I’ve really got to tell Dane to do something about fake accent man. It’s really annoying.
“Yes, it seems that Mr. Paulson has the night off tonight,” the man says. “I can leave a message here for him if you would like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I tell him, and hang up.
Because there is absolutely nowhere else I know to look, I try calling his phone again, but this time it just goes straight to voicemail.
“Dane, it’s Leila. You’re still not home, and I’ve been trying to call you. Just give me a call back and let me know that you’re all right, will you?”
I hang up, feeling completely helpless.
For as much as I care for him, there’s still so much that I don’t know about Dane. If he has friends outside of work, he’s never mentioned them.
Come to think of it, he’s never actually referred to any of his coworkers as friends. When he refers to them at all, and it’s a rare occasion that he does, he never has a single nice thing to say about any of them.
Maybe he and I are just too different to go on pretending that this is going to work.
Maybe he really should be with that lunatic.
I push those thoughts aside, though, as I really don’t know where he is or what’s happening.
Realizing that there’s no remaining scenario I can think of that would lead to a pleasant lovemaking session, I finally put my clothes on. Once they’re on, I realize I can’t just sit here.
I write a note and set it on the table.
It reads simply: “Dane, if you see this note before you see me, call. You’ve got me pretty freaked out here, and I’m out looking for you. Leila”
I gather my keys then double and triple check that I have my phone with me. With that, I make my way to the door, but that’s when I hear it.
It’s Dane. He’s in the hallway.
He’s singing.
I throw the door open to find him standing there with a palm full of loose change, fingering his way through it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Leila!” he exclaims. “I’ve missed you so fucking much. I was just looking for my keys.”
“Come inside,” I tell him.
He stumbles into the apartment, bumping his hand on the countertop as he enters, spilling all but a few coins from his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m a little drunk.”
“No shit. Where the hell were you? I was about to go out looking for you.”
“You see,” he says, grinning and slurring his words, “this is why I love you so much. You care about people. You’re a good person, Leila.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You’re kind of an asshole. Where were you?”
“Now don’t be mad,” he slurs.
“I don’t see much chance of that,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says, completely misunderstanding what I just told him. “I was with Wriggle—Wriggsley—Wrig—”
“Wrigley?” I ask. “Why?”