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With a sigh, I put my phone down and stalk through Katherine’s apartment like a tiger.
“Where are you?” I murmur to the city. There’s no answer.
We often communicate via text because our time zones are drastically different. Which is why I’ve almost worn a track in the delicately patterned cream and tan rug before realizing I can call her now and not have to count on my fingers to make sure I’m not waking her up.
Ring.
My heart lifts with anticipation.
Ring.
I hold my breath, ready to hear her voice. Her excitement that I’m in town.
Ring.
Her voicemail clicks on.
My hope fizzles, but I force a smile because I want to sound more cheerful than I feel.
“Hey, stranger. Wanted to hear your voice. Call me,” I say after the recording. The canned response is a terrible substitute for the real deal.
This was not the reunion I’d hoped for. With a sigh, I recalculate. Food. I start there, ordering in from our favorite Thai place. I crank through a round of squats and burpees while I wait. Nothing is settling my nerves. Is it excitement? Dread? Both? I can’t tell. I’ve never felt this swirl of emotions.
Back to my phone, I create a new group text with Ford and LaShonda.
Kingston: Have you guys talked to Katherine?
I hit send, warring with myself. The tightness in my chest is unusual and I rub the wall of muscle. When there’s no immediate reply, I start typing again.
Kingston: I’m worried.
The admission pours from my fingertips.
Kingston: She says she’s okay, but you know how she hates the spotlight.
While I wait for a reply, I check the news. Then social media. It’s ridiculous the number of places that have picked up the story. Some small local paper in Iowa, for goodness’ sake. Katherine’s never even been to Iowa.
A notification slides across the top of the screen, and I click on it like I’m playing a death match of Whack-a-mole.
LaShonda: Yeah. It’s crazy! But I talked to her. She’s on spin cycle, but I think she’s okay.
Closing my eyes, I drag a hand down my face. Spin cycle. A vivid description and not a good place for Katherine to be. Not that she can’t handle herself. She one thousand percent can. But she shouldn’t have to.
It’s not like she’s an attention-seeking diva.
Kingston: That’s what I’m worried about. The coverage of this doesn’t look like it’s dying down.
Three dots pop up, but then another notification appears at the top, this one from Ford.
Ford: Saw her for lunch. They’re coming over to my dad’s place for dinner.
LaShonda: They?
Ford: Katherine, Alex, and Gabe.
I close the text message app, urgency pumping through my veins, and call for a car. Now that I know where she is, where she’ll be. . . and who she’ll be with, the need to see her is stronger than ever.
“Come on, little travel buddy,” I say to the succulent and scoop it up. “We really should think about giving you a name.”
