Crushed (Crystal Brook Billionaires) (13 page)

“The worst and the best all at the same time?”

She laughed even harder, tears falling from her red eyes and hitting her cheeks. “Yeah!”

Tentatively, I lifted my hand in her direction. She saw the motion and stepped forward, allowing me to wrap my arms around her. Vanilla washed over me as her soft hair pressed against my face. She fit perfectly against my chest and in my arms. It was like our bodies had been made just to fold into each other.

I tried not to count the seconds she was there, and I tried not to dread the moment when she would pull away. Our embrace wasn’t for me after all. It was for her.

After a minute or so she cleared her throat and stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, quickly wiping her face.

“No, don’t be. It’s all right. It’s fine to be feeling whatever you are.”

She nodded. “I know. It’s just… embarrassing.”

“I’m not judging you for anything.”

“God, you’re nice.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

That made her laugh. “The first one… I should get going.”

“I can walk you the rest of the way.”

She bit her lip, thinking about it. “No,” she answered. “That’s all right, but thank you.”

My heart sank into my stomach. I tried to keep my voice even. “Oh. All right. You’re welcome.”

She took a step backwards. “But hey… Owen?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me know the next time you’re in New York, all right?”

She gazed up at me with her brown eyes, still full of pain, but also brimming with so many other things. Secrets, jokes, memories… all things I wanted to pry out of her.

“I will,” I promised.

“Okay.” She smiled the slightest bit. “Bye.”

I watched her turn. I watched her walk back to the paved trail and around the bend, and even after she was gone from sight, the vision of her still played in my mind’s eye, a broken hologram on repeat.

There’s no such thing as love at first sight,
I reminded myself.
There’s no such thing.

Claire

I
dropped the office phone in its cradle, staring at it as if the cord had turned into a snake. It’s so strange how a moment in time can flash you back to another moment. To a memory. It was happening now. Jason in Crystal Brook, heading to my parents’ for lasagna. I told him to give everyone a hug for me.

Just like I did back in March. Just before…

I closed my eyes as every detail of that terrible day came back to me…

I’d hung up the phone after speaking to Jason on that day too. But back then, I’d immediately picked up my cell phone, nervously checking the time. Four thirty-two. Peter and I had arranged to meet at my apartment in less than two hours. A novelist friend of his was doing a reading at a bookstore in the lower east side, and we were going to grab some dinner before heading there.

“Tell everyone I said hi,” I told Jason.

“Will do. Have a good weekend.”

“You too. Bye.”

We hung up, and I sat back down, taking a moment to slip one of my feet from my heels and stretch the arch. A huge gust of wind shook the building. The day had been gray and preposterously chilly. Another year I might have called it a gloomy March, but that year it was anything but. Instead, it was one of the best months of my life. The weeks had been great and the weekends even better.

I smiled as I thought of Peter and the beautiful, blissful weekend stretched out in front of us.

Thinking of the next two days made me remember that I’d texted him a few hours ago to ask if he wanted me to make reservations at the new Cuban place a few blocks from my apartment. We’d been talking about going there all week and that night seemed as good as any.

My phone’s screen was empty, which was slightly odd. Peter worked from home, cranking out his freelance marketing writing assignments alongside snippets of poetry. His cell phone was typically nearby, and not more than an hour ever went by without him responding to a message.

I pulled up my text messages just to make sure the one I’d sent delivered. There it was, the time that it had gone through displayed next to the message. I twisted my lips and hit the email icon to pull up my personal account.

Other than the typical advertisements and newsletters, the inbox was empty. I typed a quick text out to him, to see if he’d gotten my text message, and then dropped the phone on the desk. There was still a long list of things to accomplish before leaving for the day if I wanted to get out of the office on time.

At five-thirty, he still hadn’t responded, which was even odder. Peter worked on his computer, and he used the internet all day long to communicate with clients. Could his phone be lost and his internet out?

