Page 95 of Wrecked

When I get to our room, I listen for a moment through the door to make sure he’s alone. If Beth is still with him, I won’t interrupt. But after listening for a full five minutes, I don’t hear a thing. So, I grasp the doorknob.

It’s locked.

He’s locked me out.

I knock quietly. “Sam?”

There’s no answer. So I try again, knocking a little bit louder in case he’s in the bathroom and can’t hear me. Or possibly asleep.

Still no answer.

Beth must not be in there, or surely she would have opened the door.

I knock again, trying to be discreet and not alert everyone on this floor that I can’t get into my own room.

When it’s clear Sam’s not in the mood to answer—or see me—I sit on the floor and lean against the door.

I’ll wait as long as it takes.

A couple of hours later, after knocking multiple times and still getting no response, I rise and stretch my numb legs. It’s clear I’m in the doghouse tonight.

So I head downstairs. It’s late evening now, and the great room is cleared out. I grab a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler and disappear into the library. In here, it’s dark and quiet.

I find a comfortable armchair in a corner, open the bottle, and start pouring the first of many drinks that night. I pull up a small end table to prop my feet on and get comfortable. It looks like I’ll be sleeping here tonight with just a bottle of liquor to keep me company.

It’s more than I deserve.

* * *

I lose track of time. I also lose track of how much alcohol I’ve had to drink. It’s a good thing the bottle wasn’t even half full to start or I might have drunk myself into an alcohol-induced coma.

Eventually, I run out of liquor, and I’m too depressed to bother going in search of more.

I must have dozed off because when I open my eyes, it’s light outside. The morning sunshine is slipping through the blinds, lighting up the room. My head is pounding! I deserve a headache after last night’s binge.

Immediately, I think of Sam. He was alone all night. I don’t know how he managed on his own. I should have been with him to help him change clothes and go to the bathroom. I jump up, feeling a sudden and compelling need to check on him and make sure he’s safe. If he still won’t answer the door, I’ll pick the lock. Anything to get in there to him.

I race up the stairs to our room and try the door knob. It’s unlocked this time, thank God. Maybe he’s had second thoughts about keeping me out.

I step into the room and close the door quietly behind me. It’s dark in here as the shades and curtains are still drawn, keeping out the light.

I walk carefully to the bed, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The bed looks made up, which doesn’t make any sense. He wouldn’t be up this early if he didn’t have to be. It’s barely eight o’clock.

I turn on the bedside lamp and find the bed made neat as a pin. I glance around the room and see… nothing. No wheelchair. No crutches. I check the bathroom—Sam’s toiletries are gone. I check the walk-in closet. His clothes and overnight bag are missing.

At first I think maybe he’s gone downstairs for breakfast, but I quickly dismiss that idea. He wouldn’t have takeneverythingwith him.

Sam’s gone, along with all his belongings.

I change out of last night’s suit, which is horribly wrinkled, and put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then I hit the bathroom to pee and wash my face and brush my teeth. I look and feel like shit warmed over. My eyes are bloodshot. My head is killing me.

My heart races as I leave our room and head straight to Beth and Shane’s room. If anyone knows where Sam is, they do.

I knock on their door.

“Come in,” Beth says.

I step inside to find Beth lying in bed, sitting up, propped against a stack of pillows. “Sam’s gone,” I say, getting right to the point. “His room is cleaned out.”Please, Beth, give me some reasonable explanation as to why.