Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
The caption simply reads, “Mr. and Mrs. Walter Jennings II.”
I push the paper aside and take a bite of my eggs.
Oof. Somehow they’re worse than they look, if that’s even possible. After my first bite, I ignore my plate and focus on my coffee. I try very hard not to look down at the newspaper again. I mostly succeed, but every now and then, my eyes betray me.
I tug the paper toward me again and narrow my gaze on us. God, we look adorable. In love.
I purposefully place my coffee cup on top of the image, blocking it from my view. That works well until I want to take another sip of coffee.
My phone vibrates beside the newspaper with a call from Matthew.
I don’t answer it. Instead, I tap my fingers on the table, waiting for it to go to voicemail, and then I immediately listen to the message he left me.
“Elizabeth, hey. It’s Matthew. I know you might not want to talk to me right now, but listen, I hope you’re okay. Walt called me last night worried about you. He asked if I’d seen you, which made no sense until he told me you’d moved out. Did I miss something? You guys seemed pretty good the other night…I don’t know. I’m probably the last person you want to talk to, but if you do want to talk, I’m here. I swear I’m your friend, not just an informant for my brother.” He laughs. “Anyway, yeah, seriously, I hope you’re okay. Right. Bye.”
I feel bad for ignoring his call, so I text him back.
Elizabeth: Hey, thanks for checking in. I’m fine.
Matthew: Hey. You sure?
Elizabeth: Yeah, just figuring some stuff out. All good.
Matthew: My brother’s really worried about you. Not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I’ve never seen him like this.
A part of me wants to ask him to elaborate. What’s he doing? Wallowing? Is he angry? Sad? How sad? But I know it’s not a good idea. Instead, I silence my phone, clear my table, and head back upstairs to my room to get to work.
I don’t look at my phone again the rest of the day. I have to focus on this final piece for my show, and the last thing I want to do is get distracted and not fulfill my promise to Nadiya to have it done in time. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for my career, and as much as I want to draw the curtains and curl up in my bed, I have to just compartmentalize. Work now, fall into a pit of despair after my show in Paris.
It’s not until I’m lying in bed at 11:32 PM, about to go to sleep, that I check my phone again and see a missed call from Walt from this afternoon.
Following that, he sent a text.
Walt: I guess I’m supposed to give you space, but I can’t. Meet me for dinner? We need to talk, and I leave for a device conference in California tomorrow morning.
Instead of texting him back, I scroll to my recently missed calls and hover my thumb over his name. God, I want to talk to him. I miss him so much it hurts to lie here knowing he’s only a ten-minute drive away.
I press my thumb down on his name before I can second-guess myself, and then my heart races as the phone rings. Anticipation sends my pulse into overdrive. In a moment, I’ll hear his voice. I’ll close my eyes and listen as he talks and I’ll pretend everything is going to be fine. He and I will figure this out.
But the call never connects. Walt must already be asleep. I set my phone on the bedside table, roll away from it, and close my eyes.
In the morning, I check my phone to see the first in a series of missed connections.
Walt: Hey, I was asleep when you called. I had to be at the airport at 4:45 AM so I crashed early. Call me when you wake up.
I call him, but he must still be on the airplane.
Later, when I’m in the shower, he calls back. I curse, absolutely furious at the universe for doing this to us.
When I call him back, he answers on the first ring.
“Elizabeth.”
“Walt. Hi. Sorry. We keep—”
“Missing each other. I know. Listen, I’m about to go up on stage here in a few minutes for a keynote.”
“Mr. Jennings,” a man says in the background. “We need to do a mic check.”
He sighs, sounding like he’s at his wit’s end. “Elizabeth, I’ll call you later when I get back to my hotel room. Have your phone on you.”
“Okay.”
I do exactly as he says. I turn my phone’s volume to the loudest setting and keep it by me all day while I paint, while I email with Nadiya, while I coordinate a pick-up time for my completed canvas with Mark from Stein Gallery, while I walk to get a cheap dinner from a takeout place down the street, while I eat on a park bench, watching kids play a pickup game of tag football.