“Matt?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
“Yes,” she breathes, then sniffles. “He’s not answering his phone.”
“Have you called anyone else? His friends? The police?”
My mom appears before me in her robe, likely having been woken by Con’s barking. Her face is lit with concern as she listens to our conversation, my phone still on speaker mode as I reach for my jacket and don it quickly.
“N-no, not yet. I just woke up and went to the bathroom. I saw his door was open … and his bed was still made,” she whines. “Then I checked and saw that his car wasn’t in the drive.” She chokes out that last word, sniffling again. “The first thing I thought was to call you …”
My heart squeezes at her confession, at the acknowledgement that she’s heard me all the times I told her to lean on me, that I’d bear the load with her—for her … but I don’t have time to celebrate this development right now.
“What about his girlfriend?” I ask. “Priya?”
She nods.
“Call her. Maybe he stayed there. He could have fallen asleep justlike you did.”
“Yeah,” she breathes, her voice rising hopefully when she repeats, “Yeah.”
“I’m on my way,” I tell her, palming my keys from the entry table and meeting my mother’s gaze. “He’s probably with her, Steph, okay? I’ll be there soon, though. We’ll sort it out. We’ll find him.”
“Please hurry,” she says before disconnecting.
“I will,” I murmur, but she’s already gone. To my mother, I ask, “You heard all that?” She nods, wide-eyed. “Call Aidan. Fill him in and ask him to meet me at Steph’s.”
“On it. I’ll take care of Connor, then meet you over there, too.”
“Thanks,” I call over my shoulder as I fly down the porch steps and rush towards my truck.
I make the drive in less time than it took me to dress, my own panic rising as I try Matt’s number, a number I’d only just eagerly saved in my phone the week before when he’d texted to invite me to the first exhibition game of the new football season. I’d been ecstatic.
I hit redial when it rings through to a voicemail that hasn’t even been set up. Teenagers. I slam my fist on the wheel in frustration and nearly miss the turnoff for their street, taking the corner so sharply my tires squeal on the asphalt.
Steph meets me in the driveway, hair disheveled, eyes red-rimmed, and still wearing the clothes she’d no doubt had on last night.
“He’s not with Priya,” she cries, clutching her phone to her chest as I quickly exit the truck. “He’s not with her! She’s sick and had to cancel their date last night. She hasn’t seen or heard from him since yesterday afternoon.”
I open my arms, and she flies into them, her breath whooshing out as she collides with my chest. Over her shoulder, I see Alex, standing on the porch. He’s still in his PJs and frowning as he watches us.
I squeeze Steph to me tightly, holding her against my body as I let out a long, slow exhale. We both need the comfort of this embrace right now. “Did you have her try calling him?”
“Yes. She said he sent her to voicemail.”
“Is that exactly what she said? He ‘sent her to voicemail’?”
Steph nods against my chest.
“Then that’s good news.”
She squirms in my arms, and I release her, noting how sharply her chest rises and falls as she pulls back to look at me. I slide my hands up to her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length but unwilling to completely break our physical connection.
“It—it is?”
I give her a quick squeeze. “Think about it … when I called, it rang through a bunch of times before I got the automated message about his mailbox not being set up. How about you?”
She bites her lip and then nods.
“Okay, so if he purposely sent her to voicemail, meaning he didn’t let it just ring, it at least indicates he has his phone withhim and was capable of doing so. He’s screening his calls, which means he’s likely unharmed.”
