Chapter 8: Stormy Nights and Shared Secrets

Once, I was sent on a business trip to the "Eastside Project" with Lillian.

We packed up our laptops, swapped nervous glances, and climbed into a taxi before sunrise. It was the kind of last-minute trip that only happens in dysfunctional offices. I was too groggy to worry about what might unfold.

She grumbled the whole flight—said the boss had only told her late the night before, so she’d barely slept, had to be at the airport at five for an 8 a.m. flight. In her rush, she forgot her driver’s license.

She slumped in her seat, muttering about her boss’s poor planning. I tried to offer her a granola bar, but she just waved it off. When she realized she’d left her license on the kitchen counter, her face fell. I could almost hear her internal cursing.

Luckily, she got a temporary pass at the airport and made it on time.

It was a minor miracle—one of those things you chalk up to pure luck. She smiled in relief when the TSA agent let her through, her confidence restored.

We landed, went straight to the client, and hammered out the project. By the time we finished, it was four or five in the afternoon.

We powered through coffee after coffee, barely pausing for lunch. By late afternoon, we were both running on fumes, but the job was done.

At the hotel, the front desk was strict—they wouldn’t let Lillian check in without a proper ID. Her temporary airport pass wasn’t enough, and they insisted she get a certificate from the police station.

The hotel lobby smelled like lemon cleaner and tired travelers. The front desk clerk barely looked up from his phone as we pleaded our case. The clerk looked about nineteen and unmoved by our pleas. Lillian’s voice got sharper, but the rules were the rules.

Lillian argued with them for ages: “Can’t I use my temporary ID? Or an electronic one?”

She tried everything—showing her email confirmation, flashing her company badge. The clerk just shook his head, looking bored.

But the front desk was unmoved.

I watched the exchange, feeling helpless. I offered to book the room in my name, but they shot that down, too. It felt like we were stuck in a Kafka novel.

I offered to use my own ID to book another room for her, but they wouldn’t allow that either.

I suggested we try another hotel, but there was a convention in town—no luck. Lillian’s patience was wearing thin.

Just then, the client called us to dinner, so we went to eat first.

It was a noisy Italian place with red-checked tablecloths, the kind of spot where the breadsticks are endless and the wine flows a little too freely.

Halfway through the meal, Lillian stood up to toast everyone, saying she’d have to catch a flight home that night.

She lifted her glass, smiled tightly, and made her excuses. I could tell she was exhausted.

I helped her carry her suitcase downstairs and saw her off in a rideshare.

She thanked me quietly, then disappeared into the rainy night. I watched the taillights fade, feeling oddly unsettled.

That night, I drank a ton with the client, then went out for dessert.

We hit up a 24-hour diner, where I nursed a milkshake and tried not to let my thoughts drift back to Lillian.

Around midnight, I staggered back to the hotel, just about to crash when my phone buzzed—it was Lillian.

Her name flashing on my screen jolted me awake. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and picked up, the rain still drumming against the windows.

She said she was at the hotel entrance and asked me to come down.

There was a note of defeat in her voice, a vulnerability I’d never heard before.

My mind was foggy—wasn’t she supposed to have flown home?

I pulled on my sneakers and hurried down, adrenaline sobering me up as I went.

I went down and found Lillian in the lobby lounge, looking defeated. I hurried over: “What happened?”

She was hunched on a faded armchair, her suitcase at her feet. Her hair was damp from the rain. I felt a pang of sympathy.

Lillian sighed: “All flights were canceled because of the storm. I had no choice but to come back to find you.”

She looked exhausted, her mascara smudged under her eyes. The storm had grounded every flight out of town, leaving her stranded.

I was stumped too. Without her ID, she definitely couldn’t check in.

I wracked my brain for solutions, but came up empty. The front desk was still unmoved, the night manager uninterested in our plight.

Lillian sat in silence for a while, then bit her lip and asked, “Jason, is your room a double?”

She didn’t meet my eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. The awkwardness hung between us, thick as the storm outside.

I nodded, hesitated, and looked at her, unsure.

I knew what she was asking, but I didn’t want to assume. The whole situation was teetering on the edge of something I couldn’t name.

She just grunted and sat there, saying nothing.

I glanced around the empty lobby, feeling the weight of her silence.

I thought for a moment and said, “Lillian, how about this—I’ll give you my room, and I’ll try to book another one next door.”

It was the only solution that made sense. I tried to sound casual, but my heart was pounding in my chest.

She looked at me, eyes softening: “Are you sure?”

There was a gratitude in her eyes that caught me off guard. I nodded, trying to look braver than I felt.

I said, “I’ll give it a shot. If not, I’ll crash in the lobby or find a late-night diner.”

I grabbed my backpack, ready to head out. The rain was still coming down in sheets outside.

So I took her to my room and started packing up.

