It’s an LA area code, but the last four digits of the number are unfamiliar—he must have changed his number.
“He’d like you to call him when you get a chance,” she says, head tilting as she exhales. “While you have him on the phone, I’d highly recommend a profuse apology.”
I nod, not sure what he’s hoping to accomplish from this phone call—or if I’ll even call him for that matter.
“Now, get back out there,” she says, rising from her desk and adjusting her blouse. “Let’s make today a better day than yesterday.”
Piece of cake.
Any day would be better than yesterday.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Maritza
“Just call him,” Melrose says, watching me pace my room. “For the love of God, just get it over with. See what he wants. Do it for yourself because you know and I know that if you don’t do this, you’re going to spend the rest of your life wondering what he wanted. Aren’t you curious?”
“Of course I’m curious. I just can’t decide if this is worth it—giving him another ounce of my time or energy.”
Melrose pulls her legs onto my bed before bringing her knees against her chest. “Do you want me to do it? I can pretend to be you. I can talk the way you talk … I took an impressions class last year.”
I stop pacing for a second and give her a crazy-eyed glance. “Pass.”
She shrugs. “Well, the offer still stands if you change your mind.”
“I’m not afraid to talk to him. It’s not that I’m physically incapable of calling him. I just don’t want him to know that what he did got to me, you know? I don’t want to give him that satisfaction.”
“So call him and be a mega bitch,” she says. “I know you’re usually the nicest, sweetest person who ever did live, but maybe show him your super-secret evil crazy lady side. The one that comes out a few days a month … only worse than that.”
Taking a seat on the foot of my bed, I drag my thumb along my screen and pull up the keypad. The sticky note in my left hand is crumpled from shoving it into my apron after leaving Hollie’s office earlier today, but the numbers are still legible.
“Screw it. I’m calling—but only because I just want to get this over with,” I say, tapping out the numbers and hitting the green button.
Sucking in a lungful of vanilla candle-scented bedroom air, I chew my bottom lip and count the rings.
One …
Two …
Three …
Four …
“He’s not answering,” I say, a flash of panic washing over me. I didn’t even consider the fact that he might not answer, and I hate playing phone tag.
“Hello,” Isaiah answers a half-ring later, proving me wrong.
“Hey, it’s Maritza,” I say. “You wanted me to call you?”
“Maritza the waitress from Brentwood?” he asks.
I exhale, gaze locked with my cousin. “Yep. That’s me.”
The line is quiet for a split second, though for some reason that second feels like forever.
“So … what do you have to say for yourself?” I ask because I haven’t got all night. “What was that about earlier?”
“Can you meet me somewhere?” he asks. “I need to speak to you. In person.”
My jaw hangs. “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot going on these days.”
“It’s important,” he says. “And it won’t take long.”
“Is there a reason you can’t tell me right now? Over the phone?” I chuff.
“Yeah,” Isaiah says. “This is just something I’d rather tell you face to face.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Maritza
“I would’ve ordered you a coffee, but I wasn’t sure what you drink.” Isaiah stands when I arrive at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on San Vicente the following morning. He’s dressed in a gray suit sans jacket and his hand grazes against his skinny black tie when he sits.
“I don’t remember you being this … formal.” My discerning gaze scans the length of him before returning to his familiar amber eyes.
Everything about him is off … from the way he dresses to the way he carries himself and even the way he looks at me, but we established that two days ago.
Taking a seat and opting not to buy a drink because I don’t plan to stay long, I fold my arms across my chest and give him my full attention.
“So?” I ask. “What is this thing you just had to tell me in person, Isaiah? And I can call you that, right? Since we’re done playing this we’ve-never-met-before-in-our-lives bullshit game of yours?”
He offers a pained smile before licking his full lips and straightening his shoulders. “That’s the thing … I’m not Isaiah.”
“Ha.” I shake my head, rising and slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Right, right.”
He’s mental.
He’s completely mental.
And now he’s wasted my time.
“Maritza, please. Sit down. I’m not finished.” He reaches into his back pocket, retrieving a brown leather wallet and flipping it open to his driver’s license.