I’m tempted to send them home too, but since they don’t make the decisions, being clear-headed is less crucial for them. I decide to leave it up to the individual PMs and head out, my headache worsening with every step I take.
It takes less than twenty minutes to get home—traffic is nonexistent at this hour—and as I fall into bed, my thoughts turn to Emma for the fiftieth time this night. She’s probably long asleep by now. I can picture her curled up with her cats in her short, narrow bed, her wild red curls spread over the pillow and her lush little body barely covered by the pair of panties and a tank top that she wears in place of pajamas. Even with the headache beating at me, the image tightens my groin and makes warmth curl in my chest.
I’d give anything to hold her right now.
Anything at all.
My hand is already reaching for my phone when I realize what I’m doing. Swearing under my breath, I yank it back, furious with myself. This is the tenth time I’ve nearly called or texted her tonight, despite my resolution to do an Emma detox.
No seeing her or thinking about her—that’s the goal I’ve set for myself. And that means no calls or texts. I need to be in control of this addiction, to prove to myself that I can go without my fix for at least some time.
That I can function at work and elsewhere even with this obsession.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to focus on the investment ideas, so that as I sleep, my brain can process all the information I’ve crammed into it over the past twelve hours. It’s often the best way to do it, to just step back and let the connections form on their own, without forcing the process. Yet as I’m drifting into sleep, it’s not debt coverage ratios and volatility hedges that occupy my mind.
It’s her.
Emma.
The craving I can’t erase.
47
Emma
Marcus doesn’t contact me for the rest of Sunday, but I don’t worry about it much. After all, he’s probably busy with his emergency. By Monday afternoon, however, I’m checking my phone every five minutes, afraid I somehow missed a call or a text.
There’s nothing, though.
Not even a quick “hey.”
At dinnertime, my phone finally rings. I grab it eagerly, my pulse jumping in excitement, but it’s only Kendall—undoubtedly calling to get all the juicy details about my hookup. Swallowing my disappointment, I start to accept the call, but at the last second, I send it to voicemail instead.
I don’t want to discuss Marcus with her—not until I know what’s going on between us.
Assuming anything is still going on, that is.
I debate reaching out to him myself, sending a quick text to see how he’s doing, but I decide against it. He might get annoyed that I’m bothering him in the middle of his emergency, or worse yet, he might not respond, and then I’ll feel really awful. In any case, Marcus is not an insecure college freshman who needs to be prodded into contacting a girl he likes. The fact that I haven’t heard from him means he doesn’t want to talk to me.
It’s as simple as that.
I spend Monday night tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. Even with my cats next to me, my bed feels empty and cold, my blanket too thin to repel the winter chill seeping in through the poorly insulated window. My boss told me a major snowstorm is coming tomorrow night, and it feels like it, with the wind already kicking up and the temperatures starting to plummet.
I hope I can fly out on Wednesday. It would majorly suck if the airline canceled my flight.
I finally drift off to sleep after two, and when my alarm goes off at seven, I immediately reach for my phone.
Still nothing.
No calls, no texts.
My stomach sinks, and the heavy tightness returns to my chest. It’s possible that Marcus is still insanely busy at work, but texting something along the lines of “hey, thinking of you” would take less than three seconds. Unless, of course, he’s not thinking of me at all—which is looking increasingly likely.
He may have had his fill of sex with me and moved on, in which case I may never hear from him again.
I try not to think about it, but by Tuesday afternoon, I can no longer dismiss the possibility. Maybe with another guy, a two-day disappearance wouldn’t have meant much, but Marcus has never played by the rules of modern courtship, complete with all the “keep her guessing” games. From the very beginning, he’s been crystal clear about his intentions, going after what he wanted—me in his bed—with the same kind of intensity he must apply to all areas of his life. Daily dates, over-the-top gifts, meeting my grandparents on Skype, spending most of the weekend with me—he all but bulldozed his way into my body and my life. I didn’t stand a chance once he set his sights on me… and maybe that’s the problem.