The hairs on my neck rise.
I reach for my phone.
Noon?
I sit up in bed. The sheets slide down my body, exposing more bruises, and I press my palm to my stomach to steady myself. My heart hammers against my ribs, hard enough that my chest aches.
Why didn't Red call to wake me up?
A dozen missed calls and texts from Mom appear, but nothing from Red.
The room tilts. I refresh the screen, then scroll, but there's nothing from him.
I hit his name and put the phone to my ear. It rings twice before his voicemail picks up, and his calm, professional greeting cuts straight through me.
I hang up before the beep.
I shoot a text.
Me: Did you forget to call me?
I stand even though my brain hasn't caught up. I pace the living room barefoot, phone clutched so tight my fingers cramp. The floor is cool, and the air still smells like him, making my panic worsen.
I tell the empty room, "He's in a session. That's all."
It's his lunch hour.
I stare at the phone for a few minutes, then call again and get his voicemail. Panic grows, and I drag my hand through my hair and breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. My chest stutters, catching like fire in my lungs.
Red doesn't forget.
Why isn't he answering me?
Why am I panicking?
I pull on clothes without caring what they are and grab my keys, then stop in the doorway because leaving doesn't make sense yet.
Find proof that this isn't a big deal.
I stare around my living room.
Amy!
I call his office.
She answers on the second ring. "Dr. Mercer's office."
"Hi, it's Blue," I say, trying to sound normal. The word scrapes my throat on the way out.
"Hey!" she chirps.
"I'm looking for Red."
There's a pause. Paper rustles and her keyboard clicks. She answers, "He hasn't come in yet. Did you try his cell?"
My hand tightens around the phone. "Yes. Did he call you? Email? Anything?"
Another pause stretches. She finally admits, "No. I assumed he was with you?"
