to steal their credit card numbers or get a fake passport. Who pretends to be another person just because they’re lonely and tired of being themselves?
Me, apparently, because when we got to the parking lot, Myra parked her car and grabbed one of my bags from the backseat and said, “Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t even see all the clothes you bought! Come on!” There was the promise of girl time and maybe room service and wine and laughing and gossip (even if it was about people I didn’t know), and I decided it made more sense to just leave the dress and a note for her at the front desk after she went home. I decided it would be less upsetting for her if she didn’t have to hear the words come out of my mouth, if she could just read them and process everything on her own time.
Writing her a note was the kindest way to do this. I’m sure if Dear Prudence ever wrote a column about how to confess to someone that you’re not actually a long-lost childhood friend, she would have completely agreed with me on this.
M yra helped me carry my bags up to the room. There was a bottle of champagne on ice waiting for me on the dresser.
“Ooh! Who is this from?” Myra squealed, putting the bags she was carrying down to reach for the card next to the champagne bottle.
I almost jumped over the TV stand to grab it from her. What if it was from Deagan? What if he wanted me back? What if the card said,
To Jenny
? She opened it before I could get it away. I felt like I might vomit.
“Wait,” Myra said, looking at the card and then at me. Sweat beaded on my upper lip. The walls felt too close. “Who’s Monica?”
“Oh,” I said, trying to take a deep breath without it being obvious that I had just been on the verge of hyperventilating. “Monica! My boss. She was supposed to take this trip, but she had to go to a wedding.”
“Lucky you!” Myra said. “Should we open it?” She grabbed the bottle and went into the bathroom to grab a hand towel.
“Sure,” I said. It was probably fine. It’s not like I was going to trek Monica’s bottle of champagne back to Rochester with me, and there was no point in it going to waste.
“Do you want to do the honors?” Myra asked.
“Go for it,” I said. I’d never opened champagne before and assumed it would be a big messy explosion, like in the movies.
Myra twisted the metal cage off and then held the towel over the cork and twisted it until we heard a pop. She lifted the cork and the towel carefully. A thin mist curled up from the mouth of the bottle. “Perfect,” she said, and poured the champagne slowly into the waiting glasses.
“To us,” Myra said, handing me a glass and clinking hers against mine.
“To us,” I said. I took a careful sip. I wasn’t much of a drinker. Plus I was starving and didn’t think champagne combined with a fake identity was the best of ideas. I grabbed the room service menu.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Always,” Myra said, laughing. We studied the menu like dinner was the most important decision we would ever make. We settled on smoked duck, beet salad, tuna carpaccio, grilled prawns, and a cheese plate.
I called in the order and didn’t even blink when Ashley at the front desk asked me if I’d like to bill it to my room account—the account that went straight to my company. Monica told me to expense my meals, but the old me would have ordered the cheapest thing on the menu and still felt like it was more than I was worth. Jessie Morgan, I was sure, would just order what she wanted to eat. Jessie Morgan wouldn’t worry about being an imposition. Myra hadn’t spent the past thirteen years missing a friend who tried her best to blend in and never make waves. There was a reason no one I went to high school with missed me.
While we waited for our room service order, Myra pulled all of my purchases out of the shopping bags and laid them across the bed to get a good look.
“Try this,” she said, handing me the beaded black
Me, apparently, because when we got to the parking lot, Myra parked her car and grabbed one of my bags from the backseat and said, “Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t even see all the clothes you bought! Come on!” There was the promise of girl time and maybe room service and wine and laughing and gossip (even if it was about people I didn’t know), and I decided it made more sense to just leave the dress and a note for her at the front desk after she went home. I decided it would be less upsetting for her if she didn’t have to hear the words come out of my mouth, if she could just read them and process everything on her own time.
Writing her a note was the kindest way to do this. I’m sure if Dear Prudence ever wrote a column about how to confess to someone that you’re not actually a long-lost childhood friend, she would have completely agreed with me on this.
M yra helped me carry my bags up to the room. There was a bottle of champagne on ice waiting for me on the dresser.
“Ooh! Who is this from?” Myra squealed, putting the bags she was carrying down to reach for the card next to the champagne bottle.
I almost jumped over the TV stand to grab it from her. What if it was from Deagan? What if he wanted me back? What if the card said,
To Jenny
? She opened it before I could get it away. I felt like I might vomit.
“Wait,” Myra said, looking at the card and then at me. Sweat beaded on my upper lip. The walls felt too close. “Who’s Monica?”
“Oh,” I said, trying to take a deep breath without it being obvious that I had just been on the verge of hyperventilating. “Monica! My boss. She was supposed to take this trip, but she had to go to a wedding.”
“Lucky you!” Myra said. “Should we open it?” She grabbed the bottle and went into the bathroom to grab a hand towel.
“Sure,” I said. It was probably fine. It’s not like I was going to trek Monica’s bottle of champagne back to Rochester with me, and there was no point in it going to waste.
“Do you want to do the honors?” Myra asked.
“Go for it,” I said. I’d never opened champagne before and assumed it would be a big messy explosion, like in the movies.
Myra twisted the metal cage off and then held the towel over the cork and twisted it until we heard a pop. She lifted the cork and the towel carefully. A thin mist curled up from the mouth of the bottle. “Perfect,” she said, and poured the champagne slowly into the waiting glasses.
“To us,” Myra said, handing me a glass and clinking hers against mine.
“To us,” I said. I took a careful sip. I wasn’t much of a drinker. Plus I was starving and didn’t think champagne combined with a fake identity was the best of ideas. I grabbed the room service menu.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Always,” Myra said, laughing. We studied the menu like dinner was the most important decision we would ever make. We settled on smoked duck, beet salad, tuna carpaccio, grilled prawns, and a cheese plate.
I called in the order and didn’t even blink when Ashley at the front desk asked me if I’d like to bill it to my room account—the account that went straight to my company. Monica told me to expense my meals, but the old me would have ordered the cheapest thing on the menu and still felt like it was more than I was worth. Jessie Morgan, I was sure, would just order what she wanted to eat. Jessie Morgan wouldn’t worry about being an imposition. Myra hadn’t spent the past thirteen years missing a friend who tried her best to blend in and never make waves. There was a reason no one I went to high school with missed me.
While we waited for our room service order, Myra pulled all of my purchases out of the shopping bags and laid them across the bed to get a good look.
“Try this,” she said, handing me the beaded black
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