Page 6 of Chasing Amber

Isaac

Something is different about Amber tonight. Something happened with her therapist. She often leaves there quiet and a bit more subdued than usual. I’ve always believed it was because she was introspective, thinking about what she and Millie discussed.

Tonight is different. She’s quieter than usual, and she hasn’t stopped wringing her hands together since we left. She also keeps sighing.

We’ve been back in her apartment for an hour, and I haven’t seen her since we stepped inside. She made a beeline for her bedroom, shut the door, and hasn’t come back out.

I cooked dinner. I do most of the cooking for us since I also do most of the eating. She’s a waif of a woman. Some days, I wonder if she would eat at all if I didn’t put food in front of her and hand her a fork.

I’m a big guy. I need a lot of calories. Plus, I work out an hour and a half every day before Amber gets out of bed. She’s not amorning person, which works perfectly for us because it allows me to get my workout in before she rises.

The challenge has been doing so in the apartment. When I moved in, I brought a treadmill and weights. I have both squeezed into my bedroom. I rise early, jump on the treadmill, lift weights, and shower long before Amber opens her door.

Something is off with her. I can sense it. I’d love to have been a fly on the wall in her counseling session so I would know what was said and how to react. I suspect it has something to do with Jacob Marone’s release.

I’ve been aware of when he would be released for months. Amber has insisted she does not care and isn’t concerned, but that’s her usual MO for every single thing in life. She pretends she’s fine, and we all pretend to believe her. If I didn’t have Spence and Ben to agree with me, I might doubt my own assessment.

I’ve kept it simple tonight. I’ve made her favorite meal—my homemade mac and cheese, grilled chicken, and baked broccoli. She can surely smell everything from her closed bedroom. Usually, she emerges about this time without me hunting her down, but not tonight.

I have everything on the table before I head for her bedroom and knock on the door. “Amber?” When I get no response, I draw in a deep breath and try again. Another knock. “Amber?” I say louder.

Amber has a lot of facets. She might waltz out, pretending nothing is wrong. She might stomp out and put her hands on her hips, bitching that she heard me the first time. She might sass me like the Little girl she keeps buried inside.

What Amber does not do is ignore me. Never. Which makes me panic. There’s no way she has left this room. There is only one door, and she couldn’t have opened it without my notice.The apartment is on the ninth floor, so escaping out a window is not an option.

I put my ear to the door but can’t hear anything. She’s not showering in the attached bathroom. She doesn’t have music playing. I don’t hear the television. She might have her earphones on, but that’s not likely either.

Should I try the door?Shit. I’ve never opened Amber’s door without permission, but she’s freaking me out. I stare at it for a few seconds, going through possible scenarios. What if she’s naked, and she simply can’t hear me because she has earbuds in?

Amber doesn’t shower in the middle of the day, nor did I hear the shower. She also doesn’t change clothes in the middle of the day. She has the grunge look she puts on every morning. The only time she changes is if she gets an excessive amount of paint on her shirt that hasn’t dried enough to avoid staining the furniture. She hasn’t been in her studio since we got home, so that’s out.

Finally, I take a deep breath and set my hand on the doorknob. I don’t even know if she locks it. I’ve never tried it before. The knob turns, and I push the door open only a few inches. “Amber?” I say softly.

No response. Nothing. Not even a rustling sound.

I finish opening the door, and my heart rate picks up. She’s not in the room. There are no lights on. The sun hasn’t gone all the way down yet, so I can still see well enough, but Amber is not in here. The attached bathroom door is standing open, also dark.

I’m about to go into a full-blown panic when I notice the walk-in closet is ajar, and there’s a faint light coming from inside. It’s odd because there’s not enough light for it to be from the overhead fixture.

I hurry in that direction and open the door. All the air leaves my lungs when I finally find her. She’s curled up in the corner of the closet under the row of shirts. A book is open on her lap,she’s clutching a teddy bear, and her phone is lit up on the floor near her dangling hand. Her head is resting on a pillow she has propped up against the wall.

For several long seconds, I simply stare at her. I blink several times. I’ve never seen this side of Amber. I’ve suspected it existed, but she has not shown it to me. I wonder if she does this often. Does she secretly hide in her closet and read in the corner like it’s a little cave?

I’m choked up with emotions. I want to sink to my knees, crawl into the corner, scoop her into my arms, and rock her. My heart aches to do exactly that. I’ve wanted to do so for two years, and this moment is so powerful I can hardly resist.

I must, though. She would kill me. In fact, I should back the fuck out of here right now as quietly as possible. I should go back outside of the room and knock harder on the door.

I’m still pondering that option when she suddenly bolts awake. She sits up tall, dropping the teddy bear. Her eyes are wide as she gives a little screech. A moment later, she shouts, “Oh my God! What are you doing in here?”

“I’m sorry.” I feel like a heel. I’m not sure which one of us is more mortified. “You didn’t answer when I knocked. I was worried. I…”

She points at the door. “Get out.”

I blow out a breath. I don’t really want to walk away and ignore this. We should talk about it.

“Get out,” she shouts, louder this time. She scrambles to her feet and shoves at me, backing me out of her closet. “Oh my God…” As soon as she can get by me, she runs past me and into her bathroom, slamming the door.

I run a hand down my face. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I can’t just leave and pretend this didn’t happen. She might like that, but I won’t do it; it’s not practical. It’s high time we had a chat. We’ve needed to have this chat for about a year. I’ve put it offbecause she’s made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t want a confrontation with me about anything. But fuck that. Tonight, we’re having an overdue discussion.

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