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Hanging up feels like the equivalent to cutting off my own arm because I’m, once again, cut off from the one woman who makes me whole.
Instead of going to my own place, like I should, I make sure her door is locked, kick off my shoes, and crawl into her bed. Her covers are bunched up at my feet, but I make no move to grab them. I’m a smelly mess anyway. But I need to smell her, be close to where she sleeps, where her beautiful brown hair was splayed out, smelling like vanilla, just a short time ago.
Back when things were fine.
Now, they’re anything but.
Holding my phone, I send off a text message, then another, and once I start, I can’t seem to stop.
Levi: I know I hurt you, but please call me. Please.
Levi: I need to know that you’re okay.
Levi: If you need time, take it, but don’t shut me out completely.
Levi: If you give me the chance, I’ll explain everything.
Levi: I know it’s late. Shit, it’s the middle of the night, but I’m freaking out here, angel.
What am I doing? I’m sending stalker-like text messages to my girl at two in the morning. Isn’t that what most sane, rational men do in the middle of the night when they fuck up? Oh, and don’t forget the begging and pleading; I’m not above that shit, not when it comes to Abby.
Getting up, I rid myself of my t-shirt and pants. They smell nasty from the fire, and even though I know I should shower (Yes, I’m making her bed smelly), I just don’t seem to have the energy to take care of that task. Even if the result would leave me smelling great and just like Abby, because there’s no way in hell I’m leaving this apartment right now.
Crawling back into bed, I hold my phone like it’s the lifeline keeping my heart beating. Her pillow cradles my smoky head, the occasional scent of her shampoo permeates through the stench and brings me the slightest taste of comfort. But the reprieve is short-lived, and before I know it, the trace of her is gone again.
Just like Abby.
* * *
My phone makes a noise, pulling me from the lightest sleep I’ve ever experienced. It’s a text. From Abby. Sent now, at 3:14am.
Abby: I’m not ready to talk.
My fingers fly across the screen, my response coming only moments later.
Levi: I get that, but tell me you’re okay. Please, Abby.
I hold my breath and wait. And wait and wait for those little bubbles. It must be ten minutes before I have my response.
Abby: I’m fine.
But something tells me she’s anything but. This is one of those times where a woman says she’s fine, but isn’t. She says there’s nothing wrong but is clearly pissed off. No, I may not know these examples firsthand, but I’ve heard enough married dudes on the fire department or with the ambulance to know that when your woman says I’m fine, you’ve fucked up good.
I want to reply more, but choose to let it be. It’s still in the middle of the night, and Abby needs to be sleeping. As for me, there’ll be no sleep. My thoughts will be plagued by emerald eyes and the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. My fingers will twitch when I think about her hair and my dick won’t understand what’s going on when it gets so painfully hard for her touch that it might suffer some long-term damaging effects.
No, I’m on my own tonight.
Just me and a big fat fucking case of misery.
* * *
There’s a loud beating at my door, one that pulls me from this weird drunk-like fog I’ve found myself in. It takes me all of one second to realize, even with a throbbing headache and a horrible kink in my neck, I’m not drunk or hungover, not even a little bit.
The pounding continues, but sounding slightly distant this time. The clock reads seven-thirty, which isn’t too early for visitors, unless you’ve been up all night wishing you hadn’t lied to your best friend and told her from the get-go about joining the dating site and befriending her on the sly.
Abby.
What if Abby’s at the door? Maybe she forgot her keys. We already know she doesn’t have my apartment key anymore, but what if she misplaced hers and can’t get into her place? She’s probably pounding on my door right now for help.
