Page 93 of Best Man Speaking

I try to keep my voice firm and a smile from creeping its way onto my lips as she continues with her teasing. I suppose I deserve it.

“Erica, stop being a pain in my ass. Where is she?” I ask again, avoiding any reference to Hallie’s clothing this morning. Our table’s full now, and while everyone might be engaged in conversation, I’m not ready to share mine with anyone who might be listening.

“Marcus. Seriously, you’re no fun at all. I’m sure she’ll text you. She got an emergency call when she went down to get us coffee this morning. Came back all in a rush and was back out the door before I could get all the details.”

Surprised is an understatement for how this news has me feeling. I check my phone, but I’ve not received a single text since Johnathan’s and haven’t sent any other than to him either. And so, like the middle schooler I apparently am when it comes to Hallie, I turn my phone off and on again, just to make sure. But there’s nothing.

Bottomless Brunch is a blast, with Erica and Jules sitting close enough for her to basically take up residence in his lap. I take their continuous joy as a sign that everything’s okay, that whatever the emergency is, Hallie’s okay. But it’s not enough to stop the first feelings of unease from finding their way into my mind. After last night, I would’ve expected a call or a text, anything really. Not that we’re together, not that there’s any official reason why I should expect a life update from her…and yet I do all the same.

Marcus:Everything okay?

I watch the message as it sends.

There’s no read receipt. No three little dots making their way across the screen.

I wish I had snapped a picture of the bra she’d left abandoned in the hotel room. I’m sure that would’ve gotten a response.

I count to ten and put down my phone like the grown-ass man I’m pretending to be. But unlike everyone else at the table, I keep it screen-side up.

Life keeps ticking along.

Erica orders the fanciest-looking french toast I’ve ever seen. I eat too much bacon and then have to try not to gag as Jules licks syrup from the tips of her fingers. I pass on the second and third rounds of drinks being offered, instead waiting to hear something, anything, from Hallie, wanting to have a clear head in order to be what she needs, when she needs it. But no reply comes.

I head back to the hotel with Jules, who still needs to pack and wait for our airport pickup. I’m stuck in this godforsaken room with no word from Hallie, worry slinking its way through my veins. Finally, unable to wait a moment longer, I head back into my own bedroom, locking the door behind me. I grab the remote from the bedside table, then switch on the TV, turning the volume off and the subtitles on. I flick through an unsettling number of channels, my gaze finding its way back to the clock beside the bed, time and time again. The minutes tick by, and my apprehension increases.

Jules and Erica are blissfully happy, with none of my growing sense of dread. It only convinces me further that whatever’s going down, Hallie’s going out of her way to protect them from it.

I look at the text I’ve sent her again, and my head takes a quick trip to when Hallie sent me such a similar message. Howat the time it’d killed me to read it, how I couldn’t bring myself to answer it, to put the truth down in writing.

It seems only fair that I find myself on the other end of the situation—deserved, really. And yet, I can only hope she isn’t hurting as badly as I’d been at the time, as badly as I’d made her hurt in the process.

Finally, I pull up her contact details, taking a steadying breath before I pressCall. Except a text comes through.

I don’t need to open it for my heart to sink completely.

To have my anger rise in its wake.

I grip the phone until my knuckles are white.

Johnathan Cairns:Good man, I knew you could get her on board. I’ve transferred you the money.

I no longer need a reply from Hallie to know things are far from okay.

There’s no hesitation. No time for a steadying breath as I hitCall.

I hope against hope that she answers.

The sun shines into the room too brightly, the air suddenly too dry. What I’d give to be able to open an actual window, to wake my brain up with fresh air and not whatever they’re pumping through the ventilation system here.

The call connects, and her phone rings.

And rings.

Her voicemail picks up, but the pressure in my chest is too tight for me to speak.

Blood rushing in my ears, I end the call.

Fuck.

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