Something wasn’t right about this shit.

The more I thought about it, the tears on Erika’s face, the way she’d reacted to what I’d said this afternoon, the more I suspected something was off.

I pulled up outside Marc’s old apartment building, which overlooked Central Park, and paid the cabbie. Got out, studied the sidewalk, the steps which lead up to the glass front door. How was it that this place could look so familiar, yet seem so different at the same time?

We’d spent years living a stone’s throw from each other, both in Syracuse and in NYC, but it was changed now. Tainted.

I brought out my cell and checked the chain of text messages between us, starting with my “We need to talk,” and ending with his indication of a time that would suit him. When I’d texted this morning, it had been out of fucking desperation.

Talking to Marc about shit that pissed me off had always been my solution or had brought solutions to problems. But the desperation had abated and been replaced by questions.

Why the hell had Erika come to see me? Why did she want to talk, if what Marc had told me about Jason was true? Surely she’d want to leave me in the past as she’d originally planned?

Something ain’t right. I’d been repeating that over and over to myself all day.

Either I was onto something here, or I was, once again, desperate to find a way to exonerate Erika from the crimes I’d mentally charged her with. The crime of using me, of trying to break me, of choosing another man over me.

What kind of man cares about that shit? This kind of man. This kind of fucking man.

I entered the lobby, reported myself at the front desk, and didn’t wait for the receptionist to call up to Marc’s apartment. I headed for the elevator and punched the button for the top floor.

A couple minutes later, I was outside his front door, knocking like a man possessed. And maybe I was, possessed by questions at least, and obsessed with answers.

Marc opened up and let me in, blinking as if he’d just woken up from a deep sleep. “Hey,” he said, as I stormed past him and into the living room. The place was in a state of disarray. Boxes overflowing with packing material, one of the sofas on its side.

“Moving,” I said.

“Yeah,” Marc replied. “Jess and I decided it was time for a fresh start, upstate somewhere. Not Syracuse.”

Disappointment settled over my shoulders. This was what had become of our lifelong friendship? We’d spent years living down the street from each other, and now, he’d chosen to move, and I hadn’t even known.

Fuck it, he’d cut me out. He was still angry about the Erika affair.

“What’s up, Noah? You look like shit.”

“Same to you,” I replied, gesturing to his coffee-stained shirt then the dark circles under his eyes. “Trouble in paradise?”

“No, I just hate moving.” He shut the front door then walked over to the upright sofa and plonked down on it. “So, what’s up, Noah? I know we, uh, spoke the other day, but I wouldn’t call it reconciling. What do you need?”

That was his way of telling me that this was nothing more than a passing conversation. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven the fact that I’d broken my promise. I didn’t blame him for it. “I need the truth.”

“Huh?” Marc pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come on, dude, you’re going to have to give me a little more than that.”

“The truth, Marc, about Erika.”

“Once again… Huh?”

“She came to see me today. At St. Katherine’s,” I said. “Why?”

“Fuck if I know, bro. I’m not exactly in her good books at the moment. She won’t accept my calls. She kicked me out of her office the other day.” Marc shrugged at me. “Maybe she felt you two had unfinished business.” He shifted his gaze away and to one of the boxes, then fell silent.

The quiet spread uninterrupted. He didn’t look at me, but nodded to the boxes, counting them? Pretending to?

“You’d tell me if there was more to this,” I said, boring into him with my stare. “You’d tell me.”

“Dude, there’s nothing to tell except what I have already. I mean, if there was, she would’ve told you herself, this afternoon, right?”

“Right.” Except I hadn’t given her a chance. I’d told her to get out, to deal with her problems, that she was on her own and that she’d made her bed. I hadn’t given her a chance to tell me anything. “Right.” I lifted my cell out of my pocket again, looked at the screen.

“What are you doing?” Marc asked, lifting his head.

“Calling her,” I replied, and unlocked the screen. “I have a weird feeling about this.”

“There’s no point, man.” Marc got up and walked over. He didn’t dare touch me, knew better than that, but he did stare down at the phone. “She’s not going to answer your call. You two are over.”

I pressed dial regardless and lifted the phone to my ear.

“The number you have dialed does not exist,” the cool, robotic voice said.

I jerked the phone away from my head and stared at it. “What?”

“What?” Marc asked.

“I think—fuck it, I think she changed her number.” But how could she have? In one afternoon? Of course she could. It was the fact that she had that struck me right between the damn eyes. I’d upset her so much, written her off so thoroughly, that she’d either blocked my number or changed hers.

“Why do you care, man?” Marc asked. “She’s with someone else now. She’s moved on.”

“I’m telling you,” I said, “something isn’t right. The way she acted today…” Why would she have been that upset unless she cared? And why had she come to see me in the first place? “This doesn’t make sense.” I charged toward the door.

“What are you going to do?” Marc called after me.

I threw open his apartment door, then looked back over my shoulder at him. He was diminished, sinking in on himself, not the man I’d known all these years. “I’m going to find her,” I replied.