Page 2 of Just for Tonight

Jake

Isobelle was a gamechanger.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that my night with her wasn’t just amazing but that everything – and I mean, everything – went to hell after I woke up to find her gone.

That was a shock. Here I was dreaming of the very best way to start the day – you know the activity I mean. I stretched out a hand, filled with anticipation, to find – nothing.

That’ll wake you up in a hurry.

My dream date barely left a dent in the pillow. Gone. Not in the bathroom or the kitchen, not so much as a sequin from her evening bag left to prove that she’d even been in my apartment at all.

It was as if she never existed.

Not a note in the kitchen. Not a message in lipstick on the bathroom mirror. Not even the scent of her perfume lingering in the living room. She might have been a figment of my imagination. A mirage. A dream.

If that wasn’t disappointing enough, things started to go wrong that very morning. One of the tires on my car was flat, a slow leak and a dented rim proving that I’d hit one of the five million potholes lying in wait on this town’s streets and avenues. While the car was at the shop that day, someone backed into the rear quarter panel. My pride and joy had to stay three more nights for its first ever body work.

It isn’t perfect anymore. Three weeks later and I’m still getting over that.

In the meantime, I received notice that my condo fees were increasing by fifty percent for no discernible reason. The following week, the laundry lost my favourite shirt, the one with my initials monogrammed on the cuff. (How? HOW?) Subsequently, my housekeeper informed me that she was moving to Edmonton to live near her sister, so would only come to clean one more time. And work, well, we’ll save the relentless collapse of civilization at my employer of choice for another time.

The weeks after Isobelle’s departure have been like falling off Mount Everest in slow motion, one disaster or injury after another. Each time I thought nothing more could go wrong, something did. It has been exhausting. If there is a God, he’s having a good laugh at my expense.

And why? Because I fell asleep after two marathon sessions of lovemaking? It feels like my mistake that she left without my even being aware of her departure. An epic fail. I was tired. Deservedly so. But still.

What would I have said? What would I have done? We both knew what we were doing and that it was a one-off. Trying to change the rules the next morning over coffee and toast would have been ill-fated, pointless and pathetic.

Plus, I did not want to change the rules. I like my life just as it is.

And now, my phone is ringing at 1:42 in the morning on a random Wednesday.

That cannot be good.

Worse, it’s the landline.

I roll out of bed and stare at the offending device on the kitchen counter, willing it to fall silent. Eight rings until it goes to voice mail. The caller could give it up at any time.

But he or she doesn’t.

I blame my situation, not on the glorious Isobelle and the night that spawned a thousand torments afterward, but my own weakness. I can’t regret attending the champagne reception where I met the goddess in question, but I can regret my agreement to appear at the event in the first place for the sake of the family business. I never do anything for the family business, as a matter of principle, but my serene brother, Mike, swore and I caved. While meeting Isobelle was worth the price of admission, the disintegration of my life is welcome to stop at any time.

I’m pretty sure that if I’d declined Mike’s request, thereby remaining an island and a fortress, everything would be proceeding as usual.

But then I wouldn’t have met Isobelle.

Yes. She was worth it.

The phone stops after seven and a half rings. I have time to take a breath, then it starts again.

Okay. It’s someone who knows about my voice mail. It’s someone persistent enough to keep calling until I answer. It’s someone who knows I’m home on a weeknight.

It’s family. Time to get rid of the landline, that’s for sure.

I answer, fully expecting to hear Mike’s voice.

But no. Come to think of it, he’d call my cell.

“Oh, Jacob! It’s so awful! You have to help!” It’s a woman, almost incoherent in her anguish, and I recognize her voice immediately.