Page 92 of Those Heartbreak Scars

I check my voice messages. My Messenger. It becomes clear that I’ve done more damage than I can fix with a single phone call. I text her to tell her that I’m sorry. That I’ll explain everything as soon as I see her. If she’ll hear me out.

When the text goes unseen, I’m not surprised.

My heart sinks all the same. I focus on cancelling my bank cards and setting up alternate funds. Then head out to see if I can retrace my steps.

I pass an alley that makes my scalp prickle and brings up a shadowy memory of being punched in the ribs by a guy while two of his buddies watch.

Was I mugged last night? The longer I stand there the more certain I am that I was rolled for my wallet and phone and watch.

The alley is dirty and gray in the afternoon light. I wander along it scouring the ground in case they dumped any of my possessions. The keys to the rental are wedged under a trash can, and I snatch them up like they’re gold.

The one smart decision I made yesterday was leaving my passport and laptop in the trunk. If I find the car I can catch the earliest train home. I need to see Rica before she leaves to go to the Dells.

Eventually I have to admit defeat when I can’t find the car. I’m dehydrated so I find a café and order water and coffee while I figure out my next move. Without a passport I can’t go anywhere. And I really need to get to Rica.

I call the rental company and report the car missing. They have a GPS system, but it’ll take time for them to get back to me.

I check to see if America has seen my message. She hasn’t.

A man walks past, grinning when I make eye contact. Coming over, he claps me on the back and says in an English accent, “How are you feeling today?”

“Did I meet you last night?”

“You were in your cups.” He nods and sits across from me. Making himself comfortable, he rolls a long, thin cigarette. He puts it to his lips and lights it. The aroma is not unpleasant. It’s almost sweet. “Did you make up with your girl?”

“I will.” But she’s home by now, and who knows how long it will be before I can sort out my passport. “As soon as I catch up to her.”

“It’s like that, huh?”

“It’s like that.” I tap my fingers on my knee. I need to ask EJ to collect the extra copies of my ID in case I need them sent to the consulate.

“What you need is a grand gesture,” the man says. “You hurt her heart. And now you’re running around Amsterdam instead of mending things with her.”

“Trust me, I’d rather be fixing things with her.” I leave the man to enjoy the rest of his cigarette. Walking away, I call EJ.

“I just got off the phone with Indy,” he says when he answers. “America is bringing Dove to the Dells.”

“You like Dove.”

“I don’t. She’s a ridiculous party girl. She has dreadful habits.” He pauses. “Don’t change the subject.”

“Okay.”

“The thing is America just broke up with her boyfriend. It turns out she was sorta dating a famous soccer player.”

“Really?”

“Indy showed me a photo. She’d done her homework. Want to take a guess at which soccer player?”

I have to come clean. “Listen—”

“Everett Mann.” The name drops like an anvil. “The same famous soccer player you’ve been courting for months.”

I can still salvage this. “EJ—”

“Do you really think I don’t know how thorough you are when you’re trying to woo a client? I’ve seen you treat their family and partners like they’re just as important.”

“I tried to stay away from her,” I confess.

---