by Natasha Boyd
"Emmy, I know."
"Oh." I swallowed quickly while I gathered my scattered thoughts and recovered from his abrupt tone. "Um."
"What do you want?" he snapped.
Oh my God. Was this guy for real? "For you not to act like an asshole for a start."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. I phoned you bec—"
"Seven times. You called seven times."
"And you ignored it seven times!"
"Because I'm in the middle of something."
"And I'm in the middle of nowhere with a suitcase and no information about where I'm staying tonight. You know why?" I ploughed on. "Because some asshole took my phone." He hissed but I talked right over it. "And now said asshole won't even answer it to help me figure out where I am supposed to sleep for the night. This . . . is . . . an . . . emergency," I enunciated. My heart beat in my ears, my hands shook, and my face throbbed. All the tears I'd only recently been able to stuff back inside me came back, rising like a tide, and I was mortified to realize my voice had begun wobbling on the last word.
There was silence and a muffled expletive on the other end and then nothing.
I frowned and pulled the phone from my ear. Did he . . .?
"Ugh!" I squealed loudly, almost throwing his phone to the sidewalk in despair and swiping the tears off my cheeks. He'd hung up on me. I couldn't believe this day.
* * *
Did you seriously just hang up on me?
* * *
Suit Monkey: Keep your bloody knickers on. Information headed your way in a bit.
* * *
I blew out a breath. Thank you, I guess.
* * *
How long is this going to take you? I texted again. I'm standing on a street corner with my suitcase. Someone's going to think I'm a hooker looking for a commitment.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Just give me a fucking minute to locate it amongst all your junk mail from Cats R Us and Sewing Monthly. Jesus, you have a lot of shit in your inbox. How do you find anything?
* * *
I use the search bar, Genius.
* * *
Suit Monkey: But, whyyyyyyy do you subscribe to these things?
* * *
I rolled my eyes, and a grin tugged at my mouth even though I was irritated with him.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Never mind. Don't tell me.
Suit Monkey: Are you aware you have over 10,000 unread emails. You are a mess. HOW DO YOU LIVE?
* * *
I clean them out periodically.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Are we talking periods like Ice Age to Information Age?
Suit Monkey: Is there anything else you need because I had a shitty day that won't be over for some time, and I can't be at your beck and call. And for the record, everything about you screams commitment.
* * *
My grin evaporated. Letting out a squeak of frustration, I gritted my teeth and hammered my message out with angry fingertips.
* * *
Yes, actually. I NEED you to stop being so mean. I've also had a pretty shitty day. And your phone is literally the only thing I have to try and navigate my life right now. So please give me a tiny break. Forward the info to your inbox please.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Fine. Try not to read the rest of my email. It's confidential.
* * *
Don't worry. I'm not interested in your self-importance. What did he do for a living that made him feel like he was king of the universe, anyway?
* * *
Suit Monkey: And just text me if you need something. Don't psycho-call me seven times straight.
* * *
At least my first instincts about him at the airport had been correct. What a tool.
* * *
Then you should answer your texts, and I won't have to.
* * *
Three dots appeared and then disappeared. I switched to his email and found the forwarded email for my reservation. I read the address with my jaw set grimly. I was at the right place. Of course I was. This day was just chucking it right at me.
I hit reply to the email then cc'd Trystan himself so he'd get it too when he logged on to his email on his laptop or whatever.
* * *
If no one ever hears from me again, this was my last known location.
* * *
I looked up, face tilted to the sky, as if for a response from God himself but ended up with a raindrop hitting me square on the eyeball.
"Dang it!"
I blinked rapidly, knowing I was about to cry all over again, and hurried toward the rickety metal steps.
I needed my phone back, and I needed to try and figure out a way to help David's predicament, which I wouldn't be able to do until I was back in Charleston in three days time. There was hardly anything I could do in this hamstrung position with no resources and no access to my email. I simply had to suck it up and get through it.
The stairs were old and rusty. A dank smell hung heavy in the air as I descended. The windows of the basement unit were so grimy I couldn't tell the color of the drapes pulled across them. Beige? Brown? The door, however, tucked into a small recess, was painted a cheery turquoise with a brushed brass knocker. I glanced down at the email and read the instructions. Turning around I looked for a combination lockbox hanging under the stairs.
The rain started coming in heavily, pooling on the concrete under my feet.
I followed all the prompts, and for the first time in the whole bizarre day, everything went smoothly. The key turned easily in the lock and the door clicked open.
10
Emmy
The apartment was small but clean and freshly decorated, thank goodness.
I rolled out my yoga mat onto the clean tile floor, worked through twenty sequences of poses until my muscles were well-used and my skin was damp with sweat. Ending in Child's Pose, I finally allowed my mind to slip back into the day's problems, seeing them more clearly.
