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My phone dings three times, the screen lighting up with incoming texts.
What do you mean, goodbye?
Did you hang up on me?
Emma, call me back, right now. I can explain.
Each word is like a blade puncturing my lungs, stealing my breath with every blow.
Because I want to call him back.
I want it more than anything.
But if I do—if I give in again—the next time he walks away, I’ll be left in pieces.
And there will be a next time… because I’m not Emmeline.
I’m not the perfect wife candidate he needs.
52
Marcus
I stare at my phone, my heart thudding with mingled chagrin and fury.
She hung up on me.
Cut off my apology with a “goodbye” and hung up.
I call back, in case it was a bad connection, but I get voicemail right away.
Swearing under my breath, I fire off three texts and wait.
Nothing.
No moving dots to tell me she’s in the process of responding, nothing to give any indication of her intent.
Drawing on every ounce of my patience, I call again.
Voicemail.
Straight to fucking voicemail.
She’s either turned off her phone, or she’s rejecting my calls.
The phone in my hand feels like a bomb ready to explode—or maybe that’s the ball of fury in my chest. Twice she’s done this to me now.
Twice she’s tried to make me go away.
And the last time, I went. Like a fucking idiot, I walked away, almost letting her ruin what we have.
Well, not this time.
She’s not getting on the plane until she takes back that fucking “goodbye.”
* * *
I’ve cooled down slightly by the time Wilson gets me through the freshly plowed streets to Brooklyn. In hindsight, maybe not contacting Emma since Sunday wasn’t well done of me. It might’ve been only three days, but if she feels our connection as intensely as I do, it would’ve seemed infinitely longer.
I’m still pissed she hung up on me, but I can understand it.
In any case, as the car pulls up to the piles of snow left on the curb by the snowplow, I’m fully prepared to grovel. In addition to explaining just how crazy things were at work, I’m going to offer my most sincere apology and swear never to ghost her again. Not that I did—I just held off on contacting her for a bit—but that’s how she must’ve perceived it.
It’s the only explanation for that out-of-nowhere “goodbye.”
I’m wearing my waterproof boots, but snow gets in through the leg openings as I wade through the thigh-high piles on the way to Emma’s door. Ignoring the icy wetness soaking my feet, I ring the doorbell.
Nothing.
No response.
I give it a couple of minutes, then ring the doorbell again.
Still nothing.
Frustrated, I tromp over to the basement window around the corner. As expected, it’s covered with snow, so I bend down and begin brushing it away with my bare hands.
She’s not freezing me out this easily.
I won’t let her.
“Excuse me. What are you doing?”
Startled by the shrill voice, I look up.
A thin older woman bundled in a puffy jacket is standing a few feet away, her gray-blond perm forming a frizzy halo around her head.
“Well?” she demands with a scowl. “You’re trespassing on my property. Explain yourself, or I’ll call the police.”
She must be Emma’s landlady.
I stand up, brushing the snow off my palms on my coat. “Sorry about that. I’m looking for Emma. She’s not answering the door for some reason.”
She blinks up at me, her frown disappearing. “You’re looking for Emma?”
“Yes. Do you know where she is? I can’t reach her.”
“Oh, I see.” She gives me a thorough once-over, her gaze lingering on my Italian coat as if trying to price it out. “Are you her boyfriend or something?”
I reach deep for my patience. “Yes, we’re dating. Do you know why she’s not answering the door?”
“Well, of course, dear. She left for the airport extra early—you know, because of all the snow on the roads.”
Fuck. “When did she leave?”
“I’m not sure. A half hour ago? Twenty minutes, maybe?” She cocks her head. “How long have you two been dating? I’m looking after her cats, and Emma hasn’t mentioned a boyfr—”
“It’s new,” I interrupt, and hurry back to the car before the woman can launch into an interrogation.
There’s no time to waste.
I have a stubborn redhead to catch before she gets on the plane.
* * *
The traffic to the airport is horrendous, so bad that even Wilson’s driving skills can’t help. After two and a half hours of inching forward a foot a minute, I finally see the cause of the jam: an accident in the left lane. As soon as we pass it, the traffic starts moving more briskly, but the damage is done.
Emma’s flight is due to start boarding in a half hour.
Taking a deep breath to combat my frustration, I try calling her again.
Voicemail. Same as the other five times I’ve tried it.
