Page 96 of The Love Losers

Pain is like a second heartbeat, making it hard to breathe. I sit there for a long time, fighting a panic attack, breathing in long and low and then breathing out, but tears start running down my cheeks. It feels like they’ll never stop. Like my body will just hemorrhage water until it stops being able to function. But the tears do stop, eventually, and I wipe my face and open the blinds.

Snow stretches out in every direction, covering everything.

Nicole’s right, no one will be leaving their houses today. The thought makes me feel a little breathless again—trapped, like a mouse in a cardboard box.

But I’m going to New York City in two days, and I think maybe I’ll stay.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ANTHONY

I started looking for my phone last night, after midnight, but it’s gone, and it’s not showing up on Find my Phone.

I’d wanted to at least text RosieMerry Christmas. To tell her that I hadn’t given up. Now I can’t tell her a damn thing. I don’t even have her email address, and after signing onto my laptop at four in the morning to do some searches for it, I realized it was a lost cause.

The only message waiting for me was an email from Wilson:

Happy Christmas, buddy! I’m doing much better, thank the little Christ baby. My mother got me an ice pack designed for guys who’ve gotten tapped in the balls. This thing is the tits. Even Nina had to admit it was really something.

Hey, are we on for drinks on Thursday? Nina’s really eager to go. I mean, she wouldn’t like it if I said this, man, and you probably won’t believe it, but she doesn’t have many female friends. She’s really taken with your lady, so I’d appreciate it if we could make this happen.

Oh, and you want to hear something wild? I realized that I’ve actually met Rosie before. Mind, blown. She was the caterer at this sick af circus party I went to. Off the hook. Nina was really impressed by that too. I think she has a lot of questions for Rosie.

Anyway, talk soon. Hopefully on Thursday!

It’s promising in that he obviously doesn’t intend to turn Rosie in. Which isn’t to say he couldn’t be convinced.

I don’t respond, because I have no response. Not yet. And the one person I want to share the message with has an unlisted email address and a phone number in my lost phone.

Worse, the half a foot of snow that’s accumulated outside guarantees I can’t go look for the phone outside or at the hospital or the bar. The only thing I remember about her number is that it doesn’t have a local area code, so I don’t know what the first three numbers are, let alone the last seven.

I hardly slept at all for the second night in a row, stuck in that broken bed that reminds me of Rosie every time I slump to one side or the other.

Now, it’s morning, and I log onto my laptop to do another search for the phone. Still nothing.

Fuck.Fuck.

“Anthony,” my sister calls up the stairs, her voice barely audible through the thick walls. “Santa came!”

I want to hit the wall, but my hand’s already messed up, and being a better brother, a better son, a better person…

That’s all on my bucket list too. I keep mentally adding to the bottom now that I’ve gotten going.

I make my way downstairs and into the drawing room. My mother’s sitting in her usual spot by the hearth, and my sister’s hovering near the tree.

“Get your coffee and come over,” she says, waving to the dining table. To my surprise, there’s already a mug full of coffee waiting for me. I take a sip and nearly choke at the taste of whiskey.

She grins at me. “I figured we all needed a little pick me up this morning.”

I’m not going to argue. It’s not as if any of us can drive anywhere. But I make a mental note to try to talk to her about her problem. I doubt I can make it any better, but I know what it feels like to be deceived and cheated on.

“Santa ate a cookie beside the tree,” Emma tells me. “So apparently magic is real.”

I feel a pulse of almost panic. Rosie told me that I made her think magic could be real. But she could hardly feel that way now. The misplaced phone feels like a lost limb.

“Huh. Who knew.”

I bring the mug over and join them, my mother leaning forward to get a better look at me. “You haven’t slept,” she says with a concern that lives at the edge of condemnatory. “Neither of you.”

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