Nothing.
I try calling him.
As it rings, Jake returns, placing the crystal glass on the table with a quiet “Here you go, Miss Beckett.”I nod my thanks, the phone pressed to my ear.
The beep of his voicemail cuts through the line.
I pick up my glass and down most of it, glancing over the rim at the entrance, half-expecting, half-dreading to see James stroll in.His usual confident, bordering on arrogant, demeanor firmly in place.
The entrance remains empty.
A server returns to refill my glass for the third time.I notice Jake purposefully avoiding my gaze, busying himself with other tables.I drink more water if only to give me something to do.To break the monotony of agonizing.
How long has it been?
Thirty minutes?
Forty?
Time stretches and contracts.I trace the patterns on the black linen napkin, the elaborate table setting blurring before my eyes.I press a hand to my chest, but the pounding remains a hammer blow against my dwindling patience.
He wouldn’t just stand me up.
Would he?
Doubt, cold and insidious, coils around my heart, squeezing all remnants of hope from my chest.I search my memory for any hint he wouldn’t show up.
He’d been hungover, barely coherent, clearly annoyed by my insistence on a serious talk.But he had agreed.He’d even suggested The Sterling himself.
Seven o’clock.
He’d confirmed it.His voice dripped with irritation, but he had confirmed it.
I text him again:
Seriously, where are you?
Another fifteen minutes crawl by.
A poised pianist crosses the dining room to the black grand piano in the corner.It gleams under the soft light.As he settles onto the bench, applause ripples through the room.His fingers fly over the keys, a lively, upbeat melody filling the air.The elated diners, their laughter and chatter weaving around the cheerful tune, seem to exist in a different world.
A world I’m no longer a part of.
Each note, each burst of laughter, is a fresh reminder of the empty chair across from me.
The silence at my own table.
An hour.
An hour since our reservation, and still no James.
The knot in my stomach tightens into a painful lump.Anger, hot and fierce, bubbles beneath the surface, replacing the fear.
He could at least have the decency to call.To offer some explanation.
Even a lie at this point would be better than this torturous silence.
I stare at my phone, willing it to ring, to vibrate, to offer some sign of life.But it’s just a cold, unfeeling rectangle of glass and metal, as unresponsive as James himself.
