Chapter 39 Not Me Getting Snatched Behind the Dumpsters
AMANDA
Chad hasn’t texted me all day.
Not once.
I keep checking my phone every five minutes like some kind of desperate teenager, but there’s nothing. Complete radio silence. The little notification icon that usually makes my heart skip stays stubbornly absent.
And it’s not like it was before, when I’d text him and get those flirty automated responses that made me feel like at least some version of him was thinking about me. This time, it’s just… nothing. Empty. Like he doesn’t exist anymore.
It’s really messing with my head.
I’m sitting in Izzy’s office, supposedly going over quarterly reports, but I haven’t absorbed a single word she’s said in the last ten minutes. My phone sits face down on her desk, and I keep wanting to flip it over just to check one more time, but I can’t let Izzy see how pathetic I’m being.
The numbers on the spreadsheet blur together. I blink, trying to focus, but all I can think about is last night. How open I was. How honest. How wine-brave and stupid.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe I was too much. Too needy. Too real.
“Okay,” Izzy says finally, setting down her pen and fixing me with that look I know all too well. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically, not looking up from the screen.
If I look at her, she’ll see how close I am to falling apart over a man I barely know, and that’s not fair to her.
She was the one who didn’t want me to do this in the first place, and I can’t emotionally dump on her now that it’s going exactly as badly as she predicted.
“Really, it’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“Amanda.”
The way she says my name, patient but firm, makes my throat tighten. I force myself to keep staring at the computer, even though the numbers are starting to swim.
“You’ve been staring at the same cell for five minutes,” she continues, “and you just tried to calculate inventory using the date column. So let’s try this again. What’s wrong?”
I force a bright smile, the kind that probably looks as fake as it feels. My cheeks hurt from the effort. “Just hungover, that’s all. Too much wine last night. You know how it is.”
It’s not entirely a lie. I do feel like shit. Just not from the wine.
Izzy leans back in her chair, studying me. She’s known me too long, seen me through too many crises, to buy this act. “Amanda, you are my best friend. You don’t think I know when you’re lying?”
My smile wavers, and I have to look away before it crumbles completely. “I’m not lying. I promise. Just need some coffee and maybe a breakfast sandwich, and I’ll be good as new.”
The silence stretches between us, and I can practically hear her internal debate about whether to push or let it go.
Part of me wants her to push. Part of me wants to break down right here and tell her everything—how scared I am, how stupid I feel, how much it hurts when someone you’re falling for just… stops.
But I can’t. Because saying it out loud would make it real, and I’m not ready for it to be real.
“I know you’re lying,” she says finally, her voice gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. “But I’m gonna give you this one. And then you come talk to me when you’re ready, okay?”
The kindness in her tone is almost worse than if she’d pushed. It makes the tears I’ve been fighting swim closer to the surface, makes my throat close up with everything I can’t say.
“Yep,” I manage, my voice wobbly. “Okay. No problem.”
I stand up so fast I nearly knock over my chair, gathering the reports I haven’t actually reviewed with hands that shake just slightly. “I should get back to— I have a lot of—”
“Amanda.”
“I’m fine!” I call over my shoulder, already halfway to the door. “Just gonna grab that coffee!”
I escape her office before I completely fall apart, trying to put distance between myself and her concerned gaze.
The store feels too bright, too loud, too full of people who might notice that I’m barely holding it together.
I need something to do with my hands, a task that will keep me busy and stop my mind from spiraling into every worst-case scenario I can imagine.
I start with the jewelry display near the front entrance, straightening necklaces that are already perfectly arranged. The delicate chains tangle between my fingers, and I have to blink hard to clear my vision enough to separate them.
He got bored. That has to be it. Last night was too much, too honest, too pathetic. All that rambling about wanting real things, about trusting him, about being scared—God, I probably sounded desperate.
I move to the scarf display, refolding perfectly folded silk squares. My hands are steadier than my heart, going through the motions while my mind races.
Maybe this is just what he does. Maybe he gets women to open up, to fall for him, and then he disappears. Maybe I’m just another girl in a long line of girls who thought they were special.
The thought makes my stomach clench, makes the tears I’ve been fighting burn hotter behind my eyes. I can’t seem to stop moving, can’t stop finding things to fix and organize and perfect. Because if I stop, if I stand still for even a second, I’m going to fall apart completely.
I’m rearranging a display of sunglasses when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. My heart leaps, hope flaring so bright it’s almost painful. I fumble for it, nearly dropping it in my haste to check the screen.
It’s a promotional email from Sephora.
The disappointment hits so hard I actually gasp. I stare at the notification, willing it to transform into Chad’s name, into some explanation for why he’s been silent, into anything that proves I didn’t imagine the connection between us.
But it’s just an email about a sale on lipstick.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and keep moving, stay busy, to pretend I’m not falling apart one unanswered text at a time. My vision blurs occasionally with tears I refuse to let fall. Not here. Not in front of customers and coworkers who don’t need to see me have a breakdown over a man.
But God, I want them to see. Some petty part of me wants the whole world to witness how much this hurts, wants Chad to somehow know that his silence is tearing me apart, wants someone to tell me I’m not crazy for caring this much about someone.
I’ve just adjusted a rack of blazers for the third time when I turn a corner and nearly collide with Cal.