“Weird,” I murmured to myself, opening the bottom drawer of my desk and grabbing my purse. After smoothing my skirt, I pulled my coat on and turned the lights in the room off.

“Bye, Mike,” I waved. “Bye, Thea.”

Everyone chimed in with their own goodbyes as I headed through our main office and then out into the lobby. After wishing the new front desk girl a good weekend, I jumped in the elevator and headed downstairs. As the box glided down, I couldn’t resist the urge to check my phone one more time, just in case it had gone off and I hadn’t heard it.

There were still no messages.

Was he ignoring me?

My heart beat faster at the thought. No. He couldn’t be. We’d just seen each other the day before. Everything had been normal. There were no signs that he was mad or that I had done anything to upset him.

I dropped my phone in my purse and told myself to calm down. Everything was going great between Peter and me. We’d been seeing each other for two months. Within that amount of time, we’d only spent a handful of days apart, hours during which we texted nonstop. Things were great. Just because nearly all of my relationships in the past hadn’t worked out didn’t mean this one was destined to meet the same fate.

The elevator door opened, and I booked it across the lobby, zipping my coat up and bracing myself for the weather. The wind smacked me in the face, making me blink against it. Dodging a group of people, I hurried to the edge of the curb and teetered on it to hail a taxi. They were plentiful in the area around rush hour when most business people were getting out of work and looking for a ride home. Some days, I would take the subway or maybe even walk if there was nice weather and I had time, but on that day, I was anxious to get home. Not only did I still need to get ready for the evening, there was a sick feeling in my stomach over not having heard from Peter yet.

A cab stopped, and I clambered into it. Maybe I needed to go to his place and find out what was up? I paused, debating.

In the end, I gave the driver my own address. Peter and I were scheduled to meet at my place in an hour. If I went to Brooklyn, we would likely just end up missing each other.

At home, I kicked my heels off and shimmied from the skirt. I needed to take a shower, but the anxiety was getting the best of me. I didn’t want to leave my phone, even for the five minutes it would take to just rinse off. Instead, I pulled my blouse off and replaced my work clothes with a pair of high waisted black jeans and a tight fitting mauve shirt. As far as I knew, the reading would be a pretty casual one.

I took my phone into the bathroom with me while I re-did my makeup, swiping the day’s paint from my face with a cloth before starting it all over.

By the time I was ready to go, it was six-twenty. I went into the living room to wait.

Settling down on the couch, I picked up the remote and flipped the television to Comedy Central. A woman I didn’t recognize was on stage doing stand-up. I couldn’t tell whether her jokes were funny or not. I picked my phone up from the coffee table. Six twenty-five.

I kept the television on but went to brush my teeth. After that, I reapplied my lipstick and then checked my purse to make sure I had everything I needed for the night.

I walked back into the living room and checked my phone. Six thirty-two.

My stomach did a somersault.

He was only two minutes late, which didn’t really count.

But why hadn’t I heard from him all day?

I walked to the window and looked down. The street lights had come on, and I could see the sidewalk across the road. If I pressed my face close enough to the glass, I could also see right below my building. A woman and a child walked by, wrapped up in jackets and hats.

I took a deep breath and turned away from the window then walked to the kitchen. I walked back to the window. Realizing I was beginning to pace, I checked my phone again. Six thirty-six.

I picked the phone up and hit Peter’s number. It rang and then rang some more before going to voice mail.

“Damn it,” I whispered, hanging up right before the voice mail beeped.

I held the phone in my hand and just stood there, waiting for someone to give me an answer as to what to do next. I raised my hand to my mouth and started to chew on the side of my nail but then dropped it.

I sat down, flipped through a few channels, turned the TV off, turned it back on. I hated the chatter. Hated what was happening on each and every channel.

I checked the phone again. Six forty-five. Something wasn’t right.

Facebook. I’d check Facebook. Peter rarely got on, but maybe by chance he had. Perhaps his phone really had just bit the dust, and he’d put a message online to let people know.

