Read 2-in-1 Yada Yada for Free Online

conditioner— hardly needed in early May—was humming steadily. Florida? Why was she sleeping on the floor?
    I crawled back into the king-size bed feeling confused. Sure, it felt awkward to sleep in the same bed with a virtual stranger. When it turned out we had three in our room, I would have preferred sharing the bed with Avis. Or sleeping by myself on the sofa bed, lucky Avis. But I hadn’t thought about how Florida might feel. Was it just too weird sleeping with a white girl? Nah, I told myself. Couldn’t be that. Florida seemed cool with that. No chip on her shoulder—not like that Adele. But a sense of rejection settled over me like the kid who got no Valentines.
    Suddenly I missed Denny terribly. Missed reaching out and resting my hand on his arm, feeling the rising and falling of his steady breathing as he lay on his side. Missed snuggling against his bare back and fitting my body into the curve of his legs. Missed the comfort and safety that his mere presence fed into my spirit. Missed knowing that I belonged.
    I even missed the kids. Missed getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and peeking into their rooms to be sure everyone was okay. That was when I fell into my deepest sleep, knowing we were all under one roof, safe and sound and together.
    Did they miss me? Was anyone losing any sleep at the Baxter house because Mom . . . Jodi . . . wasn’t under that roof? Did the house feel incomplete without me?
    I sighed. Probably not. Teenagers were too self-centered to even notice Mom was gone. And Denny . . . he would miss me, sure. But once he fell asleep? He wouldn’t notice I was gone till morning.
    Lying there awake, taking up a miniscule slice of space on the king-size bed, I felt terribly alone . . . and lonely. It wouldn’t feel so bad if the conference was over tomorrow—make that today, since it was obviously past midnight already. But I’d paid for two nights. Two long nights!
    From here, Sunday felt like an invisible speck on the distant horizon.
    I WOKE UP TO THE SOUND OF THE SHOWER. Rolling out of bed, I pulled back the “blackout” hotel curtains and was nearly blinded as a wash of sunlight poured into the room. Blue sky . . . sunshine . . . what a great day to go for an early morning walk. Denny and I often walked to Lake Michigan on weekend mornings, only a few blocks from our house. “The lake,” as everyone calls it, is Chicago’s playground, lapping at the sandy beaches and rocky breakwaters that define miles of parks along the shore, filled with joggers and bikers, in-line skaters and dog-walkers, picnickers and bench sitters, volleyball players and windsurfers, kids and old folks and family reunions. The lake is what made city living bearable for me and a million or so other small-town transplants.
    But the steady hum of cars and eighteen-wheelers on I-90 reminded me that on this particular Saturday I was a prisoner in a fancy hotel with undoubtedly no place to go walking except the parking lot.
    What time was it anyway?
    The door to the bathroom opened as I squinted at my watch— six-twenty—and Avis emerged in her caftan with a plastic bonnet over her night scarf. I hadn’t seen a plastic bonnet since high school days, when my mother wore one in the shower to protect her monthly permanent. Avis looked at Florida’s empty side of the bed, jerked a thumb in the direction of the sitting room, and whispered, “What gives with that?”
    I shrugged . . . just as Florida wandered through the French doors in her big T-shirt. She stopped, seeing us both just standing on either side of the king-size bed. “It’s not time to get up yet, is it?” She yawned. “Bathroom free?”
    â€œSure,” I said automatically. But I’d been up long enough now that the urge to pee was growing stronger. “On second thought, just let me go and it’s yours.” I dashed into the bathroom.