The moment passes and he runs. I hear the sound of a car revving to life, then he’s gone. Running to the front, I curse myself for not writing down the plate number. My mind is so clouded I can’t even remember the color. The only thing I remember for sure is those cold, calculating eyes.
I find Dad first, lying in a pool of blood in the doorway. My heart pounds as I bend over and look for a pulse. Nothing. He’s gone. I force myself to move into the kitchen, where my mother lies, though I already know she’s gone.
Panicking, I run outside and call out to the neighbors. Disturbed by the noise, several come running out, concerned when they see how distressed I am.
“Call the police,” someone yells. Someone else wraps a blanket around me and sits me down on the curb. Tears roll down my cheeks. All I can think about is if I’d only been home earlier. Maybe I could’ve done something. Maybe a kid being there would’ve scared them off. Or maybe they would have killed me too.
This can’t be happening.
—
Gasping, I open my eyes, the darkness engulfing me. I struggle to sit up, my hand flailing for the light as I try to calm myself. I hit the switch on the lamp, lighting the living room. Fuck. That’s why I don’t drink. Drinking inevitably leads to me falling asleep and that always ends badly.
My heart races as I get to my feet. The room spins and as I take a step I almost lose my balance, crashing into the wall. Somehow I make it over to the kitchen, where I fill a glass with water and gulp it down.
I check the time on the wall clock. Two a.m. God knows how long I’ve been out, but I know that’s it for me tonight. I can’t risk falling asleep again. Not now. Filling my glass with more water, I wander back over to the living room and sink into the armchair. My phone flashes. Leaning forward, I see a missed call from Lucy but no message. My heart skips because I so badly want to hear her voice.
“Fuck,” I mutter, throwing the phone back down onto the coffee table. I want to call her now, but it’s way too late. No normal person would still be awake at this hour.
I spend the rest of the night watching reruns of NYPD Blue. No matter how much I dislike the show, it’s not enough for me to get up and grab the remote. All I need is a distraction, and it does the job. Before I know it, it’s after five. Lucy will be getting ready for class soon.
—
I turn my attention to her apartment. I’ve yet to see the lights turn on, which is unusual for her. I make myself coffee and park myself at the table with a perfect view of her apartment and the entry to her building. While I wait for her, I work on my laptop, glancing up every few minutes.
By seven, I’m getting worried. Is she even there? I couldn’t have missed her. I’ve been sitting here watching since five a.m. She’s one of the most reliable people I know, never late for anything. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure turning up late to any training session would not look good, whatever the excuse.
After another ten minutes pass with no sign of her, I get my phone. I can return her call without looking suspicious. She’s probably expecting me to call back. My heart thumps as I dial her number. It rings out. It never rings out. She either answers, or it goes to voicemail.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
What the hell do I do?
Am I supposed to sit here and wait for her to wake up? Or I could do something about it. Pacing the living room, I try to figure out a plan that doesn’t involve me busting down her door.
Then it hits me. I’ll have something delivered. Opening my laptop, I search until I find someone who delivers before eight a.m. Coffee and croissants. Perfect.
I’m already standing outside my building when I see the van pull up. A dude gets out clutching a bag and a tray holding two coffees. My stomach grumbles. I should’ve ordered myself something too. I watch as he enters her building, feeling pretty proud of my ability to think on my feet. The one thing I didn’t consider is what she’s going to think when he hands it over. A decaf double mocha? She’ll know it’s from me. I’ll say it’s a peace offering. My way of apologizing.
My face falls when the coffee dude comes back out still carrying the tray and croissants. Confused, I jog over to him. Did I give him the wrong number?
“Hey, what happened?” I ask.
“Who are you?” he asks, his face creased in confusion.
“I’m the guy who ordered these”—I point at the food and coffee—“to be delivered to apartment 502.”
“Right,” he says, his face relaxing. “Nobody home, dude. You want these, since you already paid for them?”
“Sure,” I mutter, taking it from him. I walk back toward my apartment trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Did she go out after I followed her home last night? My stomach churns as guilt washes over me.
What if she’s hurt?
Fuck it. If she’s not at her apartment—I have to go over there and see. I toss the food in a trash can and run back across the street toward the studio. Walking through the entrance, I’m shitting myself. This is either the best or worst idea in the world; I’ll decide which one later.
I take the stairs up to the fifth floor, not wanting to run the risk of seeing her in an elevator. I exit the stairwell and make my way along the hallway, carefully looking through each window, trying to find her.
I get to the fourth room on the right, studio seven, frustrated that it’s taking so long. Then I see her. She stands beside the mirror, her leg stretched above her head. For a second I forget why I’m there and I think about all the times I’d stand outside her studio at home and watch her dance. You can’t help but be sucked in by her beauty and gracefulness.