Page 138 of Reluctantly You

His car is in the garage, but he’s not there. And Little Pants isn’t meowing when I knock on the door. Nor do I see her on the windowsill, staring outside, begging for food.

When I peer in the windows, I don’t see any sign of life. It’s like he’s ceased to exist. Like he was never mine to begin with.

Fuck, I should have told him the truth sooner. It holds no bearing on what we have now. My dad and that piece of shit don’t matter, they never have when it comes to Mitchell. This thing between our families was never about him.

It was about me and my sick need to get revenge. To take back what was stolen.

And Mitchell isn’t even related to him.

“Fuck,” I murmur when I try to lift the window, wanting to break in and see what’s going on inside. Fuck, he better not be dead, he better not have decided death was better than me.

He better not. I couldn’t bear it.

The thought pulses through me and I find myself breathless for a moment before I discard it. He’d never hurt Little Pants.

The guy loves that cat more than he cares to admit. He’d never leave her alone like that.

“Sir, excuse me, sir,” a deep voice says behind me.

I startle and turn and see a cop with his hands on his hips, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks confused that a man like me is trying to enter a home through a window.

“Yeah?” I ask, realizing that despite the suit and tie, I am trying to break and enter.

Fuck, I don’t have time to go to jail. I have shit to do. I have to find him. If he doesn’t come back tomorrow, I’m going to file a missing person’s report.

Or at least, contact his brothers and see where he’s gone.

Yes, that’s far more reasonable. They have to know where he’s gone.

“Sorry, can I help you?” I ask, smoothing down my tie as I turn to face the policeman.

“What are you doing in the bushes?”

“I…my friend lives here and I’m worried about him.”

“If that’s the case, you need to call in for a welfare check. You don’t try to go in through the window. The neighbors are concerned.”

“Right,” I reply as I stumble over the hedges and right myself. “I can do that.”

I won’t fucking do that.

“See that you do. I’m sure your friend just doesn’t want to see you. Perhaps that’s the case.”

I scoff and then school my face. He has a point. He does seem to have run from me.

“Don’t let me catch you here again,” the policeman says, and I nod, swallowing roughly.

I mean, he may catch me here again. I plan on returning. Often.

And I do. The next day and the next, all while leaving unhinged messages on his voicemail.

What the fuck is he doing running away without telling me?

Why doesn’t he at least text me?

Call me.

Come home.

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