Page 53 of Alonzo

Vann looks like he lost his best girl and his best friend all in the same moment. It’s pretty clear he was hoping for some kind of chance with Belinda and this road trip was more about her than it was me.

It’s also pretty clear that a chance with Vann has never once crossed Belinda’s mind.

But he manages a smile anyway. “Sure, B. Whatever you need.”

So I agree.

And I’d like to say it was against my better judgement, but I’m tired of lying. Especially to myself.

There is no way I’m leaving Key West without seeing Lonnie in the flesh first.

As we make our way across the island Belinda perks up in a way I haven’t seen before. And I get it. If I was going home—well, if I had some kind of home to go to—I’d be unbelievably excited. She directs us through the narrow streets, marveling on how things have changed in the eight years she’s been gone, and sighing when she sees something that has stayed the same.

She takes us down a street to show us a mural she painted back when she was a teenager. But it’s gone now. Painted over with whitewash.

That makes her a little sad, but she puts on the brave face and chats excitedly about her mother and how happy she will be once they reconnect.

I’m a little bit jealous, to be honest.

I never had this kind of connection to my Long Beach neighborhood. I certainly wouldn’t want to go back there.

But everything changes about Belinda when we pull into the parking lot of the Conch Shell Hostel. “What the fuck?” She whispers this, clearly talking to herself.

Vann pulls into a parking space and shifts the truck into park. “What’s going on?”

“This…” Belinda looks confused as she turns in her seat to try to see the whole building. It’s your typical crappy hotel with an extra dose of colorful Key West flair. But there are backpackers and teenagers by the dozens milling about. Lots of luggage piled up against the side of the office and picnic tables filled with surfers who are drinking and smoking in the glow of a low-hanging, late afternoon sun. “This can’t be the Conch Shell.” She looks at me. “We didn’t run a hostel. It was a motel. A pretty crappy motel. A very cheap motel, all things considered. But my mom has owned this place since before I was born… I’ll be right back.”

She gets out of the truck. And I want to grab her by the arm and pull her back inside. Keep her from learning the truth. Because I see what’s coming.

Whoever owned this place sold it. Or died. Doesn’t really matter. Whatever connection Belinda had with this motel—it’s gone.

Vann and I are silent as we watch her approach the office. She tries the door to go inside, but it’s locked. So she waits in line behind several other young people at the little screened window until it’s her turn.

I cringe as I watch this interaction take place. I see her shoulders drop. Her hope die. Her extreme sadness as she nods her head and walks back across the parking lot to the truck.

She gets in. “Let’s go.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just… let’s go.”

Vann starts the engine. “Where are we going?”

“Go left. The Dumas family owns a whole street of cottages. We’ll stay there.”

“We can’t stay there, Belinda! I’m not staying in Lonnie’s family cottages!”

“Well, we’re sure as fuck not staying here, OK?” She yells this. Way too loud. “We’re not fucking staying here.”

Vann backs the truck out without comment and goes left. Belinda looks out her side window, absently directing Vann through the narrow beachy streets until we find ourselves at the top of a cul-de-sac in front of a house with a small sign that says ‘Dumas Street Cottages.’

“We don’t even have a reservation,” Vann says.

Belinda sighs. “Just stay here. I’ll be right back.” She gets out of the truck, walks up the short walkway to the front of the house, and disappears inside a screened-in porch.

“What do you think happened to her mother?” Vann asks.

I lean forward between the seats and keep my eyes locked on the screen door. “Something bad, Vann. It doesn’t really matter what it is, it’s just… bad.”