Transition: Chapter 24 (The Longwharf)

“Kendal? You there?”

“Hello?” Is that what she’s supposed to say?

“Kendal! What the fuck are you doing asleep? Wake your ass up, lady!”

“Who... Scott? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me, who the fuck did you think it was?” He’s shouting into the phone, and it hurts her ear; so she holds the receiver out a few inches from her head. “Get out of bed and get your ass down to the pool, Kendal! We got a fucking pool party going on!” In the background, she can hear people talking and laughing. There’s a loud whoop, and a splash, followed by cheers, applause, and more laughter.

“Scott?” She’s still trying to get her bearings from the dream, and this strange phone call isn’t helping. “Scott, I thought y’all were flying out tonight.”

“Fog, baby,” he yells into her ear. “Fucking airport’s shut down. Fog’s thick enough to fucking swim in. Well...” – he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper – “...well, maybe not thick enough for you to swim in, doll, but the rest of us...”

She laughs. “Scott, what...” There’s a click, and he’s gone.

What time is it? Is there a clock in the room? Where’s her watch? Is that it, on the night-stand all the way over on the other side of the bed? Next to the radio? Oh – the radio has a clock. Let’s see... She crawls over. Not even 11? Is that possible? But she didn’t get back to the hotel until after 8:30 – she thinks – and she puttered around for at least an hour before she crashed. Could she have slept for only an hour or so? It felt like so much longer.

She considers rolling over and going back to sleep, but the Nathan-creature is still fresh in her mind, and she’s not sure that she wants to close her eyes again just yet. So she takes a deep breath and sits up on the edge of the bed, holding her face in her hands.

After a few minutes she struggles to her feet and looks down to see what she’s wearing. All she has on is the T-shirt that she bought at a concession stand after the awards ceremony. Upside down, her chest reads “First Annual Greater New England Endurance Triathlon” in block letters. Is it really still the same day? The race seems years ago.

She rummages through a drawer and finds a pair of cut-offs. She splashes some cold water on her face, slips her room key into her pocket, and heads out into the hall.

Didn’t she see a sign somewhere that said something about the pool? She walks to the elevator lobby in the central atrium; no, no sign there. Oh well, she thinks, as long as I’m up I might as well go down to the front desk and ask somebody...

“It is on the second floor, miss.” The man behind the desk, sporting a badge that identifies him as the Night Manager, answers her with a noticeable Indian accent – which brings her up with a start. “But I am afraid that it was closed at ten, and it will not be opened until six in the morning.” He smiles pleasantly at her for a moment, then hurries off to answer the phone.

But somehow, Jillian doubts that a minor detail like the pool being closed would discourage Scott Marcus and the rest of the gang...