I would redouble my efforts to find David a bed at a facility near me, though it would have to be quite far outside of Charleston to be affordable. But that was doable. At least I could go and see him every weekend instead of once every month or two. The money I was spending on airfare and accommodation, though not much, could be redirected toward the shortfall in his care. I'd take a second job. I was already sewing little extras from custom orders that came in through the interior design store on King Street. Perhaps I could ask around and increase my load of orders. The small voice in my head calling me a ridiculous Pollyanna for thinking I could make enough to help was surprisingly quiet for the moment.
The other option was to try and get a job in New York.
I looked around me. As lovely as this small apartment was, clean, newly renovated and nicely decorated, it was, for all intents and purposes, an underground tomb. The square footage was smaller than that of my tiny carriage house in Charleston, the couch was actually the bed, and the rent would be at least five times more expensive. Not to mention the lack of charm on the streets outside. Though I'd gladly forgo charm in order to see David somewhere safe, permanent, and closer to me. Another siren blared along the street outside and I sighed. It had taken all my mental concentration to shut out the noises of the city as well as my own thoughts during my work out, now it was just getting annoying. I unfolded myself from Child's Pose to Dead Man's pose, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. My stomach growled and gnawed at my insides.
I showered and dressed quickly, then I grabbed Trystan's phone from where I'd been charging it. I'd have to see what was close by to eat. He'd had about ten dating app notifications and a ton of missed calls from various people. My curiosity got the better of me, and I scrolled the lock screen. That guy Mac called again, two from a Manhattan number, and a sprinkle of calls from various women's names. I wondered if he had a rotation of women to date or if they were family or friends.
Not that it was my busine
ss.
He was a good-looking guy. Really good-looking in a raw, sensual way.
My mind cast back to his strong forearms and his piercing gray eyes. Well-dressed. God, I really hoped he wasn't gay. All the good-looking men I met nowadays seemed to be. I hated that my gnawing stomach actually sank a little in disappointment at that thought—it would be a real loss for women everywhere. No, wait, the clues all said he was straight. Those gray eyes had been just a little too . . . hungry. After I found somewhere to eat, maybe I'd have a little peek at his dating apps to see if he was into girls or boys or both. Just out of curiosity, not because I was interested in him.
No.
I wouldn't.
That would be nosey. Snooping. A violation of privacy. It was none of my business. Besides, we lived in different cities. What would be the point? I swallowed, disappointed that my good side had won this round.
I opened his phone and looked for a restaurant app of some kind that was location-based. Nothing looked promising on the first page, and I did well to ignore the dating apps with notifications pending. There was a crypto-currency tracker, a foreign currency exchange app, a jogging app, chess (interesting), Words with Friends (obviously), all the social media apps (except Facebook which was a weird omission). "Ooooo," I cooed out loud. "A Kindle app." I'd be back to that later.
God, his text messages buzzing in every few minutes were getting annoying.
I kept searching, checking each folder I saw.
He was quite good at keeping his apps organized, unlike me. Then I saw Yelp. Ahhh. I pulled up a list of nearby restaurants looking for anything that had at least three stars and published their menus. Call me cautious, but I didn't feel like ending up getting sick on top of everything I had to deal with. On my own phone, I had a gluten-free restaurant tracker that listed restaurants that catered to special eaters like me, either with a gluten-free menu or easy to modify items. The most appealing place I could find was about a twenty-minute walk. A quick check behind the curtains and through the window thick with a coating of pollution showed me it was dark and still raining in sheets.
I looked around by the entry, but there was no umbrella.
I'd have to pop across the road to the little corner store I'd seen and at least buy some nuts and a piece of fruit if they had any.
I grabbed some cash, and the key, put my flip flops on, and opened the front door. I splashed through a disgusting two inches of water and climbed the slick steps. I was soaked in seconds. I shouldn't have bothered to shower after yoga.
Thank goodness the store was open, though tiny. I snagged two bananas, a small carton of Greek yoghurt, two bottles of water, and a bag of peanuts. Not exactly satisfying, but it would have to do for dinner and breakfast.
I splashed back across the road and descended into the small warm tomb. I stripped down and climbed back into a hot shower, then pulled on my favorite pineapple sleep shorts and a cami. Hanging my wet clothes up, I then settled in on the couch and ate a banana while trying to read my current book on my Kindle, a new series about hot astronauts by Brenna Aubrey. At least I didn't have to worry about work. I'd already put together our presentation deck for the pitch on Friday when I was back.
Trystan's phone buzzed again, and my eyes rolled as I saw yet another female name. You busy tonight?
The urge to respond on his behalf was overwhelming. But I forced my mind back to my book.
He definitely dated women. But there were a few texts from guys too. Hard to guess if they were romantic though. Maybe just one peek at his dating app profiles, I told myself as I opened his phone.
"Ugh, what are you doing?" I asked the empty room and put his phone down. What was wrong with me?
My book. I searched the page for where I was in the story. At least he had his laptop with him so he could get online, check emails, and even watch Netflix. Basically he could have a life. I had this huge pressing problem I needed to deal with and I could do nothing about it till I got home, had access to my computer, and got my phone back.
