Page 19 of The Write Off

10:53 Rilla: I need people to be outraged with me

10:56 Rilla: Are you guys hanging out without me?

I wince at the last text, embarrassed by how vulnerable I come off. My secret fear that my friends are off doing couples things without me makes me feel pathetic. While I don’t remember sending any of those messages, I do remember most of the evening.

I sigh, attempting to run my fingers through my rat’s nest of curls as I glance around my spotless apartment. I can’t believe I actually cleaned up for that douchebag.

“Fine,” I admit while taking a sip of the coffee. It’s still too hot, but I drink it anyway, hoping it will burn the taste out of my mouth. “You could say it was a rough night.” I give them a brief synopsis of the evening.

I remember glancing at the clock at five-forty-five. Logan was due to arrive at six-thirty and I half expected him to be early. I had spent the afternoon tidying my apartment and getting ready for our meeting. I’d even run out to get snacks and a bottle of wine. I don’t entertain often, but food and alcohol are important, right?

Not that I was going to entertain him. He was coming over to help me. To help the book. But just in case we got hungry while we worked, I’d be prepared.

The apartment was immaculately cleaned and organized. I even changed out of my torn jeans and tank top for a stylish black jumpsuit I sometimes wore out that looks professional but feels like pajamas. Who’s a mess now, Logan?

When six o’clock arrived, I decided to open the wine in case it needed to breathe. Red wine needs to breathe, right? I poured myself a small glass to make sure it wasn’t awful. I didn’t want to serve bad wine to a colleague. I sipped on the wine for something to do while I waited for him to show up. Our upcoming meeting with Bryce has me feeling uncharacteristically stressed and I wanted to take the edge off.

I finished the first glass at six-thirty. When he still hadn’t arrived by seven, I poured myself another. I was quite excited to rib him about being late and had prepared a lecture about tardiness and professionalism. But by seven-thirty, he still hadn’t arrived.

Eight. Eight-thirty. Nine. No texts. No calls. No Logan.

By ten o’clock the wine was gone and I was equal parts drunk and furious.

“I can’t believe he never texted or called. That’s so unprofessional.” Maggie fumes across the table.

“Thank you! It is unprofessional. He’s an unprofessional monster.”

Except I know that he’s not. Logan has been a textbook example of professionalism since I met him. The man signs his texts with “Best, Logan” for Christ’s sake. Agreeing to a meeting and then not showing up is completely out of character for him.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Betty asks from where she’s leaning against the counter. “I mean, what if he was in an accident or got sick?” If there is a worst-case scenario, Betty will come up with it. But she’s not wrong. He could have missed the meeting for a legitimate reason. In fact, knowing Logan, that’s the only thing that makes sense right now.

I push down the uneasiness in my stomach that the thought of Logan being hurt causes and leave my friends to track down my phone. I find it on the living room coffee table, where I must have left it last night. There is a new voicemail notification waiting for me and I press play. The robotic voice tells me the message was left at exactly nine o’clock this morning.

“Good morning, Rilla.”

His low voice is pure dopamine to my ears. I’m so relieved that he’s okay, I almost forget why I was so angry with him in the first place. Almost.

“I want to apologize for missing our meeting last night without notice. A family emergency arose and I was unable to attend. I had drafted a text message to you, explaining the situation, but it did not send due to an error on my part.”

I stifle a laugh as I listen to him, picturing how horrified he must be that he screwed up. I would give anything to see his expression when he realized what happened.

“I would still very much like to meet with you, as soon as possible, to work on your manuscript. Please reach out to me to reschedule at your earliest convenience. Again, I’m….I’m so sorry, Rilla. Best.”

His normal, unaffected tone falters at the end and I hear genuine regret in his voice. He’s probably been beating himself up all morning, distraught that he’s upset me.

He cares. And I like that he cares.

I wander back into the kitchen, phone in hand, wondering whether to call him back or text him. When I look up from the screen, I find my guests staring at me with matching looks of intrigue.

“What?”

“You’re smiling,” Betty states simply.

“And blushing.” Maggie adds.

I feel my face fall and my hands fly to my cheeks. They do feel a bit warm. Am I blushing? “It’s the hangover,” I argue.

“She’s also defensive,” Maggie says to Betty, crossing her arms across her chest and smirking. “Are defensiveness and blushing side effects of hangovers?”

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