The tears choose that moment to spill over and leave salty, wet tracks down my face.
I have no idea what happens next.
Chapter Fifteen
I gave Marina twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours to not answer my texts, to not return my voicemail messages, to not stop by to see me.
Twenty-four hours.
It’s now been thirty-six hours and change. It’s after ten in the morning, more than a full day later. And I’ve heard nothing.
Listen, I haven’t gone crazy with texts. I’ve been very cognizant about giving her some space or whatever it is she might be needing right now, and I just want to talk.
Clearly, Marina does not, and I’m not handling it all that well. Which is annoying me.
I get up from my desk, where I’ve been trying to work for the better part of two hours, and I carry my phone into the bedroom, leave it on the nightstand, and come back out, shutting the door behind me as if it might try to escape on its own. When I sit back down at the desk, I glance at the sofa, and Reggie is judging me. I’m sure of it.
“What? I can’t be looking at it every ten seconds to see if she’s texted me back, now can I? I’ll never get anything done.” I hold his gaze—or he holds mine, I’m not actually sure—for a long moment before he sighs and puts his head back down. Definite judgment there.
The fact that I’m in the last quarter of the book is a good thing, because my endings usually write themselves. I always know how it will end, so once I get past the climax and into the denouement of the story, things flow faster, and it takes lessfocus and creative energy from me. That’s a good thing right now, because it allows me to work. If I was in the middle of the book while dealing with all this stress and worry, I’d be in trouble.
I do my best to concentrate, and I end up getting to one scene before the end, but it takes me way longer than it should. I manage not to go check my phone, but I also find myself gazing out the window, trancelike, for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes at a time.
We said this was casual. Well,yousaid this was casual, but I went along, so I don’t get to be upset now.
Marina’s words cut through the silence in my head for the millionth time today. The way she stressed thatIwas the one who said we were casual…that has sat in the back of my mind since I left her place. But before I can grab onto it and turn it at different angles to examine, the chime for a FaceTime call goes off on my laptop. Of course my heart jumps, because for a split second, I think Marina is finally calling. Doesn’t matter that she’s never FaceTimed me, my heart is hopeful anyway. Idiot that it is.
It’s Jessie, and I give my hair a quick finger comb and look at the picture on the screen to make sure my makeup isn’t smeared. Finally, I hit the answer button, and Jessie’s smiling face appears.
“How are all things Roman?” she asks with a grin. She’s in the dark and it occurs to me that it’s only, like, four in the morning or something godawful there.
“What are you doing up?” I ask. “I know you’re a night owl, but taking things a bit far, aren’t you?”
“Nope.” She holds up a champagne flute of golden liquid. “Finished my book.”
“What?” I clap my hands once. “Jess, that’s fantastic! If it wasn’t before noon, I’d have a glass of wine with you tocelebrate.”
Jessie pouts dramatically, and I take a quick second to recall the situation I’m in right now.
“You know what? Fuck it. Hang on.” I go to the kitchen area, where I’ve left a bottle of Chianti I opened two days ago, and pour myself a small glass. Back at the desk, I hold it up so Jessie can see it. “Cin cin,” I say. “Way to go, my friend. Hope it’s another bestseller.” I touch my glass to the screen in an imitation of cheers, and we both sip.
“You didn’t answer me,” Jessie says after a few seconds of enjoying our drinks. “How’s the hot Italian chick?”
I consider lying—or at least fibbing a little bit, but Jessie has only ever been good to me, and I owe her more than untruths. I sigh as I try to choose the right words.
“Uh-oh,” Jessie says, leaning closer to the phone as if trying to see my face better. “That doesn’t sound good. What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I think I’m ready to come home soon.” I start there.
“Okay. Makes sense. You’ve been there for more than two months.”
“I told her that.”
“Didn’t take it well?”
I shake my head and swallow hard, and the profound sadness over the situation that I’ve been keeping at bay for more than a day threatens to swamp me.