But then he would have responded to my email…

I ignored that last thought and pulled the Facebook app up on my phone then went immediately to his page. The last thing posted on there was a link to a review shared three weeks earlier. I gritted my teeth and dropped the phone.

I would get my coat and walk downstairs. That’s what I would do. That would kill a few minutes. And then if he still hadn’t arrived, I would consider hailing a cab and going to his place.

Because what if he’d been in an accident? What if he was laying on the floor, knocked unconscious or bleeding to death?

I jumped up and grabbed my coat and purse then flew out the door, barely remembering to lock it behind me. The whole time I kept my phone in one hand, so that if a call came in from him I would know the second it happened.

On the street, I paced, walking up the block and then back, never letting the front entrance to my building out of my sight.

Six fifty-five.

I couldn’t do it any longer. The idea of something being wrong and him possibly needing my help was excruciating. I ran down to the end of the block, grateful I’d changed into flats, and caught a cab.

The whole drive to Prospect Park I focused on my breathing. In and out. Perhaps he had only fallen asleep. Writers didn’t always keep normal hours — at least so I’d heard. And Peter could be prone to staying up and working through the night if he had a deadline to meet. So if that was the case, he was only taking an extended nap.

Traffic congested the corner around from his apartment. I paid the driver and climbed out, running across the street just before the traffic light changed. I kept the pace up on the slight incline, not stopping until I was on his front stoop. The curtains were drawn on the ground floor apartment, but I could still tell the living room lights were off. My heart rate picked up, though I didn’t know just what it meant. It could have been a bad sign even if the lights were on.

I knocked on the door and waited. When waiting became too hard to bear, I knocked again. I pounded.

“Peter!” I called.

No answer.

I hopped down the steps, thinking to ask one of the neighbors if they’d seen him that day. There was no one around though, and I wouldn’t have been able to pick out someone who lived in the building if I tried. People in New York didn’t know their neighbors.

For the first time, I realized what a ridiculous practice that was, not knowing people you lived next to. There were a hundred reasons you needed your neighbors, for God’s sake.

I knocked again, then tried the door. As expected, it was locked. The window had bars on it, so breaking in wasn’t an option.

I grabbed at the roots of my hair, wanting to scream. I checked my phone. Seven-thirty. I needed to call the police. But it was still so early. Would they take a missing person’s report seriously?

Something had happened. I knew it. Peter would never blow me off, never just disappear off the face of the planet like this.

I racked my brain. Did I have the numbers of any of his friends? Maybe I could call someone and get them to help break into the apartment with me. At the very least, I could get another person to help me become more rational because it felt a whole lot like I was freaking out.

The reading. I would go to the reading.

I flew down the steps and turned to go back to the corner. Cabs there were harder to get, but I needed to try.

Just as I went through the gate, someone who looked familiar appeared. My breath caught. It wasn’t Peter. It was his friend Rory. He was a great guy, a college friend of Peter’s. We’d hung out half a dozen times or so.

“Claire,” he said. “Is Peter around?”

“I can’t find him,” I said breathlessly. “I think something’s wrong. He’s not answering the door or the phone.”

His face crinkled with worry. “He was supposed to meet me this morning.”

I stared at him. “And he didn’t?”

“No.”

I grabbed his arm. “We have to get into his apartment. Something might be wrong!”

“All right,” he agreed.

Rory took one step forward, and then his phone rang.

*

The whole ride to the hospital, my ears drummed. It was all I could hear, that senseless thrumming. Rory and I remained quiet. There was nothing to say. The phone call from Peter’s brother had contained all the available information. There had been a car accident on 278. Peter was unconscious, in critical condition. It didn’t look good.

It didn’t look good.

It didn’t look good.

That was all I heard, over and over.

So he could die. That’s what could happen. But that idea didn’t make sense. I looked at my phone. Eight o’clock. We were supposed to be on our way to the reading, our bellies full after a lovely dinner. We were supposed to be walking arm in arm across Columbus Circle, listening to the whoosh of subway trains beneath the grates and the honk of car horns in the night.