26. Jeremiah
JEREMIAH
Chapter playlist:
Wicked Game — Chris Isaak
Jake asks if I’m going to eat my bacon. I don’t answer. He reaches over and takes it.
The Corcoran Ballroom is set up for morning brunch, and you wouldn’t know there was a black-tie event in here just hours ago. A banner over the buffet says CONGRATULATIONS WEST STARS in gold script and is already crooked at one corner.
The culinary team put on a real spread, but the only thing I want right now is coffee. More coffee. I didn’t sleep at all last night.
Somewhere behind me, Dash is doing a bit with a butter knife, and the guys around him are losing it. Bryce is re-litigating a blown call from Game 4 with anyone who'll listen. Jake's got his elbows on the table, still riding the high from last night.
Tyson stands up two tables over and taps his glass with a fork until the room quiets. Something about brotherhood, something about the ice, something that gets a laugh I don't really hear.
Coach Badaszek claps twice, hard, the way he claps for goals.
I put my phone face-down on the table. Then I turn it back over.
I sent Erica eleven texts since last night. Not one of them answered.
I can’t help it. I have to try again.
Me: You okay?
I delete it. Then try again.
Me: Just tell me you’re safe. I delete that too.
Badaszek drops into the chair beside me before I’ve settled on a better way to not sound so desperate over text messages.
“You didn’t touch your eggs,” he says.
“Not hungry.”
“Mm.” He watches Tyson get needled by Stone about the toast. “Whoever she is,” he says, not looking at me. “Eat something anyway. Can’t chase a woman on an empty stomach.”
I hum a response. He gets up, claps Josh on the shoulder hard enough to make him spill his orange juice, and moves on.
I go back to the phone.
Me: I love you.
I send it before I can think twice.
I put the phone in my pocket and finish a piece of toast I don’t taste.
The room keeps going without me. Someone starts a slideshow on the screen behind the head table, photos from the tournament, Dash mid-air after the OT goal, Josh’s blocker up in front of his face at the buzzer, the parade, the horses, all of it flattened into a highlight reel.
Jake throws a sprig of parsley at me and says something about the picture where I’m mid-celly with my mouth wide open like an idiot. I say something back, but my words sound muffled in my own ears.
I look for a lull in the festivities. A moment I can slip out without anyone noticing. I’ll pull an Erica and say I have to use the restroom.
Another round of coffee comes around.
Badaszek gets pulled into a conversation with Ronnie Irwin about the East coaching staff’s flight times. His back fully to me. My teammates are busy needling each other over what's left of breakfast.
I stand up, fold my napkin once, and walk.
I’m in the lobby before I decide to call Erica instead of sending unanswered texts.
I dial. Then the automated voice comes on, telling me the number I have reached is no longer in service.
I hang up. Dial again, like the second time might get a different result.
Same recording. No longer in service.
I lower the phone and just stand there with it in my hand.
That’s why she had a flip phone. It was a burner.
How do you find someone who made herself impossible to find on purpose?
I don’t stop to think. I’m out from under the Four Seasons awning and moving before the valet finishes asking if I need a car.
“I’m good,” I say, already three steps past him. I sprint the four blocks to Erica’s loft as fast as I can, which I now realize isn’t an Airbnb, but probably some kind of heist headquarters.
By the time I hit the brick sidewalk on the loft’s block, my lungs are on fire and my legs feel like spaghetti. Four blocks is usually nothing for me, but I’m starting to feel the sleep deprivation. I should have listened to Coach and had my protein.
I stop in front of the building with my hands on my knees, chest heaving, sweat running down the back of my collar, and for a second all I can hear is my own pulse slamming in my ears.
I straighten up and pound my fist against the door. Three times, hard enough to sting.
“Erica.” Nothing. I hit it again. “It’s me. Open up.”
I jab the buzzer next, hold it down, listen for footsteps, for the deadbolt, for anything.
The building gives me back silence. I bang on the door a third time with the flat of my hand until my palm goes hot.
Somewhere in the back of my head a voice that sounds like Badaszek tells me to get it together. I ignore it.
The window’s the only other option, and it’s not built for looking through. It’s tiny, and set high in the brick above a low iron railing. I haul myself up onto the railing, with one hand flat against the wall for balance, and finally get level with the glass.
I look inside. The place is gutted. No couch. No rug. Nothing on the walls. Bare floor.
It’s completely abandoned.
I stay up on that railing longer than I should, both hands pressed to the glass. A jogger slows on the sidewalk, watching a grown man propped up to look into an empty building.
“Forgot my keys,” I say, like that explains anything. He shakes his head and picks his pace back up, already deciding this isn’t his problem.
I climb down. Then I see it.
FOR LEASE.
The air leaves me like I’ve been checked into the boards. My knees give out from under me, so I sit down hard on the stoop and don’t move.
She’s gone.