I roll over onto my stomach and catch a small ray of sunshine peeking through the corner of the blinds right into my eye. I squint and wish it away, eventually tossing a pillow at it. That makes it worse by opening up an even larger hole that now shines on my entire face. Burying my head in my arms, I remember that Isabella is in my bed, and I roll over to face her.
She’s gone. Sitting up and looking around the room, her clothes are not on the floor, but the bathroom light is on and the door is shut. I lay back down, waiting for her to finish her business. God damn, she was amazing last night. She felt like forever, and the walls around my heart cracked. Every inch of her was exquisite and soft, perfectly giving and taking in unison.
The last thing on my mind was making love to her. She surprised me. I closed the bar early to check on her when my calls weren’t answered. I wanted to apologize and I tried to give her time, but worry won out. I offered the last patron one free future bar bill if they’d leave right then. When I stood in the doorway to the den, I could tell she was sleeping so I grabbed a quick shower.
There aren’t any noises coming from the bathroom, so I get up to check on her. Tapping the door quietly, “Isabella, are you alright?” I ask. She doesn’t answer. I tap again without any reply. My hand twists the doorknob and it opens to an empty room.
I run through the house, yelling her name. The only reply is the echo of her name off the walls. Her crutches and purse are gone, along with the keys to her car. I don’t even have to check the driveway to know for sure. What the fuck happened?
I would fucking run to San Francisco if I thought I’d get a straight answer, and not some mixed bag of bullshit. She’s a stubborn one. Is this her thing? Is this what she does?
Fuuuck!
At least the cracks around my heart are just that, cracks and not giant fissures. I can cement them up again, and Bella’s actions certainly help. I make my way to the kitchen, stumbling through making some coffee. I pour it into my mug and see coffee grinds floating. Shit. What a fucking Monday this is starting out to be. Starting again, I clean the carafe and grinds from the machine before going through the familiar motions of making coffee. Hopefully right this time.
Maybe something came up and she had to go— some type of bride emergency. It happens. I’ve seen “Bridezilla”. Those bitches are crazy, and I can only imagine how they drive their wedding planner insane. She’ll probably call later to explain what happened when she can.
In the meantime, I have an alcohol delivery coming and I want to see about painting the restrooms before Aran’s wedding. They are quite shameful according to my sister and Jenna, and they should be better than that. After all, we have celebrities coming and that scares the shit out of me.
My usual quick day at work drags by today. Every hour feels like three or four. I keep checking my phone to make sure the volume is up or that I didn’t somehow miss her call or text, but nothing. My notifications are completely blank today.
I talk myself into messaging her several times, but when I pull her name up I chicken out, not wanting to bother her in an emergency. She has consumed my fucking thoughts today to the point where I was very short and rude to my sister over the paint swatches that she chose. I don’t give a shit what color she chooses for male and female for fuck’s sake, but for some reason, I told her to fucking choose and be done with it. Yeah, I’m an ass. I’ll call her tomorrow and apologize.
JEMFire comes in for band practice around 7:30 pm and helps me to pass the time. We sit and have a brief conversation about song choice since she likes to indulge me and keep me happy with a few heavy metal tracks. I secretly think she enjoys jumping around the stage and completely letting herself get lost in the song, but I won’t ever admit that out loud.
By the time they pack everything away and leave at 9:00 pm, my good mood is shot and my temper flares with every little thing that goes wrong. General server and bartender issues have me on Defcon five alert, and I’m ready to blow up at someone with one push of a mental button.
Why the hell hasn’t she called?
By 11:30 pm, I can’t take it anymore. I toss the spare keys to Derek and say, “Close down this motherfucker. I’m going home. And ask Cheryl to mop the fucking floor. For some reason, she likes to do that shit.” He nods in my direction but doesn’t say a word. Everyone is tiptoeing around my mood today and that’s why I give up. I can normally roll with the punches, but not.fucking.today.
Is she regretting our night together? She could be an adult and call me. We can work through this. The saying that ‘communication is a two-way street’ pops into my head and I shove it back with the hardest push I can manage. She left me, so shouldn’t she be the one to call first? I could call and play stupid. Well, there wouldn’t be much playing stupid to it, since I really don’t know why she left.
I plop down into the recliner and turn on the news. It doesn’t hold my attention, but just as I am about to turn the channel, a report comes on about an unidentified woman in a car wreck. I blast the volume to make sure I hear every word. At the end of the report is a number to call, and I dial the number faster than they finish saying it on air.
“Hello, District 27 Dispatch,” a very bored lady says on the other end of the line.
“Hello, I’m calling about the unidentified woman in the car wreck on Route 242,” I explain.
“Please hold,” she says before transferring me to another line. An automated waitlist begins running tell me that my call will be answered in approximately three minutes. How fucking frustrating when I’m already half out of my mind with worry.
“Missing persons, may I help you?” a man finally asks gruffly. It sounds like no one wants to be at work today.
“Yes, I’m calling about the Jane Doe in the car wreck today on Route 242. I just need to know if she was of Hispanic/Latino descent,” I say clearly, trying not to let my emotions get the better of me. Because right now, I could smash this phone against the wall.
“Hold, please. Let me see if we have that information,” he mumbles before the hold music starts. The entire sentence was strung together as one long word.
“Jesus Christ if I get put on hold one more time, I’m gonna lose it,” I yell out loud to no one. I hit the speaker on my phone and set it down before I throw it across the room.
After a few minutes, he comes back to the line. “Sir. Sir, are you there?” he asks.
I pick up my phone and reply, “Yes,” into the end with the speaker.
“We don’t have that information. Ethnicity isn’t noted,” he says.
“Well, do you have hair color? Or body function status?” I ask exasperated. I take a deep breathe, knowing I’m at my wits end here.
“What do you mean body function status?” he asks.
“Is her left ankle wrapped up like it’s injured? Were there crutches in the car?” I question, practically hollering into the microphone.
“Let me see,” he says. I can hear him breathing as he reads the report. He clears his throat several times, and I hear him take a drink of something. His fingers are tapping on a keyboard and a mouse clicks somewhere near the phone.
“Sir, I don’t see anything like that noted here, but it does say her hair color is a rainbow. I guess that means dyed multiple colors. Oh here, in parentheses it says pink, blue, green and purple,” he reads.
“Oh, thank god,” I exclaim. “It’s not her. Thank you.” I hang up feeling relieved but also pissed off. Now I know for sure— she’s ignoring me intentionally.
Who the fuck does that?