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The rush of intense desire and emotion at the thought of her almost overwhelms me. It doesn’t scare me, but it does make me cautious. I enjoy my life and my freedom. Being tied down has never appealed to me before. Not that I think that’s on Lizzie’s mind either. We’d been far too preoccupied with each other’s bodies to talk about a possible deeper meaning behind our actions, but I never got the sense she wanted anything more than a fun night. Or two. Or more.
That’s a thought for another day. All I want to do right now is return to the hotel and explore more of those curves.
Shit, it’s late.
Traffic is a real pain, which is standard in New York City, but it still pisses me off. I don’t have time to sit around and wait in my car. I check my watch: 11:20 a.m. Miraculously, I manage to get to the hotel before checkout, but just barely. I rush upstairs. A small glimmer of hope in the back of my mind persists that she’ll be there.
But as soon as I step into the room, I know I’m too late.
She’s gone. Even so, I take a quick look in the bedroom just to make sure. The messy bed is empty. Her clothes are gone, but my white undershirt is still there. I pick it up, surprised to find it still warm. She must have worn it, which means I’ve just missed her. Fuck!
The note I left her is also gone, which means she’s at least seen it. She’s read my message, so she has my phone number. But I never got a call or text.
There are a number of reasons why she hasn’t reached out, I tell myself as I head to the door. On my way out, something catches my eye. In the trash bin, I find my note crumpled at the bottom.
Has she blown me off? Has my absence given her the perfect time to slip away?
It’s also possible she entered my number in her phone and got rid of the note because she didn’t need it anymore. It’s the most logical explanation and yet, I don’t feel like it’s the right one.
She saw my note, didn’t call or text, waited for me, then left without leaving anything for me? There’s a chance she woke up late and had to rush out somewhere.
“Get your shit together,” I say aloud, forcing myself to leave the hotel room. “She’ll probably call later. Why are you so worked up over this?”
Because your phone number is in the fucking trash.
If what happened between me and Lizzie was only a one-night stand, well, that sucks but ultimately wouldn’t be that bad. It wasn’t like I went into the situation expecting to emerge with a girlfriend.
When I hand back my keycard at the reception, I inquire about any messages for me. There aren’t any.
You like your life, and you don’t want change, I think as I find myself stuck in traffic again. Don’t fucking worry about it.
If it’d been anybody else, a quickie with a stranger or a one-night stand with an acquaintance, I wouldn’t waste another thought. But Lizzie and I have history.
She said she’s a dancer, but she never told me where she danced. There are hundreds of studios throughout the city. I don’t even know if she works at a dance school or at the theater, or for a performing company. Maybe for a TV or movie?
You idiot, I tell myself. You could have asked!
How the hell am I supposed to narrow it down? My only lead is the restaurant where we met. I don’t think she’s a regular. I’ve never seen her there before, but it’s not like I frequent the place all the time. Maybe I could pop by at some point and see if we’ll run into each other again.
Realizing I’m treading into stalker territory, I pull myself out of those spiraling thoughts. I’m not that guy, and I have no intention of becoming one now.
If she wants to call? Fine.
If not? I just let it roll and not let it get to me.
When I drive into the garage, I’m so damn tired my eyes are drooping. I even close them for a bit on the elevator ride up. I’m sure after I sleep for a few hours I’ll be back to normal. Besides, I have other things to think about.
For one, my new office space has just finished being renovated, and I have to work on moving my entire practice for next week, which is going to be exhausting but damn worth it. Most of the equipment will be sold, since I’ve already purchased newer models, but I have to hire at least two more receptionists and another doctor to help with the caseload. I’ll likely be scheduling a chat with Fran and asking why the hell she went MIA when she knew her client was at risk of premature labor.
Once the elevator doors open, I drag myself down the hall toward my apartment. I have just put the key in the lock when I hear a voice behind me.
“Hey, D, long night? You look like shit.”
My neighbor and new buddy, Gavin, stands in the doorway of his place, a gym bag slung over his shoulder as he heads out. He’s a tall, muscular marketer who works at an ad agency. I met him a few weeks ago when I moved into the building. We’d each bought out the apartments on either side of our units to expand, and our mutual ambitious nature led us to think we could buy the other out. However, once we grabbed a beer and got to talking, we hit it off and decided sharing the floor with the other wouldn’t be so bad.
He’s a rough-and-tumble outdoorsy guy who fixes up motorcycles in his spare time, which works out great since I’m into buying vintage bikes. We’ve recently gone to a couple shows together where I’ve bought the bike and he’s fixed it up. We’ve done it twice now, and between the two of us, we turned a pretty good profit.
“I look like shit? You’re one to talk. The eighties called, and they want their biker shorts back,” I tell him, opening my door and stepping inside.
