Page 218 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

I cut through the cubicles on my way to the elevator, wanting to get out of here as fast as I can. I’d run home if it weren’t so far and I wasn’t in dress shoes. I take a car and wonder if I should give Marlow a heads-up.

I’m thinking she’s still mad about last night. I would be, so I won’t blame her if she is. I took out my problems on her when she didn’t deserve it. After debating whether to return her calls, I decide to try to change the direction we’re headed and apologize. I get dropped off two blocks down and rush through the store, grabbing what I need before walking through a crush of people heading home after work like I am.

When I open the door to the apartment, I already sense a shift in the air. I don’t like it. Neither does my gut. Her coat isn’t on the hook next to where I hang mine by the front door. “Marlow?” I call, noticing the perfume that usually greets me is fading. Lingering particles caught in the air are all that remain.

I put the bags and the flowers wrapped in tissue down on the counter. “Marlow?”

Her laptop isn’t on the coffee table, and the charging cord isn’t running from the plug on the wall to the couch. Walking down the hall, I know before I see it with my own eyes. I know she’s gone.

Pushing open the cracked bedroom door, I walk in and straight to the closet. The space I’d cleared for her to hang her clothes is full of empty hangers. When I look in the corner where we stashed her suitcase, it’s gone. “Fuck!”

But then a shoe bin catches my eyes and then another. I open one of her drawers and so much is still in there. Rushing into the bathroom, some of her beauty shit is still on the counter, so nothing makes sense. I pull my phone from my pocket and call her like I should have done hours ago.

My call is sent immediately to voicemail.

Is her phone off, or is she not taking my calls? Huh . . .

Returning to the kitchen, I call the next best person to give me the answers I need. Tealey. Shoving the chicken, vegetables, and potatoes into the fridge, the meal I was hoping to make her as an apology is now on the back burner.

“Hello?”

“Tealey, it’s Jackson?—”

“I know. Technology these days,” she says, and I can only imagine an eye roll accompanied that statement by the sound of her grimacing tone. “You can’t prank anyone anymore.”

“What?” I don’t know what kind of crazy conversation I’m in, but I can’t get sidetracked. “Look, where’s Marlow?”

“What do you mean, where’s Marlow?”

I hold the phone out to check the time, considering how odd she’s acting. It’s past six o’clock, so it’s reasonable that she’s drunk or on her way to an inebriated state. Putting it back to my ear, I say it slower, “Where’s. Marlow?”

“On her way to LA. How do you not know this?”

I run my hand through my hair.Shit.“I was in meetings all day.”

“And she didn’t tell you? I’m confused, Jackson, but I’m also concerned for Marlow. She’s alone right now.”

I go to the bedroom, not sure what to do with myself other than pace like that’s going to solve the issue. “She called me, Tealey, but like I said, I was in meetings all day and couldn’t answer. Why are you concerned for her? What’s going on?”

“It’s her dad. He’s in the hospital.”

“Shit.” So many thoughts and emotions are crowding my head. I’m not sure which one to focus on. More importantly, what must Marlow be feeling? “What happened?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t have any answers. His housekeeper called her.”

I move into the office and pull my suitcase down from the closet. “What? Why not his wife?”

“I don’t know. She told me not to go with her, to stay, but now I’m thinking she shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m going.”

“Wait,” she says, causing me to stop as soon as my suitcase lands on the bed. She sighs. “I want to go, but I don’t want to get in the way. Are you going tonight?”

“I’ll catch the first flight.”

“Okay. She hasn’t landed, but she’s supposed to call me when she does. What do you want me to tell her?”

The question stumps me because I don’t have the answer. Does she want me there? She didn’t leave a voicemail, so I don’t know what she’s thinking. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I confess, “I was short with her last night. She made the food, but I had . . . there’s stuff going on with my work, and I . . .”

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