Page 183 of Make the Play

At least it makes sense.

I stare at the damage, at the angry red mark already forming on my hand, and all I can think is:that’s what I get.For falling so hard, I didn’t even realize when I hit the ground.

I walk into the living room and drop onto the edge of the couch, but I can’t stay still. My whole body’s buzzing, tight and frantic. Her world’s hottest girlfriend coffee mug is sitting on the side table, and a vase of carnations still sits nearby. The air still smells like her shampoo—vanilla and coconut and something softer underneath that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and pretend none of this just happened.

But she’s gone, and I don’t know if she’s coming back.

I grab my phone with the hand that’s already throbbing.

Me:Please just tell me you got home safe.

Me:Or that you’re at Charlie and Jake’s. Or anywhere. Just let me know

I stare at the screen and watch for a response. No bubbles, no read receipt. Just the void.

Me:I don’t care where you are, just wanna know you’re safe

Still nothing.

I scroll back through our old messages—memes, videos, photos, little nothing things that suddenly feel like everything. There’s one from two days ago—her middle finger sent as a reaction pic when she discovered I’d eaten the last croissant. I’d give anything to go back to then. Or this morning, orany second before she looked at me like I was the mistake.

I try again.

Me:I meant every word, not gonna take any of it back.

Me:I don’t care how messy it gets, I want you. I’llalwayswant you.

I throw the phone down too hard, and it skitters across the kitchen counter and bounces off the edge. I catch it just before it hits the floor, and then I do what I canactuallydo—make a call to building security.

He picks up with the same cautious tone he probably used with her.

“I want the elevator footage,” I say, already bracing for the fight. “All of it. Now.”

“Mr. Walton, I’m afraid there’s a protocol—”

“I don’t give a fuck about protocol,” I snap. “You said it was triggered automatically. You said it hasn’t been shared yet. Then lock it down. Delete it. Or transfer it to me. Whatever the process is—make it happen.”

“Sir, I understand, but it’s not just about your—”

“It’s not about me!” My voice cracks, and I drag in a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. “If it leaks,sheloses everything, and I’m not gonna let that happen because ofyourprotocol. So if there’s someone else I need to talk to, give me a number. But don’t make me sit here and wait while you decide how much of her life you’re about to ruin.”

He starts rambling about legal procedures, about chain of custody, about timelines and requests, and formal documentation.

“I’ll come down there myself,” I say, teeth clenched. “And you don’t want me to show up in person.”

There’s a pause. “Let me escalate this to legal. We’ll be in touch shortly.”

I hang up and text her again.

Me:I’m trying to fix it, sweetheart. Just spoke to security, they’re gonna let me know.

Still nothing.

I typeI love you.

Delete it.

Type it again.

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