At the very least I could look at the list of nursing homes back in South Carolina and see if I'd missed one that might be farther out, more reasonable and also dealt with dementia. I opened his phone and went to the web browser. There were a few pages open already: ESPN, the New York Islanders homepage, and Ticketmaster. What was he buying tickets for, I wondered? I opened it and saw he was looking at dates for next year’s Coldplay tour. Huh. Well, at least he had good taste in music.
I opened a new page and searched nursing homes in South Carolina. Somewhere no more than three hours away from Charleston. That way I might be able to get there and back in a day.
The phone buzzed in my hand and another text appeared at the top of the screen. Another woman. I had fun the other night. Repeat?
Ugh. He must be bored out of his mind having my phone. No one called me except my boss, David incessantly, Armand, and my good friend, Annie, of course. But Annie was a new mother, my godson was two months old, and she knew I was spending the next few days with David so I doubted she'd call.
I wondered if perhaps I should join some dating apps. I'd tried a few last year, but for some reason when people saw my profile picture something about it screamed dominatrix. There were so many weird messages with coded questions that I was too scared to google on my work laptop in case they were gross. I had to get Annie to decipher and research, and yes, they were gross. It made me never want to try online dating ever again. And you had to get past the fact most men used fake profile photos, one even used Chris Martin from Coldplay, I mean, please.
But even worse, most of the people who messaged me were open about the fact they had significant others, they were just looking to be spanked on their lunch breaks. It was hard to look at society the same way again. I gave a little shudder in remembrance.
Though looking at Trystan's phone, dating apps clearly worked for some people. I hovered over an app called Whirl. It had 3 pending notifications.
I bit my lip. Was I really going to do this?
I dropped my thumb and touched the app. It opened.
I told myself I'd only have a quick look. I'd never seen this app; I just wanted to see what it was about. How it worked . . .
Whirl mail: 3
Whirl-o-meter: 15 people could be a good match
If I read a message, I was worried it would show up as "read" and he'd know I snooped. So I ignored the mail icon and clicked through to his profile.
Name: Jeff
Huh?
I grimaced. Gross. He was also one of the fake ones. Why couldn't people be honest on these dating apps? The photo was of him though, and holy shit he was hot. Whereas this morning I'd seen him in a suit, which he wore in way that suggested he'd never be caught dead without one, in his picture, he was wearing a soft flannel shirt and worn jeans. He was crouching down and had his arm slung around the neck of a red brown retriever with soulful brown eyes. Huh. I'd have never pegged him for an animal lover.
I zoomed in on his face. The jaw looked hard, his eyes crinkling against the sunlight looked blue not gray. I wondered if they were the type of blue eyes that changed to gray or green depending on the weather or his mood. He had been in an icy gray mood this morning. His hair, brown, was unruly but tamed, as if it had been windy that day, but he'd recently raked his fingers through it. My stomach clenched, and I was annoyed I found him so attractive.
Jeff. Ugh.
My eyes tracked on down the page. Jeff was thirty-one years old, loved his dog, hiked on the weekends, and was looking for someone fun and adventurous who didn't need a commitment. Of course he was. Adventurous . . . was that like one of those terms people used to make something good out of something bad? I looked around . . . like a small, cozy, jewel-box apartment really meant one airless room so small you could simultaneously shower while watching a show from the living room and heating up dinner in the kitchen. Adventurous probably meant kinky. Not looking for a commitment might mean he already had one and was lo
oking for a piece on the side. I'd ask my friend Annie when we next spoke. She'd actually met her baby daddy online. Granted, it was in a forum for Star Wars Live Action Role Players, but still.
At least, apart from his name, and maybe the dog, Jeff's profile was fairly honest.
Why didn't I get someone hot like Trystan connecting with my profile, I wondered.
Ugh.
I did not want to start crushing on the phone thief. So what if we had a bit of conversational chemistry earlier today, most of the time he was an asshole.
As if he'd heard my thoughts, the phone rang in my hand and Suit Monkey lit up the screen.
Shit.
I swallowed, my cheeks heating, like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't. "He-hello?"
11
Trystan
Stepping out of the law offices onto the sidewalk, I breathe in the heavy humid air. Christ, this place is warm. Why had I never remembered the humidity? I peel off my suit jacket and slip my fingers into my tie knot and yank it loose. I keep going and use two hands to pull it undone and then undo the top two buttons of my shirt. I need to breathe. Why does it feel like there's no air?
Not allowed to leave? Those were the exact wishes expressed by my late grandfather. Mr. Ravenel looked totally embarrassed reading my grandfather's controlling missive from beyond the grave. The last will and testament was clear, the rest of the instructions would be given tomorrow after everyone had had a chance to absorb the fact that a man who, for all intents and purposes, didn't give two shits about me had made me his successor. And in doing so had pitted me against a family who already hated me.