I tossed my clothes back into my duffel, trying not to look at her as she perched on the edge of the bed, watching me with a tired half-smile.

Lillian, a bit anxious, said: “You drank a lot, and it’s pouring outside. Why not have some tea to sober up before you go?”

She gestured to the hotel kettle. Her voice was gentle for the first time all day. I hesitated, then nodded, grateful for the excuse to stay a little longer.

That made sense, so I brewed some chamomile tea the client had given me and sat across from Lillian, sipping slowly.

The steam curled between us, and for a few minutes, we just sat quietly, letting the tension ease. I watched the raindrops race down the window, counting them just to keep from staring at her.

Lillian started talking about work, then about her family. As she spoke, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand—clearly, there were issues with her husband.

She let her guard down, her words spilling out in a rush. She talked about late nights, missed anniversaries, her son’s struggles at school. The more she spoke, the more I realized how much she’d been holding in.

I said, “Lillian, your husband’s a co-founder of a tech company. That’s impressive.”

I tried to lighten the mood, but it came out clumsy. I could see it wasn’t the compliment she needed.

Lillian’s face darkened: “He’s just one of the founders, and the laziest one.”

She looked away, her jaw set. I caught a glimpse of pain behind her eyes, the kind that doesn’t heal easily.

I’d drunk too much—my stomach churned, my head heavy. I slumped in my chair, listening to her like I was hearing a lullaby, nodding off. I don’t remember anything after that.

The words blended together, the sound of her voice lulling me to sleep. I vaguely remember her tucking a blanket over me, but maybe I dreamed it.

The next morning, I woke up naturally to find Lillian lying beside me.

For a split second, I thought I was still dreaming. The sunlight slanted through the curtains, illuminating her face.

She was on her side, eyes open, gazing at me, her hair half covering her face, looking especially alluring.

Her expression was soft, almost vulnerable. My heart skipped a beat. We just stared at each other, the world outside fading away.

We locked eyes, neither saying a word for a long moment.

The silence was electric. I wanted to say something, anything, but words stuck in my throat.

Finally, Lillian threatened: “Jason, if you dare tell anyone about last night, I’ll rip your mouth off.”

Her voice was mock-serious, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. I grinned, relief flooding through me.

I immediately replied: “Of course I won’t. I’m not stupid.”

I raised my hands in surrender, a nervous chuckle escaping. The tension eased a little.

Lillian snorted: “You tell Natalie everything. You can’t keep your mouth shut.”

She jabbed my arm with a pillow, her tone playful. I pretended to look offended, but I knew she was right.

Even though it was a double room, the beds were close together, making things extra awkward.

I glanced at the narrow space between us, suddenly hyper-aware of my morning breath and the fact that I’d slept in yesterday’s T-shirt.

I joked: “Lillian, was I well-behaved last night?”

I forced a smile, hoping to lighten the mood. My heart was racing.

Lillian rolled her eyes: “You slept like a log. Snored so loud I couldn’t sleep at all.”

She grinned, and I felt my face flush with embarrassment. At least she wasn’t angry.

I teased: “You must’ve been on guard against me, that’s why you couldn’t sleep.”

She tossed the pillow at me, smirking. “Maybe I just didn’t trust you not to steal all the covers.”

Lillian glared: “Jason, I’m warning you—maybe I’m too lazy to go to the police station for a temp certificate, but if I have to send you there, I won’t hesitate.”

She pointed a finger at me, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. The threat was half-hearted, almost affectionate.

I instinctively scooted away from her.

My hands went up in mock surrender, and she laughed—really laughed, for the first time since the trip began.

Lillian seemed pleased, then beckoned me closer: “Hey, come here. Tell me the truth—are you and Natalie really just coworkers?”

She leaned in, her eyes searching mine. For a second, it felt like we were the only people in the world.

I raised my hand and swore: “Absolutely nothing going on with Nat. She introduced me to this job, but that’s it. We’re just coworkers.”

I tried to sound as convincing as possible. I needed her to believe me.

Lillian looked half-convinced: “Really?”

Her eyebrow arched, and I smiled, hoping to put her at ease.

I nodded vigorously: “Swear to god. If I’m lying, may lightning strike me.”

I crossed my heart for good measure, hoping she’d see how sincere I was.

Lillian’s expression softened. She looked at me and asked: “Jason, how many girlfriends did you have in college?”

The question caught me off guard. I scratched the back of my neck, searching for a witty reply.

I sighed: “Zero. Seven years in college and grad school and the only thing I dated was my thesis.”

I forced a sheepish grin, hoping to deflect the question with humor.

Lillian snickered: “Yeah, right. Who’d believe that?”

She shook her head, smirking. The mood was lighter, the tension gone.

That morning, we chatted in bed for a while, had lunch together, then headed home.

We talked about everything and nothing—the weather, her son’s soccer team, my favorite bands. By the time we left, it felt like something had shifted between us.