with this man so many times that it almost feels like we are dating. Almost. 

I’ve learned a lot about Dave in the last few days. Probably more than I ever wanted to know. He’s been on a business trip to Copenhagen, and he’s (just like I am) heading home to Kansas City. I’ve learned that he’s a flirt. He’s the kind of person that thinks a wink creates a special bond between people (it doesn’t), and who thinks that just because he’s as handsome as a heatwave in July, with dark thick hair, green eyes and a smile that could wake the dead, the wink is welcome. It’s not. 

One of the first things he did when we met (at a shuttle bus stop in Munich), was to glance at my left ring finger to see if I am married. I can confirm that my ring finger is as bare as a Sycamore tree in December, as is his by the way. That doesn’t mean I want to flirt with him. 

He’s divorced and has 2 kids who are 6 and 8 (a boy and a girl), and he's a little older than me (36 to my 30). He doesn’t like to fly (or maybe he uses that as an excuse to hold on to the traveler next to him for eight hours straight). He’s friendly and funny and not to be trusted. He told me that his wife initiated the divorce, but I think his persistent flirting might have had something to do with it. 

I’m not to be trusted either. I have lied to him and told him that I have a boyfriend, just to avoid any flirty scenarios with him. So far it has worked. Somewhat.  

When Dave and I get to the reception area at the hotel in Newark we are unpleasantly surprised to discover that there is only one room left. We look at each other and he smiles at me and shrugs his shoulders as if he’s not sure what to do. I’m tired. I’m too tired to try and find another hotel somewhere else and figure out a way to get there. I decide that staying in the same room as Dave is probably my best option. 

“Fine,” I say. “I hope there are at least two beds.”

“No, unfortunately not,” the front desk clerk says. “Only one.”

I look at Dave and he looks at me, and the clerk says rather impatiently:

“I have other people who want the room. Do you want it or not? If not, please step aside so that I can help the next customer.”

I think he’s being very brusque and impolite for a person who has just accidentally put three different parties in the same room, but I don’t want to be rude and risk losing this one.

“We’ll take it,” I say. “Thank you!”

The front desk clerk hands us our keys to room 315, and we are soon on our way toward the elevator, hoping that this room hasn’t also been double-booked. 

The elevator doors open and we get in. 

“You’re sleeping on the floor,” I tell Dave, as we head up three flights of stairs. 

“No,” he says. “It makes more sense for you to sleep on the floor.”

“Why?”

“Because I snore like a helicopter,” he says. “You won’t get any sleep anyways. But if I get the bed, at least one of us gets a good night's sleep.” 

“Are you for real?” I ask as the elevator stops with a thud. 

I think so,” he says and pinches himself. “Yeah, I think I’m pretty real.”

“I am not sleeping on the floor,” I say, as we get off the elevator. “I was kind enough to let you share the room with me.”

“Why are you the one who is kind?” he wonders. “Why is it your room? Who says that it isn’t my room and I’m the one who’s being kind?”

“Because you gave your room to the family, remember?” I say. “So this room is mine!”

I put the key in the lock to room 315.

“You have a point,” he says. “But I’m still not sleeping on the floor.” 

As the door flings open I stop breathing for a moment, hoping there isn’t another person in there. It’s empty (thank goodness) and I throw myself on the bed, shoes and all. I’m so tired I could fall asleep right there. It’s barely 5 pm in Newark, but it’s 11 pm in Stockholm (my original place of departure for this trip). It’s way past my bedtime. 

“Uhm,” Dave says and looks around. “Maybe we could get an extra mattress for the floor.”

He picks up the receiver on the phone and tries to call the front desk, but no one picks up. 

“He’s busy, remember,” I say into the pillow. “Dealing with all the other people who can’t get a room.”

‘But the floor…” he says. “I could maybe sleep on a carpet, but not on a hard floor…”

“Throw a jacket on the floor or something.”

“A jacket?” he protests. “It’s summer. Where exactly am I supposed to get a jacket from?”

“The unimaginable depths of your suitcase,” I say and turn to look at him. “Didn’t you say you went on a business trip? Suit jacket?”

“I don’t have one,” he says. “It’s not a very successful business…”

“Right," I say. "Are you actually suggesting we sleep in the same bed?”

“It's a king sized bed!” he argues. “We can essentially fit a whole elephant between us. You can’t tell me that there isn’t enough space.”

“Yeah, but unfortunately we don’t have an elephant to put in between us and you might get too close or something…”

“I promise, I won’t."

“Yes, but you might… in your sleep, and I’ll wake up with your arm flung around me…like this...” I place my arm across my face.

“We’ll just put the suitcases in the middle,” he says. “Problem solved.”

He picks up both suitcases and places them on the bed and then he wrinkles his brow.

“Except now the suitcases have more space than we do. This is ridiculous. Just push me away if I roll too close.”

I shake my head.

“We can put my duffel bag between us then,” he says. “How’s that? It’s smaller than a suitcase.”

“Fine.”

 I’m too tired to contemplate the fact that I’ve just agreed to sleep in the same bed as a man I barely know. It seems absolutely ridiculous if I think about it, but I can’t really figure out another way to get through the night in any sort of reasonable fashion. If I’m lucky I’ll manage to get some sleep. I need to make sure to buy some earplugs at the reception desk, so that his excessive snoring won’t wake me. 

“Are you up for going to dinner?” he asks.

“Sure, in a minute. I just need to text my boyfriend, Josh. He wants to know how things are going.”

I’m pretending to text someone, when in fact I’m texting myself.

Dave and I have dinner together for the third day in a row. He looks at me over a glass of white wine and a plate of chicken Alfredo and says: 

“You don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I do too,” I say. “I just texted him.”

He shakes his head. 

“Nope,” he says. “No boyfriend.” 

He takes a bite of his food. 

“How do you know?”, I ask.

“Yesterday you told me that you were texting your boyfriend Brad, but today his name is Josh…”

Damn it!

“Well,” I say. “His name is Brad Josh. He likes me to mix it up a little. You know to call him by different names. To keep things interesting.”

“Brad Josh?” he asks. 

“Uhu,” I say.

“And what is his last name?”

“Uhm,” I say. “Johnson…”

“Johnson…” he says. “Brad Josh Johnson. Wow, that’s a mouthful. So what does he do?”

“He’s, he’s unemployed right now,” I say and stare into my spaghetti. I’m not a very good liar. 

“Really. That must be rough!”

“Okay, fine,” I say. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I just didn’t want you to think that I was being flirty with you.”

Dave looks at me surprised. 

“How can I possibly think you’re being flirty with me?” he says. “You’re acting like I’m the worst thing since sliced bread.”

“The best thing,” I say.

“What?”

“The best thing since sliced bread,” I say. 

“You think I’m the best thing since sliced bread,” he says and smiles. “Really? Tell me more!”

“Not you!” I say. “The saying…”

“I just wanted you to say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m the best thing since sliced bread. It’s the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. Thank you!”

“But I don’t like sliced bread,” I say. “So it’s not that much of a compliment, now is it?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “Sliced bread kind of sucks.”

And then he laughs, a laugh that kind of makes my heart flutter. 

You know,” he says. “If it wasn’t for the fact that I need to get home sometime this year, this crazy trip has actually been kind of fun.”

“Yes,” I say. “I agree. Kind of fun.”

“But If I don’t get on a plane home tomorrow, I’m renting a car,” he says.

“You’ll get on a plane tomorrow,” I say. “Just not the plane you want. Tomorrow night, I’ll bet you’ll be in Chicago.”

He laughs. 

“I’ll bet you’ll be in Chicago with me,” he says. “Maybe I’ll rent a car in Chicago.”

“Or you might be lucky enough to actually be home tomorrow night.”

I feel a little tingly as I look at him. It’s almost like I’m developing a crush…I’m almost hoping we don’t make it home tomorrow night. Almost. 

I’m starting to wonder if I have a “thing” for Dave. That’s until I wake up in the middle of the night, pull out my way too expensive earplugs that I bought at the front desk, and discover something that's completely infuriating. Dave is sleeping next to me (on the other side of the duffel bag as agreed), and his breathing is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop. 

I grab my pillow and start hitting him with it. 

“What the hell?” he says, completely disoriented. “What’s going on? What the hell are you doing?”

I can barely make out his face in the dark, but I’m pretty sure he’s rubbing his eyes, trying to figure out what exactly is going on. 

“You don’t snore,” I say, in an angry tone of voice. “You saw me buy ten dollar earplugs, and you didn't say anything! You lied to me. You don’t sound like a helicopter at all! "

He sits up, and rubs his eyes some more. 

“I do too,” he says, and puts his hand up to his face, so I won’t hit his face with the pillow. “Like one of those remote controlled ones. My kids have one of those!”

I hit him one more time with the pillow, and he grabs it from me and laughs. 

I stare at him in disbelief, before I start laughing too. 

“You’re terrible,” I say. 

“Maybe,” he says. 

I was right about us getting rerouted to Chicago instead of flying directly to Kansas City. The plane is on time and I find myself wishing that our second flight will be canceled. 

We somehow manage to get seats next to each other and as we are lifting off the ground, I can feel Dave’s hand grab onto my arm, and I wonder if he’s really scared or if he just wants to hold on to me. It doesn’t matter. I grab his hand and I squeeze it a little. 

“I think you’re going to need a second driver,” I say. “In Chicago. For your rental car.”

“Is that so?” he says. 

“Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”

“But if we’re lucky we don’t need a car. If we’re lucky we’ll get home tonight.”

I find myself hoping for an unexpected road trip, but when we land and get off the plane, I realize that our next flight is on time. 

“I’m kind of disappointed,” I say and look at Dave. “ I was hoping for that road trip with you.”

He gives me a look of surprise.

“Really?”

“But I understand,” I say and look down at my shoes. “You need to get home to your kids.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s not my week. I won’t get to see them until Sunday anyways. 

“What does that mean?”

“What do you want it to mean?”

“How about we skip the flight and we rent a car?” I say. 

“Don’t you think we need a date before we go on a road trip together?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “The road trip can be our date. Our first date.”

He thinks for a moment. 

“I like that idea,” he says. “I like it very much.”

I take his hand and we grab our suitcases, and walk towards the rental car place together.