After the longest day thus far at Ocotillo, I’m finally able to finally break away from everything, get out of the place, and somehow drive myself home.

I pull up to my place and wearily push the car door open, staggering across the parking lot, feeling dead on my feet already.

I’m not sure if the stars were lining up in the wrong ways, but it seemed like everyone had something ridiculous to nitpick, and it just never stopped.

Jorge was the only person who was able to really hold it all together and pull us through the storm.I’m starting to lose track of how much of a debt I owe him. If only I could channel some of that calming energy into myself.

I check my phone on the way up to see a text from Jorge himself, asking me to make sure that Claire is okay. According to Jorge, she left in a hurry right at closing time, and she didn’t even stay behind to help the rest of the team clean up.

I furrow my brow. What does he mean by that?

I sense a vaguely accusatory tone in there, as if he suspects I’m the one who told her she could leave early.

I type out a response, letting him know she must have been feeling ill.

I exit the elevator and head to my apartment door, then I turn the handle, expecting it to open for me. It’s locked.

I get my key out and push the door open, stepping inside to a dark living room.

“Claire?” I call.

No answer. She must not be here. Did she go back to her own apartment?

I haven’t missed a call from her, have I? I pull out my phone again. Nope. Nothing from her.

I try calling her cell phone.

I kick off my shoes and pace around the living room as I wait for her to pick up, but it goes to voicemail after a few rings. I call again, but I get the same result.

Concerned, I type out a text while I head to the bathroom.

Jorge said you left in a hurry tonight— everything ok? Got me worried. Give me a call.

I set the phone on the toilet tank while I wash my face in warm water, getting all the grimy feeling of the day off, and once I’ve patted my face dry, I glance to the phone, expecting to see a text back.

Nothing.

I’m starting to get really worried now, so I send out a few texts to ask the other employees if any of them know where Claire ran off to.

But before I even get one text back, I can’t ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. She could very well still be mad about what happened earlier this evening.

I wish I hadn’t snapped at her, but to say we were overwhelmed was an understatement. She was justified in being upset, but if she could have just waited a little longer . . .

Texts start rolling back, and the consensus is that everyone was stressed this evening, so it’s not too surprising that she stormed out looking like she was a few seconds from snapping.

That’s a relief. Everyone has been busy this week—tonight especially.

Claire has been under extra pressure, too. Of course she’d be upset and strung out.

She must have just hit her limit. As I get ready for bed, I decide that I’ll have a talk with her before work tomorrow morning and smooth everything out.

That’s the last thought on my mind as I lay down to bed, drifting off into a comfortable sleep.

Tomorrow, everything will be just fine.