Maybe it’s not my exact fantasy, but it is close enough for now.
I stay in the shower until the water starts to turn cold.
Maybe he came in and I just didn’t hear him.
I wrap one towel around my midsection, another around my hair, and wipe my feet on the rug before leaving the bathroom. It may not be an imagined waterfall at sunrise, but he can still unwrap me before we go to dinner.
I could live with that.
When he doesn’t come home before my exposed skin has air-dried, I start to get a little nervous.
He didn’t mention any plans today, and he assured me that he’d gotten out of work.
I walk back into the bathroom and finish drying myself before checking my phone.
I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent and reasonable explanation, but he’s not answering his phone.
When the call goes to voicemail, I hang up and try it again, walking around the apartment as it rings, thinking maybe he simply forgot it. If it’s here, the ringer’s turned off.
Now I’m really starting to get worried.
Wrigley told me to keep my head down, that she didn’t want me to get involved. I knew it was a threat, but could she really have done something to him?
I’m just being silly and I know it, but still, there’s that heavy pull telling me that something’s very wrong.
Running out of places to look, I find the number for l’Iris and call it.
“l’Iris, please hold.”
I sit on the couch, but immediately get back up again. I don’t really care how long they have me on hold; I can’t relax until I know that Dane is all right.
A minute or two passes before the line goes active again.
“I apologize for the wait, we don’t have any open reservations for tonight, but we might be able to squeeze you in sometime—”
“Is Dane there?” I ask. “This is his roommate Leila. He hasn’t been home, and I’m starting to get a little worried about him.”
“Dane?” the man with the obviously fake accent asks.
“Dane,” I repeat. “Dane Paulson.”
“Ah, monsieur Paulson,” the man says. “I will check. Please hold.”
I’ve really got to tell Dane to do something about fake accent man. It’s really annoying.
“Yes, it seems that Mr. Paulson has the night off tonight,” the man says. “I can leave a message here for him if you would like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I tell him and hang up.
Because there is absolutely nowhere else I know to look, I try calling his phone again, but this time it just goes straight to voicemail.
“Dane, it’s Leila. You’re still not home, and I’ve been trying to call you. Just give me a call back and let me know that you’re all right, will you?”
I hang up, feeling completely helpless.
For as much as I care for him, there’s still so much that I don’t know about Dane. If he has friends outside of work, he’s never mentioned them.
Come to think of it, he’s never actually referred to any of his coworkers as friends. When he refers to them at all, and it’s a rare occasion that he does, he never has a single nice thing to say about any of them.
Maybe he and I are just too different to go on pretending that this is going to work.
Maybe he really should be with that lunatic.
I push those thoughts aside, though, as I really don’t know where he is or what’s happening.
Realizing that there’s no remaining scenario I can think of that would lead to a pleasant lovemaking session, I finally put my clothes on. Once they’re on, I realize I can’t just sit here.
I write a note and set it on the table.
It reads simply: “Dane, if you see this note before you see me, call. You’ve got me pretty freaked out here, and I’m out looking for you. Leila”
I gather my keys then double and triple check that I have my phone with me. With that, I make my way to the door, but that’s when I hear it.
It’s Dane. He’s in the hallway.
He’s singing.
I throw the door open to find him standing there with a palm full of loose change, fingering his way through it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Leila!” he exclaims. “I’ve missed you so fucking much. I was just looking for my keys.”
“Come inside,” I tell him.
He stumbles into the apartment, bumping his hand on the countertop as he enters, spilling all but a few coins from his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m a little drunk.”
“No shit. Where the hell were you? I was about to go out looking for you.”
“You see,” he says, grinning and slurring his words, “this is why I love you so much. You care about people. You’re a good person, Leila.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You’re kind of an asshole. Where were you?”
“Now don’t be mad,” he slurs.
“I don’t see much chance of that,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says, completely misunderstanding what I just told him. “I was with Wriggle—Wriggsley—Wrig—”
“Wrigley?” I ask. “Why?”
“After the way she was following me today, I wanted to figure out a way to get her to leave me alone, ‘cause I don’t like her like that anymore.”
I really don’t see any version of this story making things better.
“So I called her up,” he says, “and I told her that I wanted to talk to her.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “We met up for drinks, and I told her that no matter what, she had to stay away, ‘cause I don’t like the way she’s been following me around. It’s not fucking cool.”
I’m getting pretty sick of Drunk Dane, but maybe he actually accomplished something on his way down the bottle.
“And?”
“And what?” he asks. “Oh! Right,” he continues. “I told her that I wanted her to leave us alone, but she said I was the one who called her. I guess that’s true, but she told me that she was planting seeds and I didn’t want them to grow.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.
“I think I—” he hiccups, and I swear to all that is holy, if he pukes on the floor, I’m going to get really pissed.
“You think you what?” I ask.
He laughs. “That’s a funny sentence.”
“How much did you have to drink?” I ask him. “It doesn’t look like you two just got together for a casual drink or two.”
“I’m not sure,” he says, “but I think it was a lot.”
“I’d say that’s a strong possibility.”
“You’re mad!” he whispers. “I thought you said you weren’t going to get mad.”
“That’s not what I said, you jackass, now did you figure something out or not?”
“She told me that she wouldn’t follow me around anymore,” he says. “So that’s a good thing. She also told me to pass along an apology on her behalf. She said the two of you talked a while ago and she said she came across kind of pretty rude.”
“That’s it?” I ask. “It’s over? She’s out of the picture?”
“She wasn’t in my picture,” he says. “I love you, Leilal.”
It’s close enough to a kind moment that my urge to punch him in the nose slowly fades, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy.
“But that’s it?” I ask. “Did she say anything else?”
“Yeah,” he says. “She told me that it’s not nice to call someone up just to tell them to leave you alone.” He leans toward me, his hand to the side of his mouth as if there’s anyone in the apartment for him to keep ignorant of the sloshing sound of his words. “I didn’t care.”
Well, on the one hand, it sounds like we might finally be free to actually start our relationship without having to worry about his old one trying to creep back in. On the other hand, I don’t think I could possibly be less attracted to him than I am now.
Hopefully, that feeling passes pretty quickly. Otherwise, this has been a lot of effort for nothing.
“Do you still love me?” he asks. “I still love you.”
“Why wouldn’t you still love me?” I ask.