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And he never replies.
I swallow past the thickness in my throat. Not you too, Micah. Not today. Please don’t decide to leave me today.
‘I need to talk to you.’ I send the message off and wait.
He doesn’t text back.
“What’s going on? Is it Micah?” Cassie asks.
I don’t answer. Maybe he just didn’t see my text. So I call him.
His phone rings
and rings until it goes to voicemail. Bowing my head, I push the cell back into my pants pocket.
There must be an explanation. Maybe he left home and forgot his cell. Maybe his battery ran out. Maybe he’s busy with something, and he’ll call me back later.
Time passes. Cassie sends me concerned looks as I bang the shoes on their stands and rip the tape off boxes with unnecessary force. I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t want to see the pity in her eyes.
Before I leave work in the afternoon, she approaches me and slips a piece of paper into my hand. “This is Kayla’s number, the friend I told you about who’s looking for a roommate. Give her a call, she’s really nice.”
“Thanks.” I do my best to smile, and Cassie smiles back.
“If there’s anything you need…”
I nod. “I know. Thank you.”
Micah told me the same when we first met. Did he mean it?
My way to Joel’s apartment doesn’t take me past the donut shop and Damage Control, but I deviate. Somehow my feet take me down my usual path, and I find myself standing across from the tattoo shop. I don’t know why I thought I’d find Micah standing outside like I did almost every day in the past weeks.
After a small hesitation, I cross the street and push on the door.
It’s locked. The shop is closed.
Frowning, I take a step back, a bad feeling knotting up my stomach. What’s going on? It’s just a weekday like any other. I call Micah’s number again, and again, he doesn’t answer.
The bad feeling intensifies.
Movement inside the shop catches my eye, and I step to the glass door once more. I rap on it with my knuckles and press my face to the pane to see.
Two guys are sitting in the reception area of the store, in those ugly orange armchairs I noticed the one time I went in. One of them has short spiky hair and the other is blond with long purple bangs falling in his eyes. He’s saying something, shaking a fist in the air, when he notices me and narrows his eyes. He shakes his head at me and gestures that the shop is closed.
I rap harder on the door, rattling it. When that doesn’t work, I fish into my bag for pen and paper, write Micah’s name in big bold letters and press it to the glass, then rap again.
Come on, guys.
This time the man’s brows lift, and he comes to open the door. “Micah isn’t here,” he says without preamble. The other guy is staring at me from his perch on the orange chair.
“Where is he? He didn’t answer his phone all day.”
“And who are you?” He gives me a suspicious look.
“I’m Evangeline. And I…” What? I’m not his girlfriend, or even his friend. “I’m worried about him. Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. He’s…” He glances back, exchanges a long look with the other guy. “He’s at the hospital.”
“What? You just said he’s fine.” My heart is banging in my chest, trying to break through my ribs. That cough… I knew it wasn’t good. “Is he sick?”
