Page 32 of A Man To Remember
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark and cruel. I've picked it up maybe twenty times, started typing messages I'll never send.
Are you okay?
I'm sorry I told you like that.
Please don't do anything stupid.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
I roll over, punch my pillow, try a different position. Nothing works. My brain won't shut off, keeps replaying the evening on an endless loop.
I just couldn't help myself, could I? Had to run my stupid mouth, vomit out the truth that never had to see the light of day. What was I trying to accomplish, anyway? Make him feel guilty? Even more than he already does?
I'm such a fucking asshole.
Around four AM, I give up on sleep entirely. I pace my apartment, edit photos that don't need editing, clean equipment that's already spotless. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.
It doesn't work.
By seven, I'm checking my phone obsessively. No missed calls. No texts. Radio silence from Jesse's end, which could mean anything. Could mean nothing.
Could mean everything.
The not knowing is killing me.
I try to distract myself with work. Review the shots from yesterday's session, make notes for today's schedule. But my concentration is shot, and I keep finding excuses to look at the clock.
Eight AM. Nine. Ten.
When my phone finally buzzes around noon, I practically lunge for it. But it's just one of the models, confirming his schedule.
The rest of the day drags on forever, and by the afternoon I find myself standing in my kitchen drinking coffee that tastes like ash, analyzing the damage I might have caused.
Wondering if he's okay.
Wondering if I care too much.
Wondering if I care enough.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. I grab my keys and head for the door, leaving my equipment behind. I shoot a text to my model, rescheduling the session I've had confirmed just hours ago. Work can wait. It's not like I'd be able to do a good job tonight anyway.
The drive to Skin on Skin takes forever. I park haphazardly. The bouncer recognizes me now, waves me through without checking the list.
Inside, the club is quieter than usual for this time of day. Fewer bodies, less chaos. I navigate the now-familiar space on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me toward the bar.
Sawyer is there, polishing glasses with mechanical precision. He looks up when I approach.
"Hey, man." He sets down the glass and towel.
I look around, my eyes scanning for a glimpse of a familiar face. "Hi. Is Jesse—"
"Called in sick today," he says.
I grab the edge of the bar, my knees suddenly wobbly as dark clouds form deep inside my brain. He seemed perfectly healthy yesterday.
Until—
"Did he say what kind of sick?" I try to keep my voice casual, but fail.
