The Lonely Girl

Chapter Five

Boulder, Colorado - October 16, 2020

While Denver was vast and sprawling, Boulder is a hidden oasis, all alone and untouched, tucked away from the rest of the world and nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. A detour. An experience I had to have. I told myself it wouldn’t be right to leave Colorado before I saw Boulder. But as beautiful as it seems, I get the sense I am not really here to experience it. That I am not living in the present, but, in fact, living very much in the past. 

I check my phone: zero notifications. Not that I expected any. But I suppose it would be nice right now, especially because I haven't heard from Dave in almost two days. Not yesterday, nor the night before. I wonder if he's avoiding me. Would I even be here right now if it weren’t for Dave?

Missed a previous chapter of Lonely Girl? Catch up here.

I think back to our first meeting on that sales call. Those piercing blue eyes, the magnetic pull he had. It was impossible to ignore. Even through Zoom, I wondered if he sensed my eagerness or if I’d managed to play it cool. By the end of that call, he had confidently told me, "Okay, I'm going to hire you," and I knew I had closed the deal.

I slammed my laptop shut, muffled a scream into my scarf, and rushed to find my friend Hillary at one of the communal tables at The Wing in downtown San Francisco.

"I just got off the phone with the HOTTEST guy and I think he's going to hire me to help him build his brand," I gushed.

"Annnaaa, you're blushing!" she laughed.

"Fuck," I said, "I wonder if he could tell how nervous I was?"

Dave was one of my first clients to agree to a competitive price for three months of coaching—a big deal at the time. The only problem was, working sessions with Dave meant holding my breath for an hour. There was a part of me that was always elsewhere, off in the clouds, mesmerized by the thought of him, or rather, the idea of us.

Shit.

I just missed my turn. Fucking Dave. He is always distracting me, even when he is not here. I catch a glimpse of Pearl Street—the heart and soul of Boulder—and it pulls me out of the past and back into the driver's seat of my Jeep.

I haven't done any research on hotels yet, a mistake I keep making. As I drive closer to the center of town, I keep my eyes peeled for a promising place to stay. I spot a Holiday Inn, but I don't want to stay somewhere generic like I did in Salt Lake City. There's a Best Western on the corner, but it's too far from the main boulevard in town. I want to stay somewhere unique tonight, somewhere you could only stay if you were in Boulder. A special place. Fine, an expensive place.

That's when I see it: Hotel Boulderado.

I find the number and call the hotel.

"Hotel Boulderado, this is Marianne speaking."

"Hi Marianne, my name is Anna. I was calling to see about your rate for one person for one night, tonight?"

"Hi there, no problem. Let me take a look and check."

There's a pause before she says, "We have a single room with a queen-size bed available. The rate is $149."

I get the nagging sensation that it's too much, but I don't have time to think, so I say, "Yes, that works. Thank you so much!"

"Great, we'll see you soon.” 

10 minutes later, I'm valeting my Jeep and carrying my suitcase up the concrete steps leading to a gigantic brick building with restaurants perched on the left and right. As I step into the lobby, I'm transported back to a memory of my brothers and me traipsing around Disneyland's California Adventure when I was six years old. It's all I can think about as I lean against the front desk, waiting to get my key. I notice large wooden beams covering the ceiling and a wide, imposing staircase with floral carpeting that leads to the top floor.

My hotel room is something out of a storybook. In the middle, lies a bed with white, lacy pillow shams and a duvet cover. The wallpaper is sea green with pink peonies. Small wooden tables with antique lamps sit on both sides of the bed, and prints of women from the 1800s hang on the walls.

I put my suitcase away and take some pictures of the bedroom. I also take a few videos and look out the window to see more of the same brick buildings, red-sand foothills, and orange-colored skies. It reminds me of popsicle sticks, maybe creamsicles, the kind I'd eat with my brothers on a summer afternoon in July. While I don’t wish they were here right now, I miss them anyway. In a weird, distant sort of way. 

By the time I’m ready it's almost 7:30 pm and the length of the day has caught up with me. My energy starts to wane, and suddenly, eating inside one of the restaurants at the hotel sounds more appealing than trying to walk around the city to find one. 

“Do you have anything for 1?” I ask the hostess.

“Yes,” she says, “Does the bar work okay for you?”

“That’s great, thanks.”

I sit at the marble, horseshoe bar and stare at the people around me. No one interesting. I hate to admit it, but I'm hoping to meet someone intriguing tonight, perhaps a craggy, Colorado man who happens to be staying at the hotel. But the only ones at the bar are a group of three, a man and two women, about mid-30s, who don't seem to take any interest in me. The bartender is busy making drinks and cocktails for the slew of tables who've just sat down, filling the room with chatter and laughter.

When the bartender greets me, I give her my order: the scallops and a glass of sauvignon blanc. I drink the wine in silence and scroll through Instagram and TikTok, respond to messages, and occasionally glance up to see who's around me. Still, no one interesting. The thought of going back to my hotel room feels like surrender and I don't want to give in yet so I scroll through old photos to distract myself. 

There's a photo of Dave I'm not expecting to see. Don’t text him. He's wearing a black t-shirt and sunglasses. His brown curls draped across the front of his forehead. Don’t text him. He's smiling big. Almost like he's high or something, but I don't think he is here. He looks happy and there's a part of me that resents it. Don’t text him. I remember being there. I wasn't happy, I was longing. Don’t text him. My loneliness overrides any hint of dignity I have left in this relationship, so I text him.