Melrose begins to respond but my phone steals the show, vibrating across the coffee table.
“Ugh,” I say, glancing at the screen and declining. “It’s that blocked number again.”
The few times I’ve answered, it’s always been nothing—like someone’s on the other end, muting their line.
“You’re still getting those?” she asks, forehead wrinkled.
“Yup. At least every other day.” They started a couple of months ago, and at the time I didn’t think much of them. Most of the time they happen when I’m at work or in class and my phone is on silent. But now I get them almost every day, sometimes two or three times.
“For the love of God, will you change your phone number? It’s the only way to make these stop.” She cradles Murphy in her arms and kisses the top of his head.
Pulling in a haggard breath, I stare at the black glass in my hand. I’ve been putting it off for months … maybe because a part of me wanted to make sure Isaiah had a way of contacting me should he need to or want to or whatever.
But that argument seems a bit moot at this point.
“I’ll do it first thing tomorrow,” I say. Rising, I head back to my room and grab my notebook—the one I’d been keeping all the letters I’ve written him the last several weeks, ones I vowed not to send until I’d heard from him again.
There are so many things I wish I could tell him—stupid things, really. Like I wish I could tell him I finally decided what I want to do with my life, that I finally picked a major and I’m starting classes this August. He’d be happy for me. At least, I think he would.
I guess I don’t really know anymore.
At the end of the day, Melrose is right.
He’s just some stranger I knew for nine days, and after all these months and all these letters, he’s still just some stranger.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Maritza
He would’ve come home today.
At least, six months ago today was when he left, and he’d claimed his deployment was six months unless he decided to extend it.
I changed my number last week, which sort of signified the fact that I decided to let him go, to let go of the briefness of what was and all the questions that will never have answers. But still, he slips into my mind without permission on a regular basis. Melrose says I should learn to meditate, to mentally place my thoughts of Isaiah on a cloud and blow them away with a gentle exhalation.
I think she’s full of shit.
I tried that … a dozen times … and not once did it work. If anything, those thoughts only came back with a vengeance, lingering longer and overstaying their welcome ten-fold.
It’s like a sickness, an incurable disease.
Rach says I need closure. Mel says I need to see a shrink, which is a little dramatic in my opinion but she is her mother’s daughter and her mother is of the opinion that shrinks are the answer to all of life’s problems. That and Xanax.
All I know is I just want to move on with my life and be okay with not knowing why he stopped talking to me or why I continue to give a damn.
“You okay?” Rach ties her apron around her waist after clocking in Tuesday morning. “You look a little lost in thought.”
I force a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Do I need to remind you that I’m a mother of three and my lie-dar is so strong it can pick up a lie from up to eighty yards away? You’re lying, Ritz. Don’t lie to me.”
Tying my hair into a low ponytail, I turn to face her. “I stayed up all night checking all the public military casualty records I could find.”
“Sweet Jesus. This is worse than I realized.” Rach pinches her nose and places her palm on my shoulder. “Find what you were looking for?”
I bite my lip and shake my head. “I’m not proud, okay?”
“Is he alive?”
I shrug. “From what I can tell. Without being next-of-kin, there are certain records I couldn’t access.”
“You’re going down a dark and winding path, my friend. Turn back now.”
“I know, I know.” I clamp my hand across my forehead. “It’s just, I’m stuck between being scared sick that he’s hurt or something happened to him and being furious at him for ghosting me like he did.”
“Sweets, you have to let him go,” she says, using the kind of tender tone she uses when her youngest kid falls off his bike and scrapes his knees, “because for whatever reason, the jackass let you go a long time ago.”
I drag in a full breath of pancake-and-grease scented air, taking in the stainless-steel kitchen symphony going on in the background as patrons are being seated en masse.