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I return to my station and get to cleaning to set up for the next appointment. Quiet conversation hums through the shop. Someone makes a joke, and a client laughs.

Life goes on. This changes nothing.

Tonight, I’ll go to my house, to the home I’ve made for myself.

Thursday morning begins with the thrilling continuation of trying not to think about Anna . . . but because society still expects me to contribute something other than a striking jawline, I finish my coffee, grab my keys, and head to the shop.

Thor is at the back station, bent over some new sign he’s hand painting with the focus of someone performing surgery. Even leaning forward like that, he’s enormous. The dude is built like a Scandinavian refrigerator.

“Morning,” he says, when I step into my booth.

“Debatable.”

“Cheer up, cupcake. Debra’s house is in the back of my truck.”

That does make my mouth tick up in the corner. Now Debra, her love is real and it’s deep—and dependent on how much cat food I leave out for her. However, I like to think she enjoys my company too. I can count on Deb, at least for the next year or so until she dies. That’s the spirit!

I stay busy with work for the morning and most of the afternoon. Clients coming and going, machine humming, shading smooth, professionalism if I feel like it.

By the time I finish with my last client, there’s a shift. The hurt part of my brain—the abandonment issues part—is quieter than it was yesterday or even this morning. It’s no longer playing through the endless narratives searching for what I did wrong; the words of blame have been replaced by concern. It’s been almost forty-eight hours. That’s fucking weird. I’ve been sitting here all wrapped up in my own pity when she might actually need me, but apparently I’m too fucking immature to deduce real scenarios.

I check the clock. If I leave now, I can get there before her class starts. I just need a visual of her to make sure she’s okay. I still haven’t finished setting up my station for tomorrow, but I can just come in early. I don’t know why I need to drive to that dance studio, but my gut tells me to go.

Fuck it.

I park across the street, watching the front door. Her class starts in ten minutes. Women start arriving with their gym bags and water bottles. I wait. Ten minutes pass. No sign of Anna. Twenty minutes. The class has already started and she’s not there. There’s no fucking way she’d miss a class. She never misses a class. So if she’s not here, where the fuck is she? I dig my phone out and check the tracker. The map loads but her location is offline. I frown, and tap the icon. Last update: Sunday 4:31 p.m.

My stomach drops. Why didn’t I check this sooner? Well, because Anna is the most predictable human alive and I can set my watch by her comings and goings. If she found the tracker, she didn’t tell me. Why wouldn’t she tell me? That seems like big news. Unless she knows it’s mine.

My phone buzzes with a text. It’s her.

After forty-eight fucking hours she’s reaching out. I nearly drop my phone trying to open her message.

Anna

Hey stranger.

Relief hits my chest so fast, I’m fucking embarrassed. Have I freaked out over nothing? I mean, it was two days. I grip the back of my neck. “What the actual fuck. Goddamn it, I’m going crazy over this woman.”

What has happened to me? I glance back down at the screen. How do I even respond? Oh hi, I’ve been in an emotional support death spiral since you didn’t text me in . . . checks notes . . . two days.

“I’ve lost it,” I say aloud, throwing my hands up. “I’m so fucked.”

I shake my head and think of a response.

“It’s fine. Has it been two days? Wow, I didn’t even know! I’ve just been so busy with my life and all the many other hobbies and things that keep me busy and emotionally fulfilled.”

Thought we switched to carrier pigeon for a minute, mine should be there tomorrow.

No, that’s dumb. I erase the message and type again.

Ghosts steal your phone?

Jesus, that’s even worse.

Stranger? I thought we were at least acquaintances.

No. I abort trying to come up with something clever. The longer I spend trying to decide how to respond, the more pathetic I feel.