Sweet Obsession

God, when did I become spoiled by our daily conversations? I feel like a huge chunk of me is missing.

I comb out my hair and grab my phone before sliding under the cool sheets covering my bed. The dim light of my screen casts over my pillow as I hold it next to me, my shoulder digging into the mattress. My thumb hovers over the FaceTime icon.

I scowl at my own desperation.

He’s asleep, Brooke. Early night. Really fucking busy, remember?

With a heavy exhale, I let the phone drop out of my hand. I curl my body against my pillow and force my eyes to close.

I force myself to stop worrying, and to chase after sleep.

And the next morning, when Mason doesn’t show up for coffee, again, or stop in for a quick hello, I force myself to focus on my job, and not the man across the street who is confusing the fuck out of me right now.

Oh, and also, making it damn near impossible to focus on anything.

“Goddamn it.” I pick up the now empty container off the floor and slam it onto the worktop. A mound of sugar collects near my feet, with a trail streaking across the floor. The granules shimmering along the wood.

Well, this is just perfect. And exactly how you get ants.

Snatching up the broom, I sweep up my mess as Joey steps into the back.

“I think you need a break. Your language is getting a bit out of control back here.” He bends down to hold the pan for me, dumping what he collects into the trash.

“It is not,” I scoff, sweeping another pile into the pan, although I am a fool to argue. I know how loose my tongue has been today.

“The last customer heard you.”

I wince, my grip tightening on the handle as Joey straightens. Shit. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Leaning the broom back against the wall in the corner, I brush my hands down my apron. The hard edge of my silent, might as well be dead, phone scrapes against my palm. My teeth clench.

“Unfuckingbelievable,” I utter, ripping off my apron and tossing it against the wall below the hooks. It falls into a crumpled pile on the floor.

“Strange that he still hasn’t stopped over here.” Joey leans against the worktop. “Are we sure he’s alive?”

Oh, I’m sure. His car is parked in a different spot than it was yesterday. That means he went out last night, or at least some point before I made it in to work today.

Early night, my ass.

“Being too busy to call or stop over here yesterday is one thing, but standing me up for coffee and then not communicating with me all morning is bullshit. Especially when he’s always over here, and always texting me cute, funny little messages. Now I get nothing? No contact? What the hell?”

“What happened the last time you saw him? After your delivery that day, did he act weird?”

I pinch my lips together.

No. No, he didn’t act weird. I acted weird.

The room swirls around me as I begin to pace. Adrenaline surges through my body. “I told him I needed a minute. I couldn’t . . . think. It might have been a panic attack. I don’t know. I was freaking out, Joey. You know that, I told you. But I said a minute. Not two fucking days.”

I shake my hands out at my sides. My feet carry me from one side of the kitchen to the other, and back again.

Where are you?

“Maybe a minute in Australia is longer?”

I stop near the fridge, glaring at Joey. “Really?”

He gives me an even look. “What? It’s possible. Have you called him?”

When I don’t answer, he shakes his head, muttering, “Of course you haven’t. Because that would be the logical thing to do, right? Contact him and figure out what’s going on.”

Figure out what’s going on. Contact him.

Call him? No. I’ll do one better.

If he’s changed his mind, he can tell me to my fucking face.

With determination fueling my steps, I grab some cash out of my wallet and dart out of the kitchen. “I’m taking my lunch!” I yell out, pushing through the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

Joey calls out something behind me, something motivating.

My spine straightens.

Yes. Feminine power. Why didn’t I do this earlier?

I sprint across the street, grateful for my choice of flat, comfortable footwear, and pull on the studio door handle.

Locked.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

I knock several times on the glass. I pound on it. Maybe he’s upstairs hanging out between classes. Hiding out from me.

Pulling away. Needing his own minute.

Growling when he doesn’t materialize in front of me with a believable explanation for his sudden absence from my life, I tug my phone from my pocket and dial his number.

It doesn’t ring. His voicemail picks up.

“Oh, really? Is that how we’re going to play this?”

Anger sizzles in my blood. I’m furious. With myself, for not contacting him yesterday. With him. More myself though, and that only dials up my rage. I asked for this, and now I’m reacting because he’s only giving me what I thought I wanted.

He couldn’t fight me a little? Show some defiance?

Damn him for being so understanding.

Stowing my phone away after deciding against leaving a message, I head down the sidewalk toward the restaurants, my feet commanding on the pavement.

Not that I need to eat. I’ve inhaled half of my weight in cupcakes already and it’s only one o’clock. My mouth still tastes like raspberry mousse.

I blame men for any weight I might gain today. All men. The entire race. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">