Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Looking down the street in one direction, then the other, I see no sign of him. I pull my phone from my pocket and check for a missed text or call, only to find a blank screen. It’s been two and a half hours, when it was supposed to be only twenty minutes. I’ve been worried, but something else causes my chest to clench. It’s not dread, but something heavier, darker, more concerning. I just can’t pinpoint what it is.
I pull my knit hat on and slip on my gloves before trekking through the snow to the corner. Since my seven calls have gone unanswered, I hail a cab that’s one block down, leaving me no choice but to go to his apartment.
As soon as the car arrives, I pay and rush through the door just as someone is walking out with their dog. I’m not sure I can catch the elevator, but I run as fast as I can, stopping it with my hand. It opens. My breath leaves me in a heavy sigh when I realize it needs a card key to move.
“Hold the elevator!”
I perk up when I see a woman running toward me. She walks on and taps her card as the doors close. I punch the floor for his apartment. She says, “Thanks. I’m so ready to be home.”
I work a smile into place, but it doesn’t reach my heart because my home has become unreachable for hours. “Me too.” When she gets off on her floor, I say, “Have a great night.” It’s easy to forget it’s Christmas when so much more important stuff is going on.
“You also,” she replies as the doors shut.
On his floor, I would have thought I’d be running, but that feeling from earlier has returned and makes my feet feel like concrete. I knock. And then again. There’s no bell or button to push. I text him that I’m here, suddenly hopeful that maybe he fell asleep or got caught up writing and lost track of time. Wanted to shower or clean the house from top to bottom. Make a four-course meal to surprise me, or go out shopping for a present and get stuck in a long line. Shoot. I pat down my pockets like I might find a gift even though I know I don’t have anything for him.
Hope fades as seconds pass and minutes vanish with me still standing like an imbecile outside his door. “Get a clue, Sosie.”
I can’t seem to grasp that Keats would purposely hurt me like this. He wouldn’t. I know he would never lead me on just to get revenge. That’s not in his nature. So my mind wanders to the only other possibility . . .
“Hi,” I greet the nurse behind the glass by bending down to speak through the opening, feeling rude for interrupting her. “I’m looking for somebody, and I was wondering if you could . . .”
“Name?” Her eyes never meet mine, but her fingers are poised on the keyboard in anticipation.
“Keats Matthews.” I stand, rolling my shoulders back and thinking she can probably hear me without pushing my mouth to the small opening. “He’s around six.”
“Hold please.” Her fingers dash over the keys as she glares at the screen. Finally, looking up at me, she says, “There’s no one at this hospital by that name. Do they go by another name?”
Poet, but only to me. “No.” The clock on the wall catches my eye. More than four hours have passed since we agreed to meet, and I’m already at the hospital thinking the worst when the answer might be more obvious. And harder to accept. Betting on the long shot, I ask, “Have you had anyone brought in without ID?”
Her eyes stay on me for an uncomfortably long time as if I’m someone to be wary of, and then she says, “We had one gentleman brought in—”
“Brown hair with this slight wave in the front, great eyes, brown with the secrets of the universe hidden inside.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Giant. Like six-eight—”
“That’s not him.”
“Fine, he’s a giant to me. Probably six-three, if I had to guess like one of those carnival—”
“Do you have a photo of him?” Her blank stare has me wondering when she lost the ability to show compassion.
Resting my arms on the counter, I lean down toward the opening again. “There’s this timer that keeps running out on us. So I would have a photo, probably hundreds by now, but—”
The screech of her chair grinding against the linoleum has my spine straightening. “Stay here.” She just leaves me with my worries for Keats, wondering if he’s safe. My mind flashes through memories of Keats and me together, when the light hit just right and at the perfect angle. I would reach for the camera that wasn’t there, and the stark realization that I can’t remember when I last took a real photo. I left my camera hidden at the top of my closet, favoring the simplicity and convenience of my phone.