Page 89 of Wild Abandon

Buzz. Chime.

“Ignore it.” His nose is buried in my hair.

I can’t even breathe from what he’s doing, let alone speak to answer him.

Buzz. Chime.

“Next time I take you away, we’re leaving our phones at home,” he says into my mouth.

Buzz. Chime.

“I really think you should get it. Just don’t stop doing that.” I reach a hand onto the nightstand and hand him the offending phone.

“Leave it.”

Buzz. Chime.

I drop my hand onto the bed, and his eye catches the incoming number.

“Fuck!”

With a rapid pace, Nate is off me and sitting up on the bed, his phone to his ear. “Hello?”

I sit up and pull the sheet over my bare breasts, and I peer over Nate’s shoulder. His brows are knit tightly together, and his mouth is pinched.

“What do you mean she…” He puts his hand to his mouth. His eyes are wide with worry. “Where is she?”

He’s standing up, looking furiously around the room for his clothes. After pulling his jeans on, he throws his sneakers on without socks.

Knowing something urgent is happening, I get up and throw on my yoga pants, which were sitting at the top of my bag, and I slide on my shoes.

He hangs up the phone and starts pacing. He can’t find his shirt.

“What happened?”

His hands are a jittery mess. His eyes are rabid with panic. “She…she had a seizure. She hasn’t had one in over a year. They put her in a coma—”

“Who, Nate? Who is in a coma?”

“My wife!” he shouts, flipping over cushions on the sofa.

My bra and T-shirt from last night are on the floor. I grab them and see his shirt peeking out from under the bed. I pick it up and hand it to Nate, and then he is running out the door.

Purse in hand, I chase after him.

His wife?

Nate hits the button for the elevator, but it isn’t coming fast enough. He punches the wall out of frustration and runs his hands through his hair.

I can’t believe he’s married. I should want to scream at him, call him obscenities, tear his shirt off, spit in his face, and kick him in the balls.

But I don’t do any of the above.

There is something in the way he’s biting on his fingernail. In the way he’s mumbling to himself. In the way his feet can’t stop moving in place, anxious to get out of here.

We step onto the elevator, and his eyes well up when he sees my lone Giants jacket strung in the corner, the same spot he threw it just hours ago when he couldn’t get my clothes off fast enough.

When he told me he was falling in love with me.