39
Today has wracked up to be one the shittiest days on record, and now I have to rehash the whole thing with Chelsea. I let myself into the flat. It's just after five and dark. I flip on the entry light, toss my keys onto the table, and freeze. There's a single key lying there. It's not the key Barbie used, because that one's in my pocket. I pull it out to make sure I'm not hallucinating and set it on the table next to the other one.
"Chelsea," I call, trying to ignore my unease. Stepping into the living room, my foot crunches on something. I flick on the living room light and see a piece of blue glass crunched beneath my shoe. I notice another shard a few feet away and more until my eyes land on Barbie's dead plant and the remnants of the broken planter. That didn't happen by accident.
My gut clenches. "Chelsea!" I call and rush to the bedroom. Everything is in order, the bed is made, and yet something is different. When I turn and see the open closet door, my heart drops. Her side is empty. Her suitcases are gone.
Please Chelsea, don't have done this, but when I go to the dresser and open her drawers, they're bare. Fuck!
I pound my fist on the dresser, the change jar jumps. Why the hell would she leave, and where did she go? I look for a note, but there's nothing. I certainly didn't think I said anything worth leaving over.
I plug my phone into the charger by the nightstand. Last night I neglected to recharge it, leaving me with a dying battery. The last call I got was from my agent. He called while I was walking through the park trying to come to terms with the fallout from bombshell Barbie dumped on me.
Sitting on the side of the bed, I power up and see all the missed texts and messages from Chelsea. Shit. Each one sounds more worried than the last until I hear her wounded voice in the final message. My heart slams against my chest. What the hell happened? I told her I'd be back. Granted it took a helluva lot longer than expected, thanks to Sean's call about a screen test. The director and producer of a movie project I've been up for made a last minute call and I had no choice. I was painfully unprepared and likely tanked it, and now Chelsea's gone.
I dial her back, bouncing my knee while it rings. Pick up, pick up, pick up. She doesn't, but I swear I hear her phone. I listen as it rings and follow the sound. It rings near the bed and then stops as the call goes to voice mail. I don't see her phone, so I call again. This time it's louder and I find the phone on the floor between the bedside table and the bed.
I hold her phone, with the teal-colored case and cracked screen from when she threw it after seeing her dad. She wouldn't have left without it, and I imagine must have dropped it by accident. I try to unlock the security setting. If I can get in, I can figure out who else she called today and hopefully where she went. She couldn't have gone far with all her bags in tow. Unless she went to the airport. Dammit. She might have gone back to Iowa. I hang my head.
God, how could things get out of hand so fast? Everything was great, or I thought it was. Granted Chelsea wasn't happy watching me on stage with Tanya, but I thought we were past that.
But Barbie, that was ugly. The woman's a high-heeled python. How I ever got caught up with her, I'll never understand. But why would Chelsea up and leave instead of wait and talk to me?
My phone pings, and I lunge for it. It's Sean asking how the screen test went. I text him back. So bad that even I wouldn't hire me. Add this one to the 'colossal waste of time file.' I check the time. I'm late for work.
I bring my charger along with Chelsea's damaged phone. At the theatre I throw myself into work. I'm freakin' out over Chelsea leaving, and the only way to get through the show is to focus and block out the rest of the world. I stay to myself right up until places so I can disappear into my character. It's easy to hide from the problems in life when you're pretending to be someone else, but at intermission reality crashes back as I race to my dressing room to see if she called, or better yet, is waiting for me. But I'm disappointed on both accounts. I hold her cracked phone in my palm, willing it to ring.
Christ, what the hell am I supposed to do? I toss her phone on the cluttered dressing table and it rings loudly. I startle and stare at it as if I somehow made it ring. It rings again. It's Anna calling.
"Hello?"
"Tom?" Anna's confused that it isn't Chelsea.
"Yeah, it's me. Have you heard from Chelsea?"
"Uh, no. That's why I'm calling. She was supposed to call me back and never did. Is she okay?" Anna asks hesitantly as if really asking something else.
I stand and turn away from the mirror. "I don't know. When I got home, she was gone. Packed up and moved out."
"Oh, no!"
"But she forgot her phone. Please tell me you know where she is?"
"All I know is that she was really upset and dreaming up scenarios of why you didn't come home or call her all day."
I rub my head. "Today was a total cluster. I had no idea she was upset."
"Now you do," she says with a little bit of bite.
Fine. This whole mess is my fault.
Anna continues. "Ever since she ran into her dad, she's been hurting again."
"I thought she was doing better."
"She's good at hiding her pain. I guess today pushed her over the edge."
Of course. Her dad run in, then seeing me with Tanya, and then Barbie. "Anna, is there any chance she's flying back to Iowa tonight?"
"She didn't mention it, but it's possible."
Five minutes to places sounds over the intercom.
"Could you call if you hear anything at all? I can't imagine where she went and I hate the idea of her on her own."
"What's your number, so I can call you direct?"
We exchange numbers. "I'm sorry, but I've got to run. I'll call after the show. Hopefully she'll have contacted you by then."
But after the show, Anna still hasn't heard anything. I walk home in the bitter cold feeling desolate as I look up at the dark windows of my flat. Chelsea, where are you?