Page 4 of Everything We Give

I roll my shoulders, loosening the apprehension that wants to settle there. I shower—hot date tonight—and when I don’t find a message or call notification from her afterward, I call her again. Uneasiness break-dances as I wait for her to pick up. I hate that feeling, especially when I land in her voice mail. Again. Damn.

I have good news I’m dying to share.

I want to talk with my wife.

I want to see my wife.

Visions of twisted metal, broken glass, and busy emergency rooms snap in my head like a camera flash on sports mode. I swear at myself, angry my mind even goes there. But the possibility of losing her, whether by accident or by choice, drives my thoughts in that direction. They’ve been taking that route often these last few months.

I call Aimee’s friend Kristen Garner. She could be visiting with her.

“Hi, Ian,” Kristen huffs into the phone. A very pregnant Kristen at nine and a half months. She and Nick are expecting their third child and the squirt is already overdue.

“Is Aimee there?” I ask, shooting past the small talk.

“No, she’s not.”

“Have you heard from her recently?”

“Not since yesterday. Is something wrong?”

“She wasn’t at the café when we were supposed to meet and she’s not answering her phone.”

“When did you last hear from her?”

“This morning before lunch.” I glance at the time. It’s almost six.

“I’m sure she’s fine. She could be shopping or something. Maybe her phone died.”

I should have thought of that. I pace the master bathroom thick with steam, a towel wrapped low on my hips. “You’re probably right.” But unlikely. She doesn’t ignore my calls or let her battery die.

I wipe condensation from the mirror with my forearm. Water beads on my skin. I blot my chest with a hand towel. The bathroom smells of aloe vera soap and the wooded spice of my shampoo.

“Do you want me to call Nadia?” Kristen offers.

“Nah, I’ll buzz her.” After I get dressed. My good news has made me overly anxious. Aimee will call soon enough. She’ll walk through the front door at any moment.

I call La Fondue and sweet-talk the hostess into a reservation. She puts a table for two in my name for eight thirty.

After dressing in dark washed jeans and a fitted black button-down, I try Aimee again. This time the phone rings and rings. I disconnect and bring up the texts I sent earlier. They’ve been read.

Say what?

I tap the corner of the phone against my forehead, trying not to read into this.

Admit it, Collins. You’re reading into this.

I rely on instinct to deliver the best moments to photograph. That award-winning instant captured in time. Right now, my instincts are telling me something is wrong.

I type out a short text—Are you hurt?—then tap the back key, editing my message toAre you OK?, else I sound overly dramatic. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I send the text and immediately three dots appear underneath. Her response comes an instant later. A simple word that has a knot expanding in my throat.

No.

No?That’s it?

I wait for the three dots to jump around on my screen again, hoping for an explanation to arrive. Something more than a cryptic no.

A minute passes and still nothing. My thumbs fly over the keyboard.

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