Chapter 34
THIRTY FOUR
CLUTCHING LOU’S THICK envelope, I walk down the hallway to my office. Inside, the reality of my situation ambushes me. The crumpled coat, still draped over the couch. The open suitcase in the corner, waiting.
The sight steals the fragile warmth my conversation with Lou had given me.
I place the envelope on the desk, my fingers lingering for a second on the lumpiness of the papers inside.
This matters.
This is real support, tangible proof people care about Maddy’s Place. It should fill me with renewed determination. I should tear it open, count the names, feel a surge of hope.
But I don’t.
The only thing I feel is the dead weight of the phone in my back pocket, heavier than this entire envelope.
Just check one more time.
The thought is automatic, a nervous tic I can’t seem to control.
My hand slides the phone out, my thumb swiping the screen alive. My eyes scan the notification bar with ridiculous, desperate hope.
Nothing.
No reply from Matthew.
Not a word since I hit send in what feels like a lifetime ago. The screen glows impassively back at me, offering only silence.
Disappointment quickly sours into a sickening dread.
He got it.
He must have.
He’s ignoring it.
Maybe comparing him to James, after everything, was truly the final, unforgivable blow.
Maybe he is done with me.
My thumb hovers over his number again, the urge to call and force a response building into a suffocating pressure in my chest. But instead, I lock the screen with a decisive click. I shove the phone deep into my back pocket, as if distance could quell the anxiety.
Okay.
Work.
I have to get through closing.
Pasting on a mask of weary competence, I turn away from my desk, away from the unanswered message, and head back out to face the final stretch.
When the last lingering customer departs into the evening air, I turn the sign to ‘Closed’. Helen finishes wiping down the espresso machine and dims the main lights, leaving the space in the softer glow of closing time.
We hoist the chairs onto the tables, mop the floor and balance the till. Helen gathers her purse and jacket from the back room. As she heads towards the front door, she pauses, turning back to look at me.
“You sure you’re going to be okay here tonight, mija?” she asks quietly, her gaze sweeping the shadowy corners of the café.
“Don’t worry, it’s not my first night here,” I remind her.
She scoffs, shaking her head. “Just promise me you’ll lock up after me and also lock your office door from the inside before you go to sleep, okay?”
“I promise,” I reassure her with a small smile. “Fort Knox. Don’t worry about me.”
“Don’t joke. It’s not funny,” she scolds.
“