Kenzo leaned in, whispering, “If he hangs up before you say anything, I swear to god–just fucking speak, Jesus!”
I took in a sharp breath, then released. “Hi.”
Silence echoed from the other end.
“Well?” His voice suddenly shifted, not harsh anymore, but mischievous, cunning.
“It’s uh, it’s me.” I paused to hear his reply and when nothing was forthcoming other than silence that felt weighty, I added, “Beth. It’s uh, Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth.” His voice wrapped around the name slowly, like he was testing it on his tongue.
I swallowed, hands gripping the receiver as if it was the only thing keeping me tethered. “I’m um, I’m stranded…sort of. With–with my friend, Kenzo.”
“Where are you?” he demanded. It wasn’t because he didn’t know it was me anymore. There was really a coldness to his voice, strange…taunting.
What was going on?
“Our car broke down at…” I trailed off, looking for a street sign or a billboard that might sound familiar to him. “We are at-”
“Text me the location, stay in the car, I’m on my way.”
And then he hung up. Just like that.
What the hell?
“What happened?” Kenzo demanded, trying to decipher the deflect in my expression.
“He’s on his way,” I said simply, my voice losing its cheer.
“So…why aren’t you jumping in joy?” he corked a bushy brow. “Didn’t you miss him?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, hanging the phone and exiting the booth.
I missed him. But right now, I wasn’t sure he felt the same.
???
“That’s not scary as shit, at all,” Kenzo commented, his voice laced with sarcasm as his gaze locked on the same sign post I was staring at.
MILITARY ZONE. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.
“Wait, will you guys actually do that?” I turned to Callan, who was sitting next to me in the backseat, but hadn’t uttered a single word since we entered the car.
“That’s the rule.” His response was curt, detached, his gaze locked on his iPad as he looked through a spreadsheet of some sort.
He wasn’t here with me clearly. Didn’t desire my presence enough to care that I was right here. His mind was tangled elsewhere, on more important things.
“If I had your address, I would have just shown up at your doorstep, you know,” I said softly, my gaze returning to the window, a heaviness settling in my chest. “Would I have been shot?”
“Definitely.” Again, the reply was direct. “Right in the fucking skull.”
What?
What was going on? Why was he sounding so crude and cold to me?
Should I really not have sought him out? Did he take me too seriously and moved on so fast? Or did he never care as much as I thought?
Was it normal for someone who didn’t know how to swim to dive headfirst into a large body of water to save someone he didn’t care about?
