“Thank y—”
“For now,” she said. “But if you and your little honey biscuit end up going splitskies, I want to be the first one you call. I’m seriously getting blue ovaries over here.”
I laughed so hard I lost my balance. That, of course, only made Wrigley start laughing.
We spoke for a few more minutes before I hailed a cab. I thanked her for finally understanding, and we actually shook hands before I got in the taxi.
I look at the clock.
Leila said she wouldn’t be any later than 8 o’clock, but it’s already 9:30.
I pull out my phone and call her number, but it just goes straight to voicemail.
Maybe we miscommunicated somehow and one of us ended up in the wrong bar.
I don’t know, but I don’t like what I’m feeling. It’s the kind of heaviness that makes it a little hard to breathe.
The thought crosses my mind, but I dismiss it before it has a chance to fully form. I’m nowhere near ready for that.
I order another shot and ask the bartender if they sell any gum.
He says, “Sorry,” and pours me my shot.
I pay him and drink it down, watching the ice cube melt in my tequila sunrise.
It doesn’t make much sense, but I kind of wish that Wrigley was here right now. Despite her general lunacy, she actually does have a way of cutting through the shit and giving some pretty solid advice from time to time.
I’m not ready to make that phone call, either, though.
Leila and I have been talking about how we’re going to find a way to spend time with each other after she leaves, but neither one of us really wanted to take that conversation too far.
I know, on my end, that’s because I simply don’t want her to go, much less admit the reality that there’s nothing I can really do about it without guilting her and being the biggest asshat on the planet.
Another shot of vodka finds its way into my stomach, and I’m really starting to get worried.
That’s when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I smile and turn around.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.
“Now that’s not the way to greet someone,” Mike says. “How are you doing?”
“Half-drunk,” I tell him. “Where’s Leila?”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says.
“What happened?” I ask, and am instantly on my feet.
“Sit down,” he says. “She’s already gone.”
* * *
She’s gone. She’s actually gone.
After Mike found me at the restaurant, he saw me back home. He even paid for the cab.
His car, he told me, was somewhere in New Jersey, carrying Leila and all of the stuff she wanted to take with her. Or, to be more accurate, all the stuff she wanted to take that the movers didn’t take themselves.