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The world tilted around her, and she crumpled to the couch.
Murderface wandered over to her and let out one of his angry-sounding meows, like he was berating her for driving Dylan away. She deserved it.
Fumbling for her phone, Brooke scrolled to Dylan’s name in her contacts and hit the call button.
It went to voicemail on the second ring.
Really starting to panic now, she typed out a text with shaking fingers while Murderface tried to headbutt the phone.
Please come back. We need to talk.
Murderface forced his way into her lap. Brooke scratched his head absently while she stared at her phone’s screen like she could will Dylan’s reply into existence with the power of her mind.
He was probably driving. He’d answer her at the next red light. Or when he got to wherever he was going.
Where was he going? He didn’t know anyone else in town.
Except this mystery business partner he’d been keeping a secret from her. But Dylan wouldn’t go to him, would he? More likely he was headed to a hotel.
Brooke swiped over to the map app on her phone to see what hotels showed up as closest to her apartment. While Murderface continued to headbutt her, vying for her attention, she tried to predict which one Dylan would pick.
Five minutes now and still no reply. The closest hotel was less than five minutes away, but it wasn’t very nice. He’d probably want to stay somewhere a little more comfortable, since money wasn’t an issue for him.
She waited another five minutes, and then she texted again.
Please don’t leave like this.
She got to her feet and paced into the bathroom. Dylan’s toothbrush and deodorant were gone. She flung aside the shower curtain. In his haste to get away from her, he’d forgotten his shampoo. Stooping, she retrieved the black plastic mini-bottle from the rim of the tub and flipped the lid open. Her eyes watered as she breathed in a lungful of the spicy aroma.
Was this all she had left of him? A travel-size bottle of men’s shampoo?
Brooke wandered back into the living room and sank onto the couch again. She sent Dylan another text.
I’m sorry. Please can we talk?
And another, five minutes later.
Tell me where you are. I’ll come to you if you want.
And finally:
Please can we fix this? I can’t lose you.
Eventually, she fell asleep on the couch clutching herEverything Whale Be Okaypillow, waiting for a reply that never came.
A week later,Dylan was still giving Brooke the silent treatment.
“He’ll get over it eventually,” Olivia said, putting a glass of wine in Brooke’s hand. “Drink this.”
Brooke did as she was told. The wine had no discernable flavor, but it was probably her fault and not the fault of the perfectly respectable sauvignon blanc Olivia had brought. Everything tasted flavorless this week.
She sighed. “Pretty sure he won’t, or he would have answered one of my texts by now.” She’d been texting him every day since he’d left, with no response. Chances were high at this point that he’d blocked her number completely and wasn’t even seeing them anymore.
Olivia sank down at the opposite end of the couch, cradling her own glass of wine. “He just needs time to lick his wounds.”
“He’s had time. I’m forced to conclude his wounds were terminal.” It was time to face facts and stop hoping for a reply that wasn’t coming. Dylan had cut her out of his life. Her worst fears had come true.
“You don’t just throw away a twenty-year friendship that easily.”
