Page 55 of The Text

“Be there in five minutes,” the driver says.

“Okay, thanks.”

The neighborhood is typical middle class. Uniform homes. Manicured lawns. Mom-and-pop businesses peppered throughout. This is where Amber grew up. It’s not unlike where I spent my first four years of life before Dad took over the business from Grandpa and struck it rich. My memories of back then may be skewed, so it might not have been quite like this. But then again, who cares?

The car slows and stops in front of a two-story house made of brick. Nice.

I tap the front seat and tell the driver I’ll let myself out and I’m not sure how long I’ll be.

“Take your time, sir. I’m not going anywhere.”

I open the door and step out onto the curb. Straighten my suit while neighbors gawk, point, and whisper.

I give them a casual wave and proceed.

My hands are moist by the time I reach the house, and I dry them off on my pants. Raise my arm to knock, and the door magically opens.

A man walks out, and I stumble back. He closes the door. “May I help you?”

He’s the rugged type that works with his hands. Big shoulders, big forearms. Probably never lost an arm-wrestling match.

“Yes,” I say. “Is this the Allen residence?” Of course, I know it is. Ryder gave me the address, and their name is on the mailbox.

“Yep,” he answers.

“Amber here?”

“You missed her.”

My mind goes blank at his rapid response. I’m not able to respond. He’s looking at me like I’m Homer Simpson. I think he feels sorry for me.

For Christ’s sakes!

The guy offers me an out when he asks, “Would you like me to give her a message?”

I still have a catch in my throat.

“Message?”

Did he drag that word out like I don’t understand the meaning?Come on, Noah. Snap out of it.

“What’s your name?” I ask defensively. I don’t like this guy.

“Bob Franken. I’m Amber’s fiancé.”

My neck kinks and my stomach knots up.

“Fiancé?” I repeat.

“Yeah. Amber and I have been best friends since grade school, so when she got back from New York, I popped the question. Don’t want her leaving again. Chicago’s our home.”

Silence overtakes me again. Intense pain.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But I need to go. You’re sure you don’t want to leave a message?”

I shake my head.

“Wanna leave a name?”

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