Page 44 of Handful

I ended the call. Called again.

Four rings. Voicemail.

I stood there with the phone in my hand, trying to think. She’d been fine when I’d last seen her — or I’d thought she had. Had something happened? Her parents, maybe, or Emma. Some message that had pulled her out of here without time to find me.

I texted.

Hey. Indira told me you left. I’m sorry I didn’t notice. Are you okay?

I stood in the lot watching the screen. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Came back.

I’m fine. Early morning tomorrow. Talk later.

I read it twice then I called her.

One ring. Then voicemail — the flat click of a call declined.

A message came through.

I don’t want to talk to you tonight.

I called again. Straight to voicemail. No ring at all this time. She’d hit decline before it connected or switched the phone off entirely.

I typed a message. Deleted it. Typed it again.

Austen, what happened?

Delivered. Not read.

I stood in the lot. The bike was twenty feet away.

Four beers over a long night. Not wrecked — I knew where my limit was — but I wasn’t getting on the bike. Wasn’t getting in any vehicle. Not tonight.

I looked back at the phone. Still not read.

One of the prospects was still by the side door, run detail winding down for the night.

“Hey.” I crossed the lot to him. “Did you drive anyone home tonight? Last hour or so?”

He straightened. “Few people. Some of the old ladies. Your—” He paused. “Austen. About thirty, forty minutes ago.”

“How was she?”

He weighed it the way prospects did when a patched brother asked something that wasn’t strictly his business. “Quiet,” he said. “Said thank you when she got out.” He paused. “I waited until she was inside with the door closed before I left.”

I looked at my phone one more time. Still unread.

“Thanks.”

I went inside. Not back to the bar. Straight upstairs to my room.

The party sounds came up through the floor — the last of it, the music going quieter, the front door opening and closing. People leaving. The building getting lighter by degrees.

I sat on the bed and looked at the ceiling.

Legs for days on that one.

The words. How easy they’d been. No fight. No moment where something caught them and held them back. I had just spat them out.