I guess I didn’t have enough of it to have him tell me the truth.
I pop up from my spot of the sofa and walk to the window. The sun is coming up. My body is too antsy to sit back and wait for word from him. I need to see him now. If this is all a misunderstanding, then I need to hear it from him. And if he is a player, then I need him to tell me to my face.
Opening the sliding glass door, I peer out into the marina. Even if I have to hire a boat to take me to him, I will. Walking back to the room, I go into Leah’s suitcase and take out the binoculars. Walking them back outside, I raise them to my eyes and look for his boat.
It’s not there.
It has to be.
I follow the water to the furthest point west, looking for the massive yacht. I don’t see it there nor do I see it anywhere to the east.
My heart drops to my stomach.
He left?
Clad in only pajamas bottoms and a tank top, I sprint across the grass and through the lobby of the building. When I reach the street, I take the stone steps, three, four at a time, nearly breaking an ankle flying down the narrow walkway.
When I reach the bottom, I jog the street, barefoot, until I’m at the marina. The binoculars find their way to may face again as I look out for his boat.
It’s still not there.
He left?
He left?
He left.
He’s gone.
Alexander Asher, international playboy, used me, abused me, and deserted me.
I am such a fool.
chapter THIRTEEN
The slamming of brakes and a prolonged, ultra loud horn honk causes me to jerk and spill my evening latte on the pavement. It happens to me every time. A cab and a sedan have nearly collided, and two men are screaming at each other from their respective windows. No one gets out of their vehicles though. They just flip each other off and go their merry way.
It’s an occurrence I have almost gotten jaded to. That and the slouched being hanging outside my building’s door.
“Hey, Mattie. Locked out again?” I ask, whipping my keys out of my coat pocket and leaning over my neighbor.
Mattie opens his eyes and is taken aback to see me hovering over him. “Oh, hey, Emma. Yeah, keys are probably sitting on my counter.”
My forgetful neighbor rises to his feet and takes a step behind me as I push open the door. This is the third time in the two months I’ve lived here he has locked himself out. That I know of, at least.
We met just like this. The first time, I was petrified to let him in. I didn’t know if he was homeless or some psycho trying to break into my building. Granted, we don’t live in a lavish high-rise uptown. That would be the type of building someone would want to rob. Instead, ours is a modest prewar on Mott Street. The rent is cheap and the building is clean, even if the floors are slightly slanted.
It didn’t take too much convincing to realize he was harmless. Mattie is an undergrad from Boston, enrolled at NYU. For a genius, he sure is forgetful.
“Thanks for letting me in. Have a good night,” he says, passing me in the hall and heading up the stairs.
“Any requests?” I ask, unlocking my apartment door.
Mattie stops on the step and thinks for a moment. “Something soothing. I had a wicked day.”
I give him an affirmative smile and head into my apartment.
Closing the door behind me, I flick on the light and immediately walk over to the window facing the street. Living on the first floor means I have to utilize heavy-duty blackout curtains to keep the passersby from gazing in through the curved security bars.
