Page 4 of Emily's Escape

“I have my phone,” she adds pacifyingly. “If there’s a problem, which there won’t be, I’ll call you.”

“Okay,” I concede, realizing it’s ridiculous to insist on going with her to the restroom when she’s been finding it on her own for plenty of years before me. “I’ll hold our spot here. And if I get to order before you’re back, you want the Bad Bacon Burrito, right?”

“Yes.” She loops her arms around my neck as she kisses me. “But I’m sure I’ll be back before that.” As she steps back, she casts a quick smile at Kyle. “It was really nice meeting you. Maybe we can meet up the next time we’re in town.”

I watch Em weave her way through the crowd until she’s no more than a blurred figure among many. Then I turn my attention back to Kyle while sternly reminding myself there’s no reason to worry.

Emily’s thirty-two-years-old,I tell myself. Before moving in with me, she lived on her own since college. She goes plenty of places on her own. There’s absolutely no reason to worry.

Except I do.

There’s no specific reason for it. No ruckus in the crowd, or an ominous storm looming overhead. No alert on my phone announcing an imminent threat. But the worry is there, nonetheless.

And with every minute that passes, it only gets worse.

By the time I reach the food truck to order, Kyle’s long gone, and the urge to call Em to check on her is nearly impossible to resist.

The feeling reminds me of something one of my buddies, Indy, mentioned to me a while back. He’s engaged to my formertherapist, Bea, and we became friends after I helped him protect her from an unexpected threat. Indy’s former Army, Special Forces, at that, so he gets the whole protective thing, especially when it comes to people we care about.

“It could be the most innocent thing,”he admitted to me.“She could be going shopping with her friends, taking a walk on the property, shit, she could just be driving home from work. Logically, I know she’s fine. But that doesn’t stop me from imagining all the worst-case scenarios. Bea says she understands. That she doesn’t mind me being overprotective. But I don’t want her to feel suffocated, either.”

So with that in mind, I leave my phone alone. I tell myself over and over that Em’s fine. That just because she’s been gone for nearly fifteen minutes, there’s no reason to worry. The restrooms must be crowded, and that’s why it’s taking so long.

She’s fine.

She’ll be back soon, likely with a story about how long the line at the restrooms was.

And this icky, niggling feeling in my gut will be gone.

The only problem?

The minutes tick by, and she still doesn’t return.

Eighteen minutes. Twenty. Twenty-two. Twenty-five.

I receive our orders and stand off to the side of the food truck, not touching my own food as I wait. Instead, I just hold our cooling burritos while I scan the crowd, hoping to see Emily’s gleaming red-gold ponytail bouncing its way towards me.

But I don’t.

And finally, at twenty-eight minutes, I can’t take it anymore.

Maybe Em’s still stuck in the line for the restroom. But at least I’ll know.

So I text her.

Hey, just got our food. Waiting next to the food truck for you.

A minute passes without an answer.

Rather than texting again, I decide to call her.

It rings four times before going through to voicemail.

The icky feeling in my gut turns oilier. Heavier. It slinks through my body, chilling my blood and encasing my lungs.

A prickling sensation crawls up the back of my neck, not unlike the feeling I got right before our truck hit the IED.

Something’s wrong,my body is telling me. I’m not sure what. It just is.