Page 91 of Those Heartbreak Scars

“I had keys. My wallet. My phone.” I pat down my pockets like I’ll find those items are still on me. I must have lost them somewhere. My head pounds as I try to mentally retrace my steps. I glance at the landline. “Can I make a call?”

The officer nods.

I pick up the handset and run through the limited numbers I have stored in my memory. Everything is on my phone. Including America’s number, which I never thought I’d have a reason to need as badly as I do.

There are only two numbers that I know by heart beside my own, and there’s no way I’m calling Indy. I tap in my best friend’s number while searching for a clock.

The Airbnb checkout time was an hour ago. Shit. America could be on the train by now. Fuck. My passport is in the rental car. I can retrieve it, if I can find the keys.

“This is Edward James Jones.”

My best friend’s tired but steady tone brings my heart rate closer to normal. “EJ, thank God.”

“Gray? Why are you calling me so early?” He yawns and there’s a rustling sound. And then a feminine murmur.

“You’re with someone?” Is he dating someone? Have we been out of touch long enough for that to be news?

“What’s going on?” He ignores my question. “You sound stressed.”

“That could be because I’m in a police station in Amsterdam.” I turn away from the officer and lower my voice. “I kind of fucked up.”

“Tell me you didn’t commit a felony,” EJ says among further rustling.

“No felony. A couple fines. Public drunkenness and urinating in a fountain.”

He sucks in a breath.

“It was a bad night.” His silence goes on so long, I start to think we got cut off. “And I seem to have misplaced my phone, wallet, and keys.”

“This is a joke, right?” he says finally. “Because the Grayson I know has never lost his—”

“I’m afraid it’s not,” I say as the officer indicates that I should wind it up. “And I really need your help.”

“This story is going to be wild, isn’t it? Tell me it involves a beautiful woman.”

“The most beautiful.” Not that he’ll appreciate that.

A woman who must be so upset with me.

“You owe me that story,” he says. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”

By the time we end our call, he has a new phone being delivered to the station as a first step.

The officer shows me to the waiting area. Not long after a guy comes in to deliver the phone.

My knee jiggles as I call up my carrier’s customer service and ask them to help me wipe my old phone and transfer everything over to the new one. I prowl the waiting area as the minutes tick by. I need to talk to America. I need to tell her that I love her and that I’m sorry I disappeared on her. I need to hear her voice. I need her to tell me that I haven’t wrecked us because I couldn’t let go of my bitterness.

Eventually I have her number.

It rings out.

I call it again.

It rings out.

Maybe she has it on silent. Or she’s out of service. Or she’s sleeping. She likes to rest her head on my shoulder and let the train rock her to sleep, and she probably didn’t get much last night.

Or she doesn’t want to talk to me.

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