“You get used to it.”

“I suppose. Though given the choice, I’d rather be here.”

“Really? You’d rather be back in California?”

“At least I know my way around here, and it’s not just bank towers and bars.”

“I suppose that would be a plus,” Wyatt says. I wait for the inevitable next bout of painful small talk, but it doesn’t come. Instead, we sit there in silence as the Lyft finally arrives, and we make the twenty-minute drive from LAX to the hotel. Though with LA traffic, that turns into forty minutes. Which gives Wyatt plenty of time to gasp in awe about all the new sights he’s seeing.

“Where’s the Hollywood Sign?” he asks.

“You can’t see it from here,” I say, pointing past the window. “It’s about thirty minutes that way.”

“Have you ever been?”

“What? No … why would I do that?”

“It seems cool.”

“Pfft, tourists.”

“Hey, what did I say about being mean?”

“You were excited about the Hollywood Sign; you deserved that one.”

“I want to go see it.”

“Maybe,” I say. “If we have the time. This week is going to be busy.”

“How many dinners can one person responsibly have for a single wedding?” he asks.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.”

When we finally arrive at the hotel, I’m hungry, carsick, my phone is dying, and I didn’t shower earlier, so now I feel sweaty and disgusting.

“Oh, wow.” Wyatt looks out the window, his mouth agape, staring at the hotel that we pull up in front of. “Is this where we’re staying?”

“Yep,” I say, tipping the driver again as he gets us our bags.

Then Wyatt sees the logo of the hotel above the drop-off area, and everything clicks. “Wait, this place is called the Kearney.”

“Yep.”

“That’s you.”

“My mother, actually,” I tell him. “Her mother started the Hills Hotel franchise. They used to all be called the Kearney, but they changed it. No idea why. When Mom took over, she returned this one to the original name, since it was the first.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“I guess, if you find that kind of thing interesting.”

We walk inside, and Wyatt stares at the lush decorations, the marble flooring, the tall columns, the original armchairs that are restored every six months to make sure they appear perfect. The main piece of decoration is the vintage-style sign from the fifties, when the hotel first opened. The bulbs are long dead, but even without them lit, you can easily make out THE KEARNEY in bold letters.

At the front desk, I say, “We’re checking in, room should be under Neil Kearney. It’s with the wedding party.”

“All right, give me one second,” the receptionist tells me.

While they’re typing away, trying to find the reservation, I see her from across the lobby. Standing there, tall in her heels, her black skirt just below her knees, paired with her favorite black jacket.

Miss Do Not Answer herself.