The Trial Run

The paralegals must have used some kind of sorcery to fit everything so neatly into my car, but I know there's no way I'll ever be able to get it all back in any kind of order. That's a problem for when it's time to head back home, though. Right now, I'm just trying to focus on the task at hand.

I'm meeting Margot at the hotel at 3 for check-in. The reservation's under my name, of course. I'll unpack everything once I'm sure she's settled in for the night. I don't want her to see how much I've packed if she's under the impression that I'm some kind of minimalist. And then there's the whole crutches issue . . . something I absolutely don't plan on letting her see just yet. It's all so complicated, and I really don't want her to get any funny ideas about me being a liability or a burden.

When I pull into the hotel parking lot, I spot her right away. She drives a Subaru, which is something I didn't know about her until now. But for some reason, the sight of it makes me feel oddly content. It's such a safe car. Practical. Secure. What the hell does that even mean? Why am I thinking about that?

I grab my suitcase from the passenger seat—where it was the only place it could fit with the trial boxes taking up every other inch of space—and lock the door. Rolling my suitcase behind me, I head toward her car, trying to figure out if I should speak first or wait for her to say something.

When she sees me, she smiles and says, "Hi."

"Hey," I reply, giving her a brief nod.

It feels strange walking with her like this. Technically, we're here for work, but at the same time, it's... well, we're walking side by side. Close, but not. There's an easy rhythm to it, a kind of unspoken understanding. We could look like a couple—two people, walking into the hotel at the same time, in sync. Nothing romantic about it, but it feels like it could be. Like it could be more. But I don't say anything about it. I don't even let my thoughts linger there.

We step inside the hotel and approach the front desk. The receptionist looks up at us with a polite smile. "Can I help you?"

"We need to check into separate rooms, please," I start, handing over our IDs and the company card for incidentals. Simple. Straightforward. It should be smooth sailing from here.

But then the woman hands me only one key card.

"Uh . . ." I hesitate, glancing at her, then back at Margot. My stomach drops. This can't be happening.

"Actually," I say, reaching for the key card, "we need two rooms. One for each of us."

The receptionist looks back at me, clearly confused. "Oh," she says, looking from me to Margot, "would you like a second key card to your room?"

Margot steps forward, her demeanor already shifting to take charge. "No, I have a separate room."

The receptionist frowns. "No . . . it appears that you don't."

I open my mouth to protest, but Margot beats me to it. "We've got two rooms reserved," she says firmly. "They don't have to be on the same floor or next to each other. I have the confirmation number."

The receptionist hesitates, clearly uncomfortable. She turns to get a manager. I glance at Margot. I know what's coming. Her face says it all—she's about to panic, and I don't want that. Not here. Not now. So, I step forward, placing my hand on the counter, and adopt the firmest voice I can muster.

"She can just stay with me," I say. "It's no problem."

Margot looks up at me, surprise evident in her eyes, but she doesn't protest. Not yet.

I turn back to the receptionist, giving her a look that's half a glare, half a promise. "I want a refund for the room, and you're going to provide any amenity that Margot wants, including access to the gym or anything else she may need. If you don't, you'll be hearing from my office."

The receptionist stammers an apology, and soon enough, her manager walks over. A quick exchange ensues, and the manager apologizes to Margot for the mistake, citing a booking error due to some holiday surge. There's nothing they can do, he says, but they can offer a cot if necessary.

A cot.

I glance at Margot, hoping she's not as mortified by this as I am. The last thing I want is for her to feel uncomfortable.

"Look," I say, trying to salvage some dignity here, "let's just get the cot and move on with it. We don't need to make this harder."

I can see the relief in her eyes. Thank God.

But then the thought hits me, and I feel my stomach drop. I'm going to have to sleep on a cot for two weeks. There's no other option. I hope to God it won't be as bad as it sounds, but deep down, I know I'll regret this choice every single night.

And then, the worst realization strikes me. I won't be able to take off my prosthetic leg for the entire two weeks. The constant pressure on my leg, the discomfort. This is going to be a long, long trial.