Page 37 of A Monstrous Claim, Part 2

How can I be in a hurry when I have nowhere to go?

As we leave the apartment complex and roll down the road, Oscar turns the music up to a tolerable level and we ride without much small talk. I lean my head against the window, hardly paying attention to the buildings that whip by in a blur, and let my mind wander again.

I should be tired of thinking about the same things repeatedly, but it seems to be the only thing that can entertain my troubled mind. Thoughts of the mansion and the war waging in the monster realm. Thoughts of Elio, Azarius, and Rafe. I wonder if the fighting has started yet, or if they’re still making strategic alliances in preparation.

Has anyone been hurt? Killed? Have they figured out what happened to Ignatius?

Things would be so much easier if I had a way to contact them, a way to ask them what’s going on. If I was clued in or kept in the loop, I doubt I’d be half as stressed as I am now.

“Miss Devyn.” My name snaps me out of my thoughts, and I finally realize we’ve stopped. The strip mall I chose is to our right, and I sit up straight, my cheeks warming with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” I apologize hastily, and fumble in my purse for a tip. When I try to hand him the dollar bills, he waves them away.

“Buy yourself a coffee instead.” He shakes his head. “You seem like you need it.”

And here I thought I looked normal. Not even a pound of makeup can disguise my troubled soul from strangers.

I’ve got it bad.

With a forced smile, I thank him and step out of the car, heading for the coffee shop at the end of the strip. I’ve never been here, but I’ve driven by it enough times before to know they sell coffee and specialty donuts. I’m not in the mood for either, but I slip inside without a second thought and order from the laminated menu on the counter.

My thoughts hazy, I make my way to a small table by the window and stare without seeing out at the parking lot until my order is ready. I barely taste it as I sit in silence eating, but at least I’m out of the apartment.

That has to count for something, right?

I’m hardly convinced. It doesn’t matter if I’m stuck in the apartment or out on the town. How can I function when I feel so incomplete?

I sigh and pull out my cell phone, scrolling absentmindedly through the device until I find an old text thread with Cara. It’s four months old. The last thing we talked about was who was going to run to the store for spaghetti sauce. It was me–I was already out and the store was on my way home–and it wound up being the best spaghetti she’d ever made.

I crack a smile at the memory, and for the first time I realize that my mates aren’t the only ones I miss. I miss my old roommate and our silly conversations. I miss having a friend I can confide in, and while I can’t tell her the truth about where I’ve been, maybe talking to someone besides myself will help me shake this funk I’m in.

If she’ll even speak to me.

After all, it’s been months since we’ve spoken, and when I left I stopped talking to her abruptly. It wasn’t my fault–human technology doesn’t work when it crosses through the portal–but I can’t tell her that.

Is it even worth calling her if I have to keep her in the dark about most things? Will she get frustrated with me skirting around the truth and blatantly lying to her face?

It’s possible. It might be one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had, but I’m at a total loss.

I can’t go on like this.

I’ve fought against the loneliness, and I’ve done my best to handle this entirely alone, but I’m exhausted. Mentally and emotionally drained. And if there’s anyone in the entire world that can understand, it’s her.

At least, I hope she understands.

If not, I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I’ll cross that bridge if I get to it.

Nervously, I hit the call button and put the phone to my ear, unsure if she’ll even answer. What if she has a new number? What if she sees it’s me and rejects the call? It rings several times, each chime chipping away at my hopes of her answering, until finally her voice is at the other end of the line.

“Devyn?” she says, her familiar tone sending a wave of relief rolling through me. “Is it you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” I force a laugh. “Are you working?”

“I just got off. Why? What are you doing?”

“Sitting at Carlton’s Coffee Shop,” I say, hoping the name sounds familiar to her, which it does.

“Holy shit, you’re here? In Atlanta?”

---