Chapter 25
IZZY
He doesn’t call. Not once.
I’d expected he might give me a few days to settle back into my regular life before picking up the phone to call or text. Actually, mymoney was on him sending a text because a text is easier. A text allows a person to hide behind words or choose them more carefully before hitting send.
I assumed he’d send me something along the lines of,Hi. How are you? I just wanted to make sure you got back home okay.
But assuming certainly made an ass out of me because I got nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip.
Who doesn’t ask a house guest if they made it back to their regular place of abode? I’ll tell you who—someone who views those few days we spent together as a sort of extended one-night stand.An unexpected booty call? Someone uninvested! Someone who doesn’t want to recall the details, let alone make the call. A one-night stand never contacts you to see if you got home after your walk of shame the morning after.
Who doesn’t call? A total dick, that’s who.
What happened to being bent over the sofa arm?
So I’m angry, and understandably so, I feel, though I hang on to the hope that I’m wrong as I decide to leave the ball in his court for just a little while longer. I’m not giving up—not a chance. He just needs a little coaxing. A gentle push in the right direction. But he has to call first. He has to express and interest. So I leave it little while longer. Until the following weekend.
He has to call by then, right?
Apparently not.
The same goes for the following week as I throw myself into my work. Into the inane Christmas revelries, the client lunches, the evenings out. The office Christmas party where I watch everyone get drunk. Watch them have fun. Look on as my assistant splits her sequinned party dress while doing a slut drop, flashing her thong adorned bum to the CEO.
The first week of December leaks into the second, the second into the third. It’s cold and dreary in London, but there’s no snow. And there’s no Greg.
I’m not sleeping, either. Not properly. Not since I left. The constant hum of the traffic is too loud, the streetlamp outside my bedroom window too bright, my bed is too big, and my brain is too loud. Last night, I pulled my phone from the nightstand and asked for a remedy to my sleeplessness. I came across this article, this... thing. A legend, or maybe an urban myth? Anyway, it said when you can’t sleep it’s because someone is dreaming about you. It sounded like a cheesy chat up line a first, but then it made me think.
Is he dreaming about me?
And if he is, are we content and asleep in each other’s arms?
Or did he break my heart in his dreams, as well?
Maybe that’s a little too dramatic for what actually happened, even if this hurts.
