Lucky In Love | Shawn Mendes

2

Shawn Mendes sits on the rustic leather chair in the corner of his room, guitar in his arms, and looks at the snow-covered trees, also grateful that he arrived before the storm. The night's forecast did not look good and was at ease that he had arrived safely. 

He came to the conclusion early in the morning that a change of scenery would do him some good. The drive up from Toronto had been refreshing. His mind is blurry and bundled with thoughts and feelings, all becoming too much for him. A leather bound journal sits on his lap, filled with scribbles and incomprehensible words, much like his head. Andrew, his manager, had mentioned Chalet Dalmore had helped him when he felt trapped and thought it would serve the same purpose to Shawn. Surprisingly, he had been able to put in a good day of work. This album had to get done. Shawn looks at the snow falling before him. New-fallen snow always made him feel hopeful. He thinks of what it would be like to spend a few days up here with someone he cares about; someone that cares about him in the same way. But no. He has not been lucky in love. Sure, there's been girls. Several, in fact. But none that made him feel the way he wanted to feel. 

Shawn feels it's his fault. His mind is only work, work, work, lately. Denying him the happiness of sharing a life with someone. Saddened by the thought of never settling down. I caused this, he thinks, somehow managing to push away anyone who tries to get close to him. He believes someone up there (if there is someone up there) is out to get him. He's been nothing but good in his life. Perhaps too good. It's time for some good karma to come his way. Shawn Mendes is no stranger to getting what he wants; he's assertive like that -- fortunate. Which is why he suddenly feels lost, disappointed, completely sapping his creativity making it hard for him to write. If he were smart he would flip his perspective and use this as an opportunity to come to terms with the way he feels. He hasn't realized that yet. 

He drags his eyes from the hypnotizing snow outside back to the journal on his lap. He sighs loudly. He disappeared for a few moments. He lets his eyes sweep around the room. There's an old-fashioned luxury that he's not accustomed to. The antique, king-size bed is heaped with pillows. The carved wardrobe is gorgeous, and the thick Oriental carpet must have cost a fortune. He checks his watch and remembers the young boy at the front desk mentioned something about cocktail hour. He could use a drink. Or a few. It's a sad thing for a musician to miss cocktail hour. He grabs a grey hoodie from his suitcase and runs a hand through his hair.

Shawn exits his room and notices how the thick rug softens his footsteps, making it perfectly quiet. He makes it to the lobby of the hotel, noticing the large stone fireplace on the left side; around it are arranged a lot of comfortable-looking sofas and chairs for lounging in, some in deep-blue velvet, others in dark-brown leather, accompanied by little tables with lamps on them. The walls are panelled halfway with dark wooden wainscoting. A gorgeous Persian carpet covers the dark wooden floors that makes everything look cozy but expensive. A chandelier sparkles overhead. The smell of wood reminds him of his blissful childhood days in Pickering. How young and beautifully naive he was. 

The young man at the front desk is gone. In fact, there is no one around. He sits in a leather armchair by the fireplace, even though there is no fire burning. He waits for a few minutes, hoping the boy would come back. He doesn't know where cocktail hour was supposed to happen. He stands up and taps the old-fashioned bell at the front desk. The same young man from before rushes up to the desk, appearing from the hall that runs behind it, beside the staircase. 

"So sorry to keep you waiting," he says. "We're a bit short staffed because of the weather." He smiles apologetically. 

"I was wondering if I could get a drink." 

"Of course. We're going to be serving drinks here in the lobby. I'll be bringing out the bar trolley in a couple of minutes."

"That's fine," Shawn says amicably. He just wants a drink, a comfortable chair and a warm fire. Perhaps someone to share it with, he thinks. 

He sits down and wonders who might join him.