After sending a final message to Isabelle, advising her she will be lucky if I let her come for a week after standing me up, I slip my phone into my pocket before tapping on the driver’s side window of the town car Hugo is commanding.
“Where is she?” I ask when he glides down the window far enough to take in the hint of arrogance associated with my voice.
He licks his lips before replying, “At work, where she’s been since I dropped her off this morning.” He twists the tablet tracking Isabelle’s every move around to face me.
The beeping white dot with ‘Isabelle’ written above it appeases my agitation, but only by a smidge. “If she leaves—”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
I almost snap at him, my mood too unhinged for a simplistic response to his constant goading today, but fortunately for him, the vibration of my cell phone in my pocket saves him from licking his wounds.
Hugo gives me an I-told-you-so look when I slide my finger across my phone’s screen flashing up the image I snapped of Isabelle sleeping in my bed last night, then greet, “Isabelle.”
The quickening of her shallow breaths down the line exposes she’s caught onto my agitation, but it also has me wondering if she purposely boycotted our lunch date with the hope of reprisal.
She enjoys riling me as much as Hugo.
My theory she is hoping to force my dominant side waivers when she pushes out softly, “I just got your messages now.”
I wait for her to extend on her reply. Mercifully, she doesn’t keep me waiting long.
“Because I was late this morning, my boss made me work through lunch.”
There’s a touch of deceit in her tone, but not enough for me not to express the true cause of my frustration. My run-in with Clara reminded me that loss occurs when you least expect it, and it is fucking brutal no matter how it happens. “A simple message advising me you were unable to attend lunch would have been appreciated. Then I wouldn’t have been spending the last two hours panicked that something horrible happened to you.”
“I’m sorry.” When nothing but utmost regret highlights her low tone, I shift on my feet to face her building. “I left my phone in my desk drawer, but I promise I’ll carry it with me at all times from now on.”
I’m set to reply, but my words trap in my throat when something on the roof of Isabelle’s office building catches my eye. A man is standing near the ledge, red-faced, speaking a million miles an hour, and yanking on his hair.
When he moves right near the ledge, I snap down the line, “Hugo will pick you up outside of your office building at six o’clock,” before I disconnect our call and dial 9-1-1.
Hugo cranks his neck in the direction I’m facing as a 9-1-1 operator connects my call. “Emergency services, how can I direct your call?”
Since I’m unsure if police deal with jumpers or paramedics, I announce, “We have a jumper on…”
When I peer past the wide girth of Hugo’s shoulders to check the closest intersection, Hugo mutters in confusion, “Blondie?”
After rocketing my eyes from Hugo’s shocked face to the rooftop of Isabelle’s building, several key features of the suspected jumper register as familiar. Same boyish haircut, pricey suit jacket, and hued cheeks reflect back at me. It’s Brandon as predicted, but unlike earlier today, he looks flustered and upset. Enough to jump off a building? I don’t know, but a long deliberation isn’t necessary when he steps back from the ledge at the same time the emergency services staff member mutters, “Sir?”
“False alarm,” I advise down the line when Brandon steps far enough away, he’s no longer visible on the rooftop. “He moved away from the ledge.”
I hang up, feeling ridiculous that I misread the situation. Suicide isn’t everyone’s first thought during a crisis. It wasn’t mine. But I know plenty of people who have considered taking that route when they felt like matters were out of their hands.
I’m drawn from my dreary thoughts when my phone dings, indicating I have received a text message. Peering down, I realize it is from Isabelle. The teasing prose of her message instantly softens my agitation.
Isabelle:I’ll make up for our missed date tonight. Dessert is on me. ;)
While recalling the rude way I ended our call, I reply to her.
Me:Dessert IS you, Isabelle.
When Hugo’s huff exposes he thinks I’m being led by my cock, I add…
Me:But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you come.
I wait for the message to be delivered before sliding my cell phone back into my pocket, then spin to face Hugo. “What do you think that was about?” I nudge my head to the rooftop so he can’t misconstrue the focal point of my question.
Hugo takes a moment to deliberate before he twists his lips. “Something is off about him, but I didn’t ping him as a base-jumper type.” He slants his head and waggles his brows. “Do you think he knows about Izzy’s adventurous weekend?”
