Page 4 of Splintered
Ben stared at the chandelier. He’d hated it as a kid. It had been spooky and weird. Now it felt like one of the last anchors he had in his world turned upside down.At least I’ll always have you.
Downstairs, Evan raced around the kitchen, dumping burnt toast in the garbage, throwing new slices of bread in the toaster, pouring orange juice, scrambling eggs, plucking too-hot strips of bacon from an angry pan that spat grease at his bare arms. He’d already showered and dressed, at least halfway. His suit pants were perfect, pressed and starched and hugging his ass. His button-down hung on a hanger on the doorknob as he cooked in his undershirt, darting away from grease missiles.
“Hey.” Evan spared him a glance as he flipped the eggs. Shredded cheese melted into the scramble. He slid a chopped tomato in next, stirring before flipping the gas off and pouring it all onto one plate. Toast popped, and he spun for the new—unburnt—slice. Three strips of bacon landed on the plate next to the eggs, toast shoved beside it all, and Evan slid it across the island, next to a fork and a glass of orange juice set for one.
“Did you—”
“I need to go in early today.” Evan was already buttoning his shirt, tucking in the tails before doing up the cuffs. He wasn’t wearing the cufflinks Ben had bought him for their second anniversary. “I’m behind on a few things. Might have to work late.” He wouldn’t meet Ben’s gaze as he shrugged into his jacket. “Don’t wait up for me.”
Or, you’re already gone. You’re already going out. You’re already seeing someone else. You’re already hitting up the apps.Ben nodded once.
“I… made you breakfast.” Evan sighed. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, like there were words fighting to get out. His expression twisted like he’d taken a punch to the gut.
He ran his hands through his hair, grabbed his briefcase, and dropped a dry kiss to the side of Ben’s lips. “Bye.”
The garage door slamming shut sounded final. Was that goodbye forever? Was that what the end sounded like? With the smell of burnt toast and scrambled eggs and still-sizzling bacon and the tang of fresh-squeezed orange juice?
Ben walked out of the kitchen. It would have been better to hide in the shower.
* * *
Chapter Two
The animalsof fifth period had left him with a throbbing headache and ringing ears, and Ben collapsed at his desk in the back of his classroom after the sophomores stampeded out. He leaned back, rolled his neck. True Medieval history was not what the teens had spent their childhoods playing. Most kids were amped to learn about armor-bedecked knights and castles under siege. At least, at first. Their eyes began to droop, as did their grades, when he broke out the feudal system.
And bored teens were mischievous teens.
He grabbed his phone, wondering for a moment if Evan had texted. He banished the hope before his screen unlocked. There’d be no more of that. Evan hadn’t texted from New York. Why would he text from twenty miles away?
For a moment, he wondered what Evan was doing.
No, he didn’t want to wonder. Bile rose, but he smothered it down.
No texts from Evan, but a message from his dry cleaner reminding him to pick up his cleaning and a coupon from the gourmet burger place he and Evan liked eat at. Totally organic, completely earthy, absolutely hipster. They loved the food and giggled at the ambience and went as often as they could. Or, they had.
He did have a missed call from a number he didn’t recognize and one voicemail. Who actually left voicemails anymore? He’d joked once that he was going to change his message greeting to instructions on how to text. Evan had been horrified. Evan lived and died by his phone, being in sales. His phone was his third hand.
Ben almost didn’t bother to listen.I’ve had enough of listening to anyone speak for the rest of the day.Maybe the week. A weekend of silence was what he wanted. And what he’d most likely get.
He mashed his thumb on the voicemail button, letting the twenty second message play on speaker as he held his head in his hands. Probably spam.
“Mr. Haynes, this is Jeremy Garrett calling from GLS. You’re listed as Evan Lombardi’s emergency contact. Can you please call me back as soon as you get this?”
He left his direct number and his cell phone.
Fuck. Ben reached for his cell, dropped it as he scrambled, and dove under his desk, crawling for the still-lit screen, the message replaying, the options being read out in mechanical voice.To delete, press seven, to save, press nine, to return the call, press—
He pressed. And waited.
What the hell is going on? Why was GLS calling him? Evan’s work? His heart squeezed, tighter than he thought it could, tighter than it had when Evan had left for his New York interview.
Had something happened to Evan? Visions of the bridge, the Golden Gate, the jumper’s bridge, flashed like a newsreel, a black and white flip book, hands grabbing the railing, a body hefting over—
But if it was that, it would be the police calling, not Jeremy Garrett. Who was Jeremy Garrett?
The phone rang and rang against his ear. He hung up, listened to the message again, and scratched out Jeremy Garrett’s cell phone number. As he dialed, he pulled up Google and typed in Jeremy’s name and GLS.
Jeremy Garrett, Vice President of Human Resources.
