“Sick.”
She laughs. “Tell me about it. I don’t know how Ben can eat that flavor.” Her head leans into mine. “What’s going on with you and Mason?”
“Nothing. We’re just friends.”
“He’s such a sweet guy.”
“Mia,” I warn. “I can’t be with anybody else. I can’t.”
“I know that. I’m just saying he’s a sweet guy, but once you’re friend-zoned, that’s it.”
“Not for you,” I say through a small laugh, one paired with my first smile in what feels like a month.
“Definitely not for me,” she agrees with a chuckle. She holds her hand out, palm up on her lap, and I place mine in hers. “I’ll make Ben stop for ice cream on our way home from getting pizza. What kind do you want?”
“Cookie Dough.”
“Okay.”
“And the one with the waffle cones crushed up in it. Whatever that’s called.”
“I think that’s… No, that one has potato chips.”
“Don’t get that one.”
She laughs again, and so do I.
“You can stay here as long as you want. You know that, right?” she asks.
I nod against her shoulder.
“It won’t always hurt this bad. Give it some time.”
“Grab that salted caramel one too, while you’re at it, Miss Chatty. If you keep saying shit like that, I’m going to need an army of Ben & Jerry’s to numb out my heartache.”
She gently squeezes my hand. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m really hungry anyway.”
“Me too.”
I tilt my head, eyeing up her monstrosity of a belly. “I can’t imagine why. At least your binge-fest is warranted.”
She squeezes my hand. “So is yours.”
I let my eyes fall closed, and we both sit there until Nolan calls out for Mia sometime after I’ve almost fallen asleep. When I’m finally left alone, I slip my phone out of my pocket and tuck myself into a ball.
“Leave a message.”
I hang up three times, needing to hear those three words again, then again, before I give him my own.
“You sound so pissed off on your recording. I love it. Is it weird that I love it? I can picture you, all annoyed and ready to break your phone ’cause you have to leave a greeting. I’m really glad you left one.
“I think that’s the only thing keeping me going right now. Sometimes I listen to it twenty times before I leave you a message, which actually sounds kinda stalkerish, now that I’ve heard it out loud.” I laugh softly into the phone. “I’d totally stalk you if I could. But I know you don’t want me to know where you are.” I turn around as the sound of footsteps on the stairs alerts me of Nolan’s presence. “I love you today. I really wish you were here to ask me.”
I disconnect the call and shove my phone back into my pocket.
Her name flashes across my screen with another incoming call. I ignore it like I always do, like I have to do, letting it go to voicemail. I don’t listen to those either. I can’t. Hearing Tessa’s voice isn’t something I can handle right now. She’s racked up eighteen voicemails, one a day, and I’ve let them sit there. Maybe in a couple of months I’ll be able to listen to the soft, raspy sound that rumbles in the back of her throat, teasing every syllable, but not now. She could scream at me for leaving her, or beg me to come back. It wouldn’t matter. I’d hear the pain I’ve caused her and it would fucking destroy me.
I swipe my thumb across the screen to clear the call and the voicemail waiting for me, pulling up all my text messages to Ben. The ones that prick is doing a damn good job at ignoring, for the most part.
I can’t talk to Tessa, or listen to her voice, but I need to know she’s okay. I need someone to tell me I’ve done the right thing by getting out of her life, but my asshole best friend won’t give me shit.
I go to the first one I sent him the day after I left, and begin scrolling through.
Me: How is she? Is she okay?
Nothing. I’d tried again the next day.
Me: Have you seen her today? Is she any better? She likes that disgusting green tea shit. Make that for her. It might help.
Again, nothing. I’d kept trying.
Me: She keeps calling me. Is she talking to you? Is she talking to anybody? Mia? I’m about to start texting Reed if you don’t give me something. I haven’t answered any of her calls, but I need to know she’s okay.
Me: Reed is a dick. He won’t answer me either. I’ll fucking call Mia if you don’t start answering.
I’d never call Mia, ’cause it would upset her. And this fucker knows it.
Me: I’m going fucking crazy. Just tell me she’s breathing, asshole. I need something before I start ripping shit apart.
That finally triggered him.
Ben: She’s great. She’s completely forgotten about you. Her and that Aussie are picking out engagement rings and shit.
Me: What the fuck, man?
Ben: What the fuck, nothing. You want to know how she is so badly? Get your ass here and find out.
I scroll through the rest of the texts, all different versions of me begging, and Ben giving me bullshit responses.
Ben: She’s great.
Ben: She’s moving to France to study Art History.
Ben: She got a life-sized cutout made of you and ran it over with her car.
That one I actually believed.
Reed finally removed his fingers out of some chick’s pussy to text me back, four days after I sent him a message. His response almost had me driving back to Ruxton to choke him out.
Reed: Did you move or something?
Eighteen fucking days of this shit. I feel like I’m losing my mind, which seems appropriate, considering I’ve lost everything else. All I want—besides Tessa, because she’s still everything I want—is for her to be okay, and happy. That’s it. I know the happy part might take a while, but I need someone to tell me she’s okay, and I needed to hear it seventeen days ago.
“Hey, Evans. There’s some guy here to see you.”
I look up from my phone at Harding, my new partner, as he stands behind my desk. He’s only about ten years older than me, but the stress of the job has left him with a full head of gray hair, and deep lines etched into his skin.
He takes a sip of his coffee and motions in the direction of the double doors.
“Who?” I ask, closing the folder in front of me than getting to my feet, tucking my phone into the inside pocket of my jacket. I try to peer out the small window in the door, but I can’t make out anybody at this distance.
“I don’t know. Big guy. Tattoos.”
Ben?
“Is he a cop?”
Harding smiles through a swallow. “Not with that haircut, man. You finished with that paperwork yet?”
Fuck. What the hell is he doing here?
“Yeah, it’s in the folder.” I point in the general direction of my desk as I begin walking toward the double doors.
He’s sitting alone in the last chair lined up along the wall, head down, elbows resting on his knees with his flannel shirt rolled up to mid forearm, exposing his ink. His hair is pulled back out of his face, which turns up at the sound of my entrance.