Page 48 of Jonesing for a Spy

When she doesn’t respond, doesn’t let me off the hook, I weigh my options. Annoy her and look pathetic or annoy her and look like a man who doesn’t respect her boundaries.

Goodnight, Freckles. Sweet dreams.

There’s no response. I’m left on read which is such a fuck you when what I want is connection.

I left the woman of my dreams this morning and came home to bleak and dreary. Sitting here, wishing I could be holding her, her house, my house, her apartment, a hovel—it wouldn’t matter. And now I’ve managed to piss her off so thoroughly that she won’t respond and I have no way of making it right.

Seriously, my options are to call her brother. That’s a hell no. Or send flowers. That’s a bit much on day one and comes off desperate. Flying back reeks of stalker and is eighteen steps too far. No, I fucked up and I’m stuck sitting in it.

Instead, I do what I rarely do, pour myself a stiff drink and stare at the wall.

And it’s the same position I’m in when I wake up for work this morning. Fully clothed, drink in hand resting on the arm of the sofa, crick in my neck so bad that you’d think I slept on a plywood floor.

Checking my phone for the time, I find it dead. It’s like Monday exploded all over me. I plug it in when I start the coffee and head for a shave and a shower, hoping the hot water will loosen whatever is happening in my neck and back.

It works a little, and, as I wrap the towel around my waist and put my glasses in place to grab coffee, I’m reminded about the jolt I felt when Mirren collapsed into my chest in that hotel room. Blood flows south, and I groan, both at the sweetness and sunshine that she is, and at the mess I’ve made of things.

How long do I wait before sending another text? I’m interested. She needs to know that and that I’m not going anywhere, and not in a creepy way.

Mug of coffee poured, I check my email. It’s a bad habit, but I like knowing if there are any fires prior to getting to the office. The problem is with more than a week out of the office, I have everything from mundane weekly reports to accounting questions to the unnecessary carbon copies to the frivolous, like next week’s Thanksgiving potluck, or “follow ups” from the conference last week..

Oh, and five hundred more just because I was gone.

No fires. No emergencies. Electric Peoria is a well-oiled machine.

I’m heading into the office when my phone rings in my truck.

“Hello?”

Mom’s soft, melodic voice comes through the speakers. “Morning, Strider. How was your trip?”

Life changing is what I want to say. “Good. It was a nice break. I’ll be paying for it all day today though.”

“That’s always the case with time off. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

Oh, it was worth it all right.

“Well, if you want to come in and sort out the crew, I wouldn’t argue.”

She makes a sound halfway between a tsk and a blowoff. “It’s yours now. Your father and I showing up would… Never mind.” She pauses and I swear I can hear the wheels turning. “Do you need us?”

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the dysfunctional dance of a sick kid with a worried mom.

“No, Mom. I’m fine. Inundated by emails and a busy week ahead, but nothing’s wrong.”

The air leaving her lungs shouldn’t be this audible. “Okay then. That’s good to hear. Have a great day, okay?”

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Did you call to see if I was okay or was there something else?”

“Oh. Goodness gracious I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached,” she continues.

Not true.

“Liam and Lorien invited us to Colorado for Thanksgiving. Can you join us?”