Page 57 of Witch's Wolf

I’d had high hopes for today.

I was so excited for Sam to pick me up. Had it all planned out. Visit a few romantic spots, starting with Lake Paxton. I loved it the first time I was there with Monica. And going with Sam, it would be even better. There was a river further north, named Venus after the Greek goddess of beauty. Monica had offered to take me, but I’d refused. I wanted to see it for the first time with Sam by my side. But my hopes crash and burn with a single text.

At least he had the decency to text and let me know he’d be late. Except he’s not late. He’s a no-show. The Crawford brothers had vanished for the entire day, starting with nothing but a vague text from Raul to Monica.

“Pack business. It’s too complicated for me to explain in a text. I’ll see you tonight.”

Tonight? Right.

Unless 2 a.m. somehow counts as ‘tonight.’ I’m exhausted. My hopes of a romantic evening were wasted on Scrabble with Monica instead of the plans I’d imagined. I went to bed alone. The complete opposite of what I’d hoped.

I wake up in my pink pajamas in a bad temper. Can’t get much further from waking up naked and smiling with sunlight spilling over tangled sheets and warm skin. I touch the empty space beside me. The sheets are cold and untouched.

Annoyance flares hot in my chest as I march downstairs, ready to unleash my frustration on the first person who crosses my path. Then I see it.

On the kitchen table sits a synthesizer. Old. Worn. The “O” in its brand name faded and barely visible, a crack on the top right edge. In the middle of the instrument sits a note. I walk over and pick the note up.

“Hey, girl,

This was all Ray could find yesterday. I hope it plays okay.

Please don’t be mad at me, but we won’t see each other today, either. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I wish it was in the workshop, but it’s pack related.

Love, Sam.”

I exhale sharply and crumple the note. Whatever kept the Crawford brothers away had to be big. Monica never complainedwhen Raul disappeared for a day or two, but this? This is different. Something is wrong. I feel it so deeply; it aches. But I’m not going to find out what it is today.

Disappointment mixes with anxiety as I pack. Closing my bag, I look around the room, feeling like I’m forgetting something, but unable to figure out what. I walk around the empty house, running my fingers over places and things that make me feel connected to him.

Finding nothing, I finally walk out the door. Pausing one last time, I linger in the door, wishing he was here. I don’t want to leave, not like this. No hug, no kiss.

It will be fine. He’s fine.

I’ll be back in twenty-four hours, then he can tell me all about why he bailed, and I’ll give him an earful about how it’s not okay. Which won’t happen right away, because Stacy’s coming with me when I return.

Sighing heavily, I get in my car and drive to the city.

I do my gig at Michelle’s, still waiting to hear more on the contract and go to sleep in my too big, too empty bed. Tossing and turning all night with anxiety that I might oversleep my alarm and waste even one minute of time with Sam.

It turns out to have been pointless. Sitting in my living room, I look at my phone for the umpteenth time. True to form, my redheaded friend, Stacy, is late. She’s on her way is the last text I have from her, which I keep opening up and staring at, as ifit will somehow magically give me more information about why she’s not here yet.

I pace the small room, go to the door, open it. Stare at the empty parking space that should hold her car. Shut the door, pace, sit. Wait. Go to the window. Stare. Pace. Sit. I want to get back to Crawford. Want to be in Sam’s arms.

Finally, I hear a car pulling up and run to the door. Throwing it open, relief fights with anger. It is her, which is great, but she’s also forty-minutes late.

“I know, I know! Traffic,” she says, getting out.

“Yeah,” I say, gritting my teeth.

There’s no point in arguing. We’ve had too many fights over her lack of punctuality, and she’s not going to change. Fighting with her about it will only put me in a worse mood and make the drive miserable. The last thing I want is to drive angry.

She’s here. We can go. It’s enough.

I take a deep breath and force my muscles to relax. It’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s not only her anyway. She’s a target that’s here, that I can see, and I don’t expect her to be any different than she is. I’m worried about Sam, who I still haven’t heard from. The unanswered texts to him hold a lot more of my attention than the time waiting on Stacy.

She gets her suitcase out of the backseat. Yanks it free, sets it down, slams the car door then presses the key fob, locking the doors.

“Put it in my car,” I say, going back inside to get my suitcase which I’d left sitting next to the door.

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