He closes his eyes and lets out a breath. “Fuck. Okay, sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to send you a fucking emoji in response to your sweet text. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed it and how much you mean to me too, but I wanted to do it in person,” I assure him, kissing him gently.
“A short text like ‘I’m going to tell you later’ would have helped.” He smiles.
“I couldn’t do that,” I say, and he looks puzzled, so I take out my phone, open the messenger app with his name, and hold it out to him. “Text yourself something.”
He takes the phone and starts pressing on the screen, soon realizing the problem. “So that’s why we’ve been sending only emojis back and forth?”
He started sending me whole stories with just emojis since I only answered him with them. It was funny, but I should have told him earlier.
I grimace. “I’m sorry, I can’t afford a new phone right now. Maybe after Christmas. But I swear, I am not going to dump you, and I am really, really happy with how things are between us.”
He leans back down, kissing me again. “Me too,” he whispers with a smile.
“Costa!Did you leave your head at home today? Table three,” Lennard snaps, pushing a plate at me from the kitchen.
“Sorry,” I murmur, quickly serving the plate before returning behind the bar.
My head is spinning as I try to make sense of the evidence I saw today. The more I think about it, the less it adds up.
How could my parents have been driving with such a high amount of heroin in their system?
They were going out to eat, celebrating their anniversary. They were dressed up and had a reservation at a restaurant. It doesn’t make sense to me that they would take that much heroin right before going out.
If I try to look at it objectively, the results are clear, and there’s nothing to dispute. But everything I remember about that evening and my parents tell a different story.
It just doesn’t add up.
I’m wiping down the counter with a cloth when a new patron walks in and sits in front of me. His eye is swollen shut, and his white shirt is tainted with blood. I look at him with wide eyes.
“You should see the other guy,” he jokes. “Give me a beer, please,” he says, and I quickly pour one, placing it in front of him on the counter.
“Do you need something for that?” I ask, gesturing to the blood on his shirt.
“Nah, don’t worry. That’s not my blood.” He shrugs.
His words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I gasp.
“It’s not their blood,” I whisper to myself.
I was so fixated on checking the evidence that I did not check the blood type.
“What did you say, Shorty?” the guy asks, but I turn and nearly run through the kitchen, heading back to my locker. I grab my phone and call Sophia.
“Hello?” she answers groggily, and I realize I probably woke her up.
“Hey, fuck, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have woken you,” I apologize.
“Carolina? What’s wrong?” Sophia asks, sounding more awake now.
“Did you see what the blood type was for the blood that was tested for my parents?” I ask her.
“Uhh… yes. I think they were both O positive, why?” she says.
“It’s not them!” I nearly yell.
“Lina, what do you mean?” she asks.
