Page 55 of Puck & Make Up

“She called?” he asks, leaning over my shoulder.

I nod. “And texted,” I say, lifting my phone to show him the screen.

He curses softly then looks back at me. “Want me to call Rosie and turn her loose on it?”

“Nah,” I mutter. “You guys have just made it through the shit. I’ll clean up my own house.”

He exhales and I can see that he’s warring with himself, but in the end, he just claps me on the shoulder and says, “It’s worth it, you know. The struggle. The worry. The work to get there.”

I nod goodbye to him as he walks out then haul my ass into the showers.

I don’t go home.

Instead, I drive up to River’s Bend, head directly to Dessie’s apartment, and even though the parking lot behind Monroe’s is devoid of her sedan, I still climb the stairs to her front door, still knock and listen for any sounds inside.

It’s silent.

Not a hint of a bad movie in earshot.

“Fuck,” I mutter, glancing down at my phone, hoping that it will magically ring again.

When it doesn’t, I call her.

Ring. Ring. Ring. And then voicemail.

And no reply to another half-dozen texts.

My temple throbbing, I groan and get back in my car.

And then I drive all the way back home to San Jose, intending to get drunk and forget all about this shit for tonight.

I’ll regroup in the morning, make another plan—call Rosie and Bailey into service if necessary.

But tonight I’m going to be miserable.

And drunk.

And—

Only when I pull up to my house…my porch isn’t empty.

Sixteen

Dessie

He’s been gone a long time—much longer than his practice should have taken.

And even though I spilled my guts to my friends—and feel about a hundred pounds lighter because of it—even though I have a plan—which doesn’t necessarily make me feel better, but at least I have a freaking plan, I’m not sure I can fix this.

“Breathe,” I whisper, cursing that my phone died a couple of hours ago.

That I was so out of it, I didn’t think to grab a charger from home and?—

“Stop,” I say. “It’s going to be okay.”

I’ll apologize.

Explain.

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