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“Yes. Which is why you should—”
“Do not say it, or any ground we just made will be lost.”
“Then we should hang up or I’m going to say it. We’ll try this again soon.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight, Cat.”
I hang up and I really hate that I want to cry. I hate tears. They are born of weakness, and I don’t like weakness at all. A stroke. He had a stroke and Reese still hasn’t called. My Uber pulls up, and I stand up and get in. I’m alone again. I hate Reese Summer. Before him, alone felt good.
I turn my phone off.
I’m done.
Really, really done for the night.
Reese
My mother is melting down, crying hysterically, clinging to me. “I hate him. I hate that I stayed with him. I don’t even know how to start over. I just—I don’t know.”
Every time I try to move, she clings tighter and cries harder. Finally, she calms down enough that she wants to freshen her face. I’m pointing her toward the bathroom, since she’s never been here, when my phone rings. She stops walking and looks at me. “Is it your father?”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“Yes. I told him I was leaving him and you would help me divorce him.”
I don’t tell her I don’t handle divorces, despite believing she needs one. I’ll get her an attorney. I pull out my phone, and yes, it’s my father. “Dad,” I say.
“Your mother isn’t answering her phone. Is she there?”
“Yes. She’s here.”
“Put her on.”
“I don’t think—”
“Put her on.”
My mother is already in front of me and grabbing my phone. “John,” she says, and a sob follows.
Fuck. Cat. I glance at my watch. It’s nine forty-five and I’ve fucked the hell up with a woman I really care about. I walk to my mother’s purse and look for her phone. I can’t find it. I follow my mother to the other room. “Where’s your phone?” I call out. “I need a phone.”
“I don’t know. I can’t find it.”
“Holy fuck,” I murmur. “I’m going to find a phone.” I don’t wait for an answer. I head for the door and the elevator. The minute I’m in the lobby, I make my way to the security desk. “I need a phone,” I tell the guard.
He hands me the landline under the desk and I dial Cat. She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t. No one answers numbers they don’t know, but I leave a message. “Cat. My mom showed up in a hysterical fit. She’s now on my phone and I can’t find hers. Please, sweetheart. Call me back. I’m sorry. I feel like shit.” I hang up and realize I didn’t give her the number, and I can’t just stand here.
I charge through the lobby, and when I hit the street, I grab a cab to the restaurant. In the meantime, I use the cabby’s phone and dial Cat. Once we’re at the restaurant, I pay for him to wait. Cat’s gone. Damn it. I should have just gone to her place. Thirty minutes, and a shit-ton of traffic later, I’m at her apartment. The guard knows me—it’s the same older, dark-haired guy—and I play it off. I walk past him. He stops me. “She’s expecting me.”
“She didn’t tell us that.”
“I will pay you five hundred dollars to walk me up there and let me check on her. I can’t reach her.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Come on, man.”
