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After an epic afternoon and evening at the game—including a win for the Dodgers!—I was thrilled to race up my steps and hop into the shower. This face paint needed to come off. As well as the beer and the sweat. I was disgusting.
"Please, please let me go first," I begged Josh from my landing right before he disappeared through his door.
"Fine. Just don't use up all the hot water," he grumbled.
"Oh, you know I will," I teased.
But I was only talking to his back as he shut his door.
It was the best shower ever, like that shower you took after a long hike or a camping trip. And Josh was kind enough to wait for me, so the water pressure was amazingly strong, exactly the way I liked it.
As soon as I finished, I heard his shower knobs squeak, and I let out a giggle. Josh was just as desperate to wash off the paint as I had been.
I rushed through the whole lotion, post-shower routine, throwing on a fresh tank top and the new shorts Josh had bought me. They were super cute actually. And kind of sexy. Or maybe it was all the alcohol giving me beer goggles, I thought with a laugh as I checked out my butt in the mirror.
I was so ready for that phone call from Devon. Right after the eighth inning, he had texted me, asking me if I'd be around tonight to talk. So we had made a date to chat and hopefully do some other things as well. I was certainly drunk enough for the both of us.
Once I grabbed another beer—had to keep the buzz going, right?—I cleared off the couch and gave him a call, ready to finally talk. My heart in my throat for some reason, I waited as his phone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang again.
Voicemail.
Huh.
I texted him to let him know I was ready whenever he was, then sat there, wondering why my heart was suddenly pounding.
Calm down, Jess.
He was probably just in the bathroom or something. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. But even so, I knew he slept with his phone right next to him on the nightstand—something we'd had a discussion about several times after I'd read articles saying how that could interfere with your sleep.
Flicking on my TV, I watched some mindless show about tiny houses, thinking I'd try him again in a little bit. Which I did. Again. And then again later. Still nothing. No answer. No text back.
Ugh, I hated this fucking distance between us. The physical distance was now becoming an emotional and mental distance as well. And I couldn't stand it. It was driving me absolutely crazy.
Sighing, I grabbed another beer and called him one last time.
Nope. Still no answer. If it was anyone else, I'd be worried about them seeing all the missed calls from me. But I didn't care if Devon thought I was a stalker.
Now, I was a big heap of mixed emotions. Pissed off. Depressed. Heartsick. Oh, and toss in anxiety about his health and safety. Was he okay? Was he in the hospital or something?
Downing a few more beers, I was drunk as shit when Josh dropped off Magic for the night. But I didn't want to bother him with my troubles. So I somehow managed to keep it all to myself. Amazing in my state, I thought as I quietly closed the door behind Josh.
Managing to brush my teeth, I soon threw myself on the bed.
And even worse? Devon knew what tomorrow was. He knew it was a rough day for me. Or had he forgotten already?
God, I was a mess. The room began to spin, and I closed my eyes as Magic settled in beside me. And that was the last thing I remembered.
***
"Magic. Stop," I groaned.
But he wouldn't stop scratching and shaking the bed. As a matter of fact, the bed shook more. And harder. And faster.
Oh, shit. It was an earthquake.
Please, please, not the big one.
