The Airbnb is a cottage on a side street. White clapboard, blue shutters, a porch with two rocking chairs. The lockbox by the front door opens with the code.
I set Frankie on the windowsill and lie down on the bed. Dante is still on the phone.
“I’m here,” I tell him.
“Lock the door,” Dante says. “I’ll be on the first flight in the morning.”
“You don’t have to change your flights because of me.”
“It’s already changed. Don’t argue with me. Go to sleep, Benji. I’ll be there early.”
The line goes quiet. Not a hang-up. Just Dante being there without talking, the line staying open if I need him.
I don’t sleep. I lie in a beach cottage with the feel of Mickey not looking at me still on my skin.
The party was beautiful.
I always make sure of it.
That’s what I do. I make every room I walk into more beautiful than it was before I got there. And then I stand in the middle of what I made and I’m the one thing in the room that doesn’t get named.
Chapter 40: Mickey
The party is winding down and I haven’t seen Benji in thirty minutes.
The bar is nearly empty. Sheila is wiping down the bar top. Tex is stacking chairs. Stormy is in the kitchen doing dishes.
“Hey,” I call out to Tex. “Where’s Benji?”
Tex doesn’t look at me. He stacks another chair. “Haven’t seen him.”
I wheel toward the kitchen. Stormy is at the sink, hands in soapy water, his back to me.
“Stormy. Have you seen Benji?”
Stormy turns. “He came in a little bit ago. Gave me a hug.”
“Where’d he go after that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought he went to find you.”
I wheel to the back hallway. I press the elevator button and ride up. The doors open and the loft is dark and quiet. But the quiet feels wrong. I flip on the lights and wheel in, scanning the room fast and thorough.
His carry-on bag is gone. His jacket is gone from the hook by the elevator. The canvas tote with the mason jar candles from the party is still by the door but his toiletry bag is gone from the bathroom counter. The plant is on the shelf.Leaves glossy, positioned perfectly, catching the light from the kitchen area.
Frankie’s shelf is empty. George without Frankie.
Jesus Christ. He took Frankie.
He took his plant and left mine and the dividing is not a man who went to get ice.
I pull out my phone and call him. It rings four times and goes to voicemail. “Benji. Call me.”
I hang up. I call again. Goes straight to voicemail. He sent it to voicemail. He saw my name and pressed the button.
I text.
Mickey:Where are you? Your stuff is gone. Please call me.
