“He’ll be here any minute,” I said to the empty living room, and the sound of my own voice startled me. The house had been so quiet for so long that even a whisper felt like shouting.
I checked my purse one more time. Driver’s license. Lipstick. Credit card tucked into the back slot just in case, though I desperately hoped I wouldn’t need it.
The digital clock on my cable box clicked over from three fifty-nine to four o’clock exactly.
I stared out at my empty driveway, expecting to see Louis’s silver sedan any second now.
Nothing appeared. Just the quiet street and Mrs. Henderson’s sprinkler system clicking rhythmically as it watered her lawn.
“That’s fine,” I told myself quickly. “It’s exactly four. He’s probably just turning onto the street right now.”
I started pacing in small circles near the window, my heels clicking softly against the tile floor.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Four-ten.
My palms began to sweat. I wiped them carefully with a tissue, terrified of leaving damp marks on the silk dress.
The excitement that had been bubbling in my chest started curdling into something else. Anxiety. Doubt. That terrible familiar feeling of being forgotten.
My mind did what it always does when I’m waiting too long. It started inventing explanations, constructing elaborate scenarios to protect my heart from the truth it didn’t want to face.
Did I get the time wrong somehow? I unlocked my phone with shaking fingers and scrolled back through our text messages even though I had already memorized every word.
There it was in black and white.
“Pick you up at 4, Mom. Be ready.”
I wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t misunderstood. Four o’clock meant four o’clock.
Four-fifteen.
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