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When the hell did I start calling Mitchell's house home?

Three dots don't appear.

At eight-thirty, I pack my laptop. At nine, I stop waiting.

And instead of going back to Mitchell's house, I go to my apartment.

My crappy little apartment. The one that should feel familiar.

Safe.

Mine.

Instead, I unlock the door and stand in the middle of my living room feeling like I've been dropped into somebody else's life.

No Mitchell.

No ridiculously expensive coffee.

No deep voice calling me Firecracker.

No hand reaching automatically for mine.

I hate how much I miss him. I hate Myrna for putting this doubt inside me.

But mostly? I hate Mitchell for leaving enough unanswered questions that the doubt had somewhere to take root.

* * *

My phone wakes me the next morning.

Not Mitchell.

It’s Cat. And Carolina.

Six missed calls. Three texts.

The last one reads:

Carolina:

CALL ME. NOW.

My stomach drops. I call her first. She answers immediately.

“Tell me this wasn't you.”

I'm awake instantly.

“What wasn't me?”

Silence.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Carolina, what’s going on?”

“Check your phone.”