GABRIELLA
My Keurig machine sputtered out the final dregs of my coffee on Monday morning. I retrieved my mug, poured in some caramel-flavored creamer, and brought it out to my balcony along with my piece of toast and peanut butter drizzled with honey.
There was no better combination in the world for a simple breakfast than that. There was no point arguing with me about it. I knew for a fact I was right.
While I chowed down and sipped my coffee, I perused some of my socials. A recent picture Donna had posted came up that made me smile. She was out with her niece at a water park somewhere in the city. Both of them were soaking wet, and Donna had a huge smile on her face. Her wet hair was stuck to her cheeks.
I wondered if one day I might spend an afternoon with my own daughter doing something like that.
I continued scrolling and froze when I passed a familiar face on my feed.
Jake.
I swiped back up to the post made by the Huffington Post. The image was of Jake outside what looked like an underground bar of some sort. A security guard had a hold of him at the bottom of a concrete stairwell. The picture had been taken from one level above. Jake looked pissed and somewhat roughed up. His shirt was disheveled, and when I pinched the picture to zoom in, I saw two split knuckles.
Had he been in a bar fight?
Was he okay?
What the hell happened?
Unable to stop myself from worrying, my thoughts raced a mile a minute. I exited my Instagram feed and called him. He’d probably be on his way to the office right about now, knowing him. He didn’t answer. I called again five minutes later. Still no answer.
Weird.
Was he hurt? Did he make it home safe from the bar? Had he been drunk? Was he alone? Was anyone else checking in on him to make sure he was okay?
I rushed back inside, left my half-finished coffee and toast on the counter, and changed out of my silky morning robe into the work outfit I’d laid out the night before. On my way out the door I grabbed my purse from the kitchen counter and my keys from the hook. Then I scrambled to lock up and took the stairs down instead of the elevator. My Lambo waited for me, patient and pretty as ever, and I sped off toward the office, hoping I’d find Jake there.
I stepped off the elevator onto the office floor. My eyes immediately swept up to the crow’s nest, but I didn’t see Jake up there.
Shit.
Maybe he was in the conference room, the bathroom, or my office?
I hurried up the steps to the second balcony and looked everywhere for him.
Nothing.
Worry pulsed at my temples.
In all my months working here, Jake had never come in later than eight in the morning. It was currently eight thirty. I spotted Donna downstairs in the communal kitchen, leaning against the counters and talking animatedly with her hands with another coworker while they drank their morning coffees. Maybe she’d seen Jake or knew where he was. I rushed down to meet her.
When she saw me coming, she arched an eyebrow. “Is everything okay, Gabi? You look like you just ran five miles.”
“I’m fine. Is Jake here?”
She shook her head.
“You haven’t seen him at all? He didn’t call to let the office know he’d be late?”
She shook her head again. “No, none of us have heard from him. Why? Did something happen?”
“I… I don’t know. If he shows up, could you tell him I’m looking for him and ask him to call me?”
“Of course, Gabi, I—”
I didn’t linger to hear more. Instead, I took off back to his office, where I rummaged through paperwork on and in his desk—probably a no-no—looking desperately for something that might give me his home address. If he wasn’t here, he had to be at home, and if he wasn’t at home? Well, my next move would be calling local hospitals to track him down.