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Leaving out any hint that I’d just concluded the exact same thing, I said, “You know, that’s good advice.” I smiled and stood, making it clear I was leaving. Now I would push past him if he didn’t vacate his perch on the corner of my desk and allow me passage.
Before I was out of earshot, I called back over my shoulder to where Elijah lingered near my desk. “Thanks again, man. You’re a pretty good guy, boss.”
He spread his arms wide with a mischievous grin to match in size. “I keep trying to tell you.” He laughed. The comment was a reflection on a bit he and I exchanged nearly every time he left the office. Though the roles were usually reversed—he was typically the one in a mad dash somewhere, and I was left to hold down the fort.
Thankfully I was well ahead of the heavy stream of commuters that made the daily trek in and out of the city from their suburban homes. I had to remind myself to slow down several times, though. A speeding ticket would be a major hit to our household budget, and I didn’t need that extra stress on top of everything else.
Please let her be okay.
Maybe she’d gone back to sleep and was really catching up on rest. Her sleep debt was bigger than the nation’s fiscal one, so it was totally plausible.
But what if I found her unconscious? Or not breathing? Could I remember the steps for performing CPR? Would I be emotionally available to do that if necessary?
Christ, I was getting myself more worked up with every mile I traveled. I took a deep breath and blew it out through pressed lips. Yeah…that didn’t help at all. Gave it a few more tries and just felt worse.
My back tires squealed on the blacktop as I circled the apartment complex’s parking lot before settling into my designated space. Beside mine sat her little piece of shit car right where it had been parked for days.
So why did my anxiety kick up a notch instead of cool down? I should be thrilled she wasn’t out tying one on somewhere. If I ever found out she drove after one of her binges, I’d spank her little ass until it glowed red like Rudolph’s schnoz.
Right now, my runaway imagination painted a macabre scene inside the apartment, knowing she was in there but not responding to me.
All fucking day!
Taking the stairs two at a time, I thrust my key into the lock and forced myself to stop. Breathe. Settle down. No matter what I was about to walk in on, coming in that hot wouldn’t help either of us.
The apartment was dark and quiet. The blinds were still drawn from overnight, so the only natural light in the entire place came from the slim transom window alongside the door. When I listened, there was no evidence of a show playing on the television or even background music playing while she worked on job hunting.
My pace increased as I checked empty room after empty room and then pulled up short at our closed bedroom door.
I thrust the damn thing open, thinking I’d just rip the bandage off. The room was dark as well, and the bathroom door was pulled closed. A crack of light could be seen beneath the wafer-thin panel, and I heard water sloshing in the tub. Bile rose in my throat.
Please don’t let her be floating in there.
I’d never recover from losing her.
With a stiff arm, I threw the door open and saw her. Okay…first, I heard her. My wife sat up from where she had been soaking up to her chin in bubbles and gave a deafening screech. Immediately I rushed to her and scared her even more.
“Carmen! What is it? What’s wrong?” she yelled at what had to be the fullest capacity of her lungs.
“What? I was so worried! Why are you asking me what’s wrong? What’s wrong with you? Where the hell have you been?” My volume matched hers, and our combined frantic voices bounced around the heavily tiled room like the crashing metal of a ten-car pileup.
Down on my knees at the tub’s edge, I gripped her shoulders and shook her. Water sloshed over the lip of the tub and doused my pants and the floor.
She threw my hands off her body with violent force, and I froze. The horrified look on her face would haunt me for years because I was the one who’d caused it.
I dropped back to rest my weight on my heels and cradled my face in my hands.
I was a fucking basket case, and there she was—totally fine. Wet and pissed like a cat caught out in the rain and never sexier—I took a millisecond to notice. But completely fine. My anxious mind had me so spun up, my heart jackhammered in my chest. I couldn’t gulp down enough air, and I felt like I was moments from fracturing into a million pieces.
“Carmen?” she asked again, this time much quieter, but I couldn’t look at her.
I was angry and embarrassed and at least five other things I couldn’t organize to identify. My entire body shook from the adrenaline spike, and I felt her small hands grip my wrists and tug.
“What’s going on? Did something happen?” she asked gently while trying to move my hands from hiding my shame. “Please talk to me.” That last comment broke me. Well, not the words, but the tone of her voice when she beseeched me.
Tears I didn’t want to shed broke free and coursed over my cheekbones and down around my jaw. I couldn’t do anything but purge the self-induced madness one tear at a time.
Finally, I lifted my head and met her waiting, imploring blue eyes.
