In This Room

Prologue - Where Were You in the Morning?

His dreams mimic what he could remember from last night: warmth, togetherness, comfort, lust. Images of her replayed in his sleep, from the way she swayed cautiously in the bar to her coaxing him to take her home, her soft lips against his neck. She promised plans for the morning to have breakfast and small talk. It was easy for him to agree. Though he made sure to snap the blinds closed before his escapade a few hours earlier, some slivers of sunlight managed to slip through its cracks. The heat of the sunlight soaks into his eyelids. He slowly stirs in bed, stretching his arms, hands resting on the top of the hotel's cold, wooden headboard. He brings them down lazily to his chest and rolls over to his side.

"Good morning, beautiful," he mumbles, reaching one hand out to touch her hair. He reaches further and further across the pillow, only feeling the touch of the pillowcase covering it. He rubs his eyes, hoping his vision is just cloudy from his sound sleep, and looks to where she was sleeping last night. His heart sank when he realized she had left.

Her side of the bed was messy; the sheets left in a wad, makeup smeared on the pillowcase, a glass of water sitting untouched on her table with a tattered piece of paper wedged underneath it. He props himself up, reaching even further to snatch the paper.

The note was written on a torn piece of the room's complementary stationary:

Shawn,

Thanks for the memories! Good luck tonight!

-M

He flips the note, hoping to find a phone number or a social media handle, but there was nothing. He sighs and places the note back on the nightstand. He rolls onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. He reaches over for his phone on his nightstand. The only thing on his screen reads "10:29 am, Sunday, January 27." He drops his phone on his chest and looks back up to the ceiling, his eyes darting back and forth.

"Room service for Mr. Mendes!" a man knocks at the door.

"Coming!" He grabs the robe sitting on the reading chair across the room and slips it over his bare body. He forgot that he'd texted his manager last night to order breakfast for him and the girl he had over last night. He shivers as he opens the door, the crisp air of the hallway meeting his skin.

"Good morning, sir!" the bellhop says, pushing the large, silver cart in. "Where do you want me to put this?"

He points over to the sitting area, "Somewhere over there. Wherever there's room." The bellhop locks the cart in place by the slim coffee table. "Sorry, I just woke up, man. Still out of it."

"No worries, Mr. Mendes! It's my pleasure." The bellhop begins to walk out of the room.

"Wait!" The bellhop pauses mid-step and faces him. He grabs his wallet, takes out a twenty and hands it to the bellhop. "Thanks for the breakfast."

"This is very generous. Thank you, Mr. Mendes! Have a good day and good luck tonight at your performance!" the bellhop said as he disappeared behind the closed door.

It's just me now. He walks over to the cart and removes the lids from the platters. Blueberry waffles, scrambled eggs, fresh cut fruit, orange juice and water line the top of the cart, the smells filling the air. He grabs an empty plate and begins serving himself.

Flashbacks of the night before cloud his head. How she smiled at him across the dancefloor. How she held her coat over her head while it rained from the distance between the club and the car. How she invited his hand to sit on her thigh in the car ride to the hotel. How she ran her fingers down his back once the door was closed. How she...

He sat at the coffee table, staring at his food. He looked up to the other reading chair parallel from him. She could be here right now. I know she had a good time. I'm so foolish. He dropped the syrup-covered fork in his hand onto his plate, resting his head all the way back on the top of his chair. Why did she leave? Why doesn't she want to be here? Why didn't she leave her number? How did she just walk away? He wraps up his unfinished breakfast and places it back on the cart.

He makes his way over to the large window, opening the blinds. Looking out, he can see the crowd of fans huddling together across the street. Did they see her? Do they know? He walks back to the cart, turns off the wheel lock and pushes it towards the door. He slips his room key from the front table into the pocket of his robe as he continues to roll the cart out the door and down the hallway. He knocks on a door a few rooms down. It opens quickly.

"Good morning, Shawn! I see you got your wake up call," his tour manager snickers.

He isn't amused, "here's my leftovers if you're hungry. Don't want all this food to go to waste."

"Oh," the tour manager drags it out and laughs again, "leave any for the misses?"

"She wasn't hungry."

"Okay... get ready soon, kid, we're leaving in 30."

"Of course. See you soon." The tour manager closes his door. Where did she go?