Page 42 of The Austen Escape
Time stopped—at least on my end. It seemed to take a beat on his end too, because he rushed on after an inordinately long pause.
“I’m sorry, Mary. I thought I called someone... You did just say... I... Did you say you have Isabel Dwyer’s phone? Or did I call you?”
I imagined him pulling his phone away from his ear and staring at it—his brow furrowing and his top lip dragging through his teeth like they did whenever he concentrated. I could practically hear the questions spinning through his brain.Did I call Mary? Did I call Isabel? Why is she answering Isabel’s phone?
And if I wasn’t sure laughter would tip to tears, I would have laughed at the absurdity of it all—at every single aspect of my life.
“You called Isabel’s phone. We’re on vacation together.”
“You’re in England with Isabel Dwyer? How do you even know her?”
I countered with a “How do you?” then cringed. My tone was aggressive, defensive, and hurt—all conveyed clearly in three little words. “Sorry... We’re friends. Best friends since second grade, I guess. How do you know her?”
“We... have a bunch of mutual friends. She left me a voice mail, and I was just calling her back... Did you know I knew her? Why didn’t you say something? Did you think—Why didn’t you tell me you knew we both...”
Nathan sounded as flustered as I felt.
“Me? No one told me anything.” My tone wasn’t defensive or hurt now—only aggressive. The pieces fell into place. Six months of pieces fell into place and got capped off with last night’sWho? I never thought much of him.Isabel knew exactly who. “You’re datingIsabel.” The realization came, not as a lightbulb, but as a slow dawning. “I wish you had told me, Nathan. Isabel... She never said a word. How long have you two been dating?”
“It’s not like that. I met her with a couple friends in March and we exchanged numbers. She called me.”
Seven months.After he’d started working at WATT. After we’d met. After I’d told Isabel all about him. I closed my eyes. My face flamed. “She gave you her number. She called you... She knew who you were.” I saw the scene, felt it too. “I’ll tell her you called.” I lowered the phone from my ear.
“Wait; don’t hang up.”
I pulled it back. “It’s okay, Nathan. I’ll tell her you called, but it’s going to be a few days before I do, before she can call you back.” I pressed my thumb and pointer finger into the corners of my eyes. Questions and answers, so many answers, flooded my brain. It hurt. Each and every question and the story I was imagining simultaneously overwhelmed and tore apart something inside me.
“Wha—”
I cut him off. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t breathe. “I can’t deal with this right now. She’ll call you, I promise, but not for a while because I can’t reach her, I can’t tell her you called, and I don’t know what to do and I’m alone over here and—” Tears filled my throat and burst beyond my fingers. I tapped off the phone and tossed it on her bed.
It rang.TCG. I clicked decline.
My phone rang.
Nathan Hillam. I tapped decline. It rang again. I tapped again. It rang again. I tapped accept but couldn’t speak.
“Don’t hang up.”
I scrubbed at my eyes and held the phone away from me forseveral deep breaths. I refused to let him hear the tears. Finally a breath came out without a shudder. “What do you need?”
“I need to talk to you or listen to you. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t, Nathan. I feel like an idiot right now and there’s nothing you can do.”
“What do you mean you can’t reach Isabel? You just said you were with her.”
“I am. I mean... I can’t explain.”
“Try.” His voice was calm.
“You always say that.” The tears were evident in my voice. I pressed my lips shut. But he stayed silent. And I soon found myself, despite everything and a steady flow of tears, telling him what had happened only hours before and how that aligned with fifteen years ago.
“Can you bring her home?”
I shook my head, then realized he couldn’t see it. “I just got a text from my dad. He’s talking to her doctor. I’ll get more details, but right now they say no... She’s happy here. Her expression is clear—like there aren’t any shadows or pain, if that makes sense, and before, that’s how she was at our house. There’s a man here, Grant, who works with the horses, and he saw it too. He’s been in combat; he wasn’t comparing Isabel to a horse.” I flopped back onto the bed.
“How can I help?”