“Whoa,” he says, reaching out to steady me. “You okay?”
“Oh, perfect.” I sniffle. “Just fantastic. Living the dream, really.”
Cal’s eyes narrow. “Amanda, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing! Just having a great day reorganizing the entire store for absolutely no reason.” I gesture vaguely back toward the sales floor. “Very productive.”
Before I can deflect further or make another joke, Cal’s hand is on my elbow, steering me toward the employee hallway.
“Hey, what are you— I need to get back to—”
“No, you don’t,” he says firmly, guiding me away from the main floor. “You need to talk.”
“I really don’t,” I protest, but I let him lead me because, honestly, I’m too tired to fight him. “I’m fine. Just a little scattered today.”
We reach the quiet hallway where the employee break room and storage areas are, away from customers and curious coworkers. Cal turns to face me, crossing his arms.
“Try again.”
“Cal, seriously, I’m—”
“Amanda.” His voice is gentle but implacable. “I’ve seen you handle difficult customers, inventory disasters, and your mother. I’ve never seen you looking like this.”
The observation hits too close to home, and it feels like someone set off an earthquake for the sole purpose of pulling down my walls.
“I’m not going to cry,” I say weakly as I quite literally start to cry.
“Of course not. But something’s wrong. And maybe I can help.”
I stare at him for a moment. It makes me feel so happy for Izzy that he’s her person and by comparison so miserable for myself. And then suddenly, through the fog of self-pity, I realize maybe he actually can help.
“You know who he is, right?” I say quietly. “Chad? So maybe you know what’s up. Can you tell me why he isn’t texting me?”
Cal’s expression immediately shifts to something that looks dangerously close to pity, and I can’t handle it.
I’ll pity myself all day every day, but I cannot, will not receive it from others.
I can’t handle that look, because I’ve seen it before—after my marriage imploded, when people didn’t know what to say to the woman whose husband just vanished without a trace.
“No, no, don’t do that,” I say quickly, backing away from him. “Don’t give me that pitiful look. Don’t do that to me.”
“Amanda—”
“Don’t give me that look and tell me he’s gone or something, because this is why—this is why I didn’t want this. Why was I so stupid? I can’t do this. The man doesn’t text me for a couple of hours, and I’m a wreck. Like, I’m hurting. This hurts.”
The words tumble out faster than I can stop them, all the fear and frustration and humiliation I’ve been holding back for hours spilling over at once.
Cal reaches for me, trying to pull me into what’s probably meant to be a comforting hug, but I can’t handle being comforted right now. I need answers, not sympathy.
“And don’t try to hug me and tell me it’ll be okay,” I continue, jerking away from him. “Because you know something. You know who he is and where he is and why he’s not answering me, and I’m just, I’m falling apart over here.”
“Amanda, stop,” Cal says firmly, his voice cutting through my spiral. “He’s not gone. He had to go handle something for work, but he’ll be back.”
I freeze, staring at him. “What?”
“He asked me to keep an eye on you while he’s away. He’ll be back.”
The relief is so sudden and sharp it almost knocks me over. He’s not gone. He didn’t just disappear like…
“Away where?” I ask, my voice smaller now. “For how long?”
Cal’s jaw tightens, and I can see him choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know all the details. And even if I did, it’s not my place to—”
“Oh, come on!” I throw my hands up, frustration taking over again. “What is it with you men and your mysterious code of silence? Just tell me something. Anything. Is he okay? Is he safe? Is he coming back? Just, please. I need to know something real.”
“Yes,” Cal says without hesitation. “He’s coming back. And when he does, maybe he’ll come clean about everything.”
“Come clean? What do you mean by come clean?”
Cal’s face immediately closes off, and I can see him realizing he said too much. “Amanda, it’s not for me to tell you.”
“That’s not an answer!” My voice is getting louder, and I don’t care who hears me anymore. “What does he need to come clean about? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I can’t—”
“This is bullshit!” I snap, and I know I’m projecting all my fear and frustration onto Cal, but I can’t stop myself. “You and Izzy and your little conspiracy of silence. Well, congratulations, you’ve successfully made me feel like everyone is in the know except me!”
“Amanda, that’s not—”
“No! I’m done being handled and protected and kept in the dark. I’m a grown woman, and I deserve to know what the hell is going on!”
I turn and storm away from him, not caring that I’m probably being unfair, not caring that he’s just trying to help. I need air. I need space. I need to figure out how to stop feeling like I’m drowning.
I push through the employee exit to the dumpsters behind the building, the cool air hitting my flushed face. I lean against the brick wall, closing my eyes and trying to breathe through the panic clawing at my chest.
This is exactly why I didn’t want to care about someone real.
This is exactly why I built all those walls, why I convinced myself that fake was safer than real.
Because real hurts. Real leaves you standing among the dumpsters behind your workplace, crying over a man who won’t text you back.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, probably smearing my makeup, but I don’t care anymore.
I just need a moment to pull myself together before I go back inside and pretend I’m fine.
That’s when I see it. Movement in the shadows. Something that doesn’t belong. I scramble for my purse, trying to get to my gun, but my hands are shaking and the bullets are wedged deep inside and I can’t get a good grip on anything.
It’s too late.
My world goes dark.