Fuck!My stomach turns.
I try again, voicemail.
Maybe I should leave, take a walk, see what I can find. Maybe he’s bleeding out in the street. Maybe he’s been shot.My mind runs a hundred miles an hour as I consider every possibility. Something isn’t right. He’s not okay. If he were okay, he would’ve at least called to let me know he’d run further than he thought, or got caught up with god knows what. Even then, that’s not like him. I am without a shadow of a doubt his number one priority. He wouldn’t have left me here.
I stand from the table and peek out into the night, my eyes taped open against my lids with sweat. It’s warm, but there’s a nice breeze that’s recycling the salty air. An Irish flag blows with the wind at a bar just a few doors down. A half a dozen cars sit parked on either side of the road in opposite directions. I glance back to where Max parked the truck. It’s still there, unmoved. It’s untouched, as far as I can tell.What the fuck is going on?It’s Friday night in Tugshaw. Usually there are at least a couple of drug deals happening as we walk back to the truck, and at least one fight breaking out near the bar. I can set my watch to it. Tonight, though, it’s eerily quiet.
I step back inside and glance down at my phone. It’s been an hour. A full hour. This makes no sense. I try his number again, then send him a text, my hands shaking as my mind is now fully convinced that something is definitely wrong. He’d have been back by now, and he certainly wouldn’t set foot in that Irish bar to save his life. He’s hated the man who runs that place since it opened. He says that Irishman can’t be trusted, whatever that means.
Where the hell are you? I’m getting worried.My muscles twitch as I send off the message.
Fifteen minutes go by, then another, and another, my eyes spinning between the front door, the back door, and my cell phone. To anyone who’s ever had to wait on me, I apologize, because this… is absolute… hell. My knees bounce as I bite at my fingernails and try to make sense of what’s happening. The smoke and loud music from the club fade into a fuzzy and muted backdrop to what’s going on in my head.
Another long hour goes by, taking the rest of my faith with it.
I dial the number for the Pinellas County police department and hold my breath. My heart races, skipping beats that were meant for Max, because I know in the pit of my stomach that something awful has happened, and that the man I love isn’t coming back.
Chapter Two
Everleigh
Present Day
Therapy helps some people. I’m sure it does. If it didn’t, why would so many of us pay thousands of dollars to talk to some third-party stranger about all our personal matters? Why would we take time out of our busy schedules to cry to an outsider about our emotional trauma? Why in the hell would we let someone dredge up years of pain, only to leave it at the forefront of our brain in hopes that we’ll somehow process it differently this time around?
For some, that works. For me, therapy is a more thirty-seventy situation. Thirty percent the therapist helps, seventy percent I’m solving my own problems. By helping, I mean, she listens, and by solving my own problems, I mean self-medicating with vodka and Xanax.
I glance across the street, watching a pretzel vendor exchange money with a couple of kids for food in the bright sunshine. Behind them is a large gray bank with blacked-out windows and a few businessmen standing outside holding briefcases. They’re talking about something, but obviously I’m too far away to hear. I imagine one is telling the other about a boat he’s planning to buy or an addition he’s putting onto his house. They’re all the same, right? Rich men? All of them are looking for the next big investment, the next big thing they can acquire, the one trip or purchase that’s going to make everyone around them green with envy. I don’t know how Lucy does it all day.
She pulls up to the curb and honks her horn. “Hurry. I’ve got reservations and they don’t hold tables.” We’ve been friends for all my life, but she’s really stepped up the last few years. I’m beyond lucky to have her.
I stand from the edge of the wood flower box I’ve been sitting on and make my way toward her, but from the corner of my eye I catch the gaze of a man that’s on the other side of the street. He’s broad shouldered with dark features, dressed in a nice business suit, much like the other bankers, but this one has his sights set on me. He looks familiar too. I’ve seen him at least a few dozen times before over the past three years, but lately the sightings have been closer together. Sometimes I see him here, sometimes at the grocery store, other times outside the apartment building. The therapist assures me that it’s probably just a man that lives close by, that we’re on the same grocery schedule, and that if he’s not bothering me, I shouldn’t worry about it… but the resemblance between him and Max is uncanny.
She tells me it’s my brain's way of coping with the loss of Max. That when people lose someone with no explanation, they look for their face in the crowd. And sometimes, they see them when they’re not there. I, however, think that’s a load of shit.
“Do you see that guy?” I point toward the man in the corner, his head still turned toward me.
Lucy glances up in the direction I’ve nodded. “You mean Wolverine? Yeah, I see him.”
“Wolverine? No!Wolverine is short.”
“Really?” she sighs, glancing toward me. “Your knowledge of random facts is exhausting. I’m talking about Hugh Jackman. He’s big, right? And built, and dark, and hairy?”
I nod, staring toward the man as she pulls off the curb. “Yeah, except Hugh Jackman doesn’t have tattoos all over his hands. Besides that, what banker does? You know that guy?”
She laughs a playful satire that I’m used to. “Oh, you mean the guy you’ve been talking about for a year? The one you think is following you? The one you’ve mentioned a million, zillion times? No. I think I’d have mentioned it to you if I knew him.” She glances toward me, then back toward the road. “You ever think he’s staring at you because you’re staring at him?”
“So you don’t think he looks like Max?”
Lucy flicks on the blinker. “How was your therapy appointment?”
“What does therapy have to do with that guy looking like Max?”
She shrugs and I feel her exhaustion. I’ve been good at that since Max disappeared—feeling everyone’s everything. If someone is sad two towns over, I’ll know. It’s like my bones pick up on the vibrations. Me though… my own level of care… still a mystery.
“I’m just curious if you’ve discussed any of this with your therapist. I mean, if you’re seeing a dead dude, that seems pretty relevant to your mental health.”
“He’s not dead!” My stomach drops as I say it. Her words are a trip wire that set me off. Usually, she’s more careful. This goes to show how exhausted she is with me. I don’t blame her. I probably do need a bigger circle of support. Hell, I could probably use a better therapist. Someone that’s more direct, who’s going to tell me the answers in a way I can hear them.
