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thirteen
“Baby, where are you,” I whisper, my worry palpable while my hands shake. It’s been more than thirty-six hours since I last heard from Nicholas. Thirty-six hours that feel like an eternity.
Too long.
Gripping my cell phone tight, I pace the room up and down while my ears are trained on the television playing in the background. I’m taking mental notes on the anchor’s latest update.
Twenty-four-hour live coverage since the last explosion and the ground shook. San Miguel is in shambles—the city in total chaos while on the ground near the city’s center rescuers work tirelessly to save those trapped by rubble.
Another eruption. Another earthquake. Another minute without hearing from my love that he is okay.
I can’t even bring myself to think of the others. The ones that aren’t lucky enough to take another breath on this earth.
What if something…
I can’t think like that. He’s just preoccupied with so much work that he missed our date by mistake. While it worries me, the silence that follows the missed Skype doesn’t have to mean anything more than that. That time flew by him.
He’s never gone so long without reaching me, and I know it in my heart that he will. Has to.
Fuck, I’d take an email or courier pigeon at this point.
Again, I press the green button and bring it up to my ear. “Come on, babe. Please pick up.” It rings four times, and then nothing. Not even the ability to leave a voicemail is present.
His inbox is full, and that’s a huge reason for concern. If something wasn’t wrong, why would it be filled to capacity?
He’s okay and is busy saving lives. My Doctor Champ. It’s my mantra. The hope I cling to even though there’s a gut instinct that tells me otherwise.
Stopping in front of the living room windows, I call again. I’ve lost track of just how many times I’ve done this. “Come on—” There’s a click and then some static on the other end. My heart races and palms sweat as a lump forms in my throat, rendering me mute.
I can’t talk, but God do I listen—make out a man speaking in rapid Spanish throwing out Nick’s name and then the words sangre and herida are my focal point. Blood and wound.
Please, Lord. Don’t let him be hurt. Maybe he’s asking my Champ for help, telling him what is going on so that he’s aware.
“Nick,” I manage to choke out, but get no response. At least, not from the man I love more than anything in this life. More chatter comes through the line, a lot of cursing in Spanish, and then it goes dead.
I hit redial, but not even a single ring. This time, it goes straight to that godforsaken automated response telling me his inbox is full.
“Son of a bitch,” I cry out, tossing the phone on the couch in exasperation. Anger and fear coarse through my body, and I’m like a lost child. No idea on how to react.
I want to cry. Break something.
However, this won’t help, and the last thing we need is for me to injure myself.
Getting answers is my priority, and for that, I must keep my focus. Find out where he is, and if the man is safe and sound, choke him for scaring easily ten years off my lifespan.
Suddenly the phone rings and I dive for it, hitting my small toe on the corner of the coffee table. I’m stumbling in pain, almost dropping the phone, but before it meets the hardwood floor, I catch it and hit the green button. “Hello? Nick?”
“No. It’s me.” Crissy sniffs, and at once I am choking down my pain. She’s freaking out, and I don’t blame her. I’m scared out of my own mind.
But then a thought hits me:
Are these tears because she has news? Something bad happened?
My knees give out and I sit back, bringing my knees up to my chest. “Have you heard anything? Has Evan called?”
“No.” Another sniff. “God, Mimi, this is driving me insane. Makes me wish that—” she trails off.
“What? You wish what?” I ask much harsher than I intend. Because if she means that we never met them, I’ll kick her butt myself. Nicholas—my love for him—is worth it all.
