Hey. I hope you’re sleeping, but let me know you’re okay. Whatever you’re rethinking, we can think it out together.
I set the phone down and try to go back to sleep, but it doesn’t happen. Eventually, I give up and go to the gym and hit up the juice bar afterward. The number of times I check my phone is embarrassing, and I pull it out again because apparently I’ve become that obsessive boyfriend.
Nothing.
I call instead, and it goes to her voicemail.
“Hey, Trouble. Good morning. I’m starting to worry about you a little bit. It’s not like you to not text me back…especially after that cryptic message. Usually when you leave a cryptic message, there’s a quick follow-up one laughing that you left it in the first place.” I laugh and get bumped from someone behind me. “Oof. Sorry, at the juice bar, and it’s a little crowded. Call me. Love you.”
I go to class, and when I still haven’t heard from her after my next class, I go to the class she’d just be getting out of. The room empties, and she’s not there. Okay, now I’m officially worried. I go to her apartment, and the door’s cracked open. I push it wider and step inside, heart hammering so loud I can feel it in my teeth.
The place is gutted.
No couch. No fairy lights strung across the ceiling. No half-dead plants on the windowsill. The air smells like bleach and lemon polish, sharp enough to sting my eyes. Two women in gray polos look up at me from the kitchen, where one is wiping down the kitchen counter and the other is wringing a mop in a big bucket.
No boxes. None of our pictures. No Lola.
“Hey—where is she?” My voice comes out too loud, cracking on the last word.
“Moved out yesterday. You interested in the apartment?”
I don’t answer. I just stand there, staring at the blank wall where her big canvas used to hang. I think I’m going to be sick.
I back out, phone in my hand, thumb smashing her name. Straight to voicemail. Again. Again. I try texting while I jog down the stairs.
Where are you? Call me. Please.
Nothing.
The tattoo shop is only a few blocks away. I run. The bell jangles when I shove the door open. Ken’s behind the counter, his wild hair going every direction.
“Lola,” I say, breathless. “Where is she?”
“She’s moved on,” he says. “I’m really going to miss her. The girl is crazy talented.”
“What do you mean, she’s moved on?”
“She said she needed some new scenery.”
The floor tilts. “New scenery,” I echo.
“It was quick. Packed up her things yesterday.” He lifts his shoulder and smiles. “Us artistic types can be flighty sometimes. Have to go where the breeze takes us.”
I back out without another word. The cold air hits my face like a slap. I keep calling. Voicemail. Voicemail. I text again.
Lola, please just tell me you’re okay.
I end up on the floor of my apartment, back against the couch, knees pulled up, phone clutched so hard my knuckles are white. I keep refreshing her contact like it’s going tomagically change something. I think about every stupid thing I said, and try to remember anything that I might’ve missed. She’s been a little quieter than usual lately, but not much. She’s been tired, which is understandable when you work as hard as she does. I should’ve?—
A sharp knock at the door startles me. I don’t move at first. Then it comes again, louder.
I open the door, and Daniel’s standing there, eyebrows sky-high. “You missed the meeting.”
I don’t even have the energy to apologize. “She’s gone.”
He steps inside without being invited and closes the door. “Who?”
“Lola. Her apartment’s empty. Her work says she quit. She’s not answering. She just—disappeared.”
