Page 48 of Wallflower
The call goes through to his voicemail, and I stall on the second-last stair, refusing to give in to guilt and worry as I leave a message. I follow with two texts—one to Dad and another to Jennifer—then tuck the phone into my pocket.
The house is quiet. I slide across the floors on quiet feet to the gym, then the home office, around to both living rooms then out to the back porch, but Chord isn’t here.
That odd hollow in my stomach gets deeper in his absence, but I don’t know why. It’s kind of like the feeling I get when I’ve forgotten to tick an item off a list or left a conversation unfinished.Somethingfeels undone, and now that I know I’m in the house alone, the nagging sensation only gets stronger.
When my stomach growls—very specifically for something salty… and hot… and greasy—I head to the kitchen, phoning Dad again on the way. Again, he doesn’t answer, and I coach my way out of panic. I check the clock on the wall. It’s mid-afternoon, and I can’t believe I slept a solid twelve hours, but more concerning is that it’s been nearly two days since I spoke to my dad.
I chew on my lip and try to think, but it’s hard with the pounding in my head. Dad not answering his phone doesn’t have to mean anything. He may be out getting groceries or watching television. Reading. Cooking. Walking. I’m not a bad daughter because I forgot to call him one time.
That’s what I tell myself, but the gnawing in my gut makes it impossible to believe.
I maximize the ringer volume on my phone and set it face up on the kitchen counter, then go searching for food. Water. Aspirin.
Before I’ve taken three steps, I stall at the bright pink note stuck to the front of the refrigerator, covered with Chord’s messy hand noting today’s date and a list of things for me to do.
Oh, no.Work. I forgot about work. I need salt and painkillers and fluid in an IV before I can face my computer screen.
I pluck the paper from the fridge and scan the first item.
1. First things first. There’s aspirin in the cabinet above the fridge.
Oh, thank God. I drop the note, find the bottle, and down two tablets with relief before scooping up the list from where it fell to the floor. My eyes snap straight to item two.
2. Read last night’s text messages.
“Oh, no.” The hollow, nagging something explodes into panic as I snatch up my phone and close my eyes, too afraid to look and see what I did last night. “No, no, no, no,no.”
I open my text messages and my exchanges with Chord jump from the screen. I read them through twice, and then sink to my ass right there on the hardwood floor.
My first impulse is to be mortified—and I am; this is humiliating—but my heart races for another reason. I scroll back and stare at his texts until the words are burned into my brain. Chord thinks about me. Naked. No, sorry. He thinks about me only half-naked and wearing a flimsy blue thong.
I bite my lip as I rewrite every look he’s given me, and now that I know he’s been thinking bad thoughts, I squeeze my thighs together to ease the needy ache between my legs.
Recalling that there were more things written on his list, I latch onto the counter and haul myself up, find the note, and read the next line.
3. Check your voice messages.
My hand shakes from one-part nerves, ninety-nine-part anticipation as I swipe through to the correct screen. There’s a voicemail from Chord waiting for me, with a time stamp at three-oh-seven a.m. I tap to listen, and a heavy breath bursts from my chest at the first spine-tingling note of his deep, smooth voice.
“Hey, Wallflower. I just carried you and your boots to bed. Laid you down. Tucked you in. Swept your hair from your face and turned out the light. We had an interesting conversation on the way home, and I don’t want you to forget it, so here’s what I told you. I like you—reallylike you—and you asked me why. It’s because you’re smart and sweet and selfless—all the things I’m not. You’re sexy as hell, and I can’t stop looking at you. Thinking about you. Remembering you—just like I said in those texts. You told me you like me, too. Not my career. Not my name. Not my car or my house or the parties I could take you to. Just me. And I know you were drunk when you said it, but I believed you, and I’m hoping you don’t take it all back when you wake. Sleep tight, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I might be hyperventilating, but I still replay Chord’s message three times more from start to finish.You’re smart and sweet and selfless. You’re sexy as hell. You like me too. I believed you. Don’t take it all back.
Those words in that voice make me warm all over, and there’s no way this moment can get any better, but I still want more when I check the list for the final item.
4. When you’re ready, call the restaurant and tell them you’re awake. I ordered one of everything on the menu, but if you’re craving something special, they’ll make it for you. I’m at the main house for Izzy’s family game night, and if I’m not back before you go to bed tonight, I’ll be counting the minutes until our drive tomorrow.
Tomorrow. I’ve arranged for Chord to inspect three potential apartments in San Francisco, and he wants me there with him—ostensibly to take notes. Once we’re done, Chord needs to meet the manager at the facility where he leases storage to discuss whatever mysterious stuff he keeps in there, and then he has an appointment with his accountant.
He won’t want me tagging along for either of those appointments, so I plan to sneak away and see my dad. I haven’t mentioned this to either Dad or Chord in case I can’t get away, but now that I’ve missed a nightly check-in and my father isn’t answering my messages, I’ll have to make it work.
I send Dad another text—a quickAre you okay?I try to keep it casual so he doesn’t think I’m parenting him, but when he reacts to my text with a thumbs up, I sigh with relief. He’s there. He’s okay. And this time tomorrow, I can hug him and make sure with my own eyes that he’s doing fine.
As the last tendril of worry unravels itself and the aspirin works its magic on the throbbing behind my eyes, I clutch Chord’s list against my chest and call the restaurant. Within half an hour, the most divine-smelling delivery arrives on the doorstep, followed by black-clad waitstaff who set the table, arrange everything just right, and leave me with more food than I could possibly eat.
I load up a plate and consider taking it to my room where I can curl up and sketch while I eat, but the empty living room with its deep, soft sofa and wide-screen television is calling my name. So, I find an episode ofGilmore Girlsand snuggle up with a blanket that I really don’t need but can’t resist.
Maybe I’m still under the influence of last night’s alcohol, but I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a twenty-eight-year-old without worries. There’s space in my chest that wasn’t there before and a looseness in my muscles that I’ve never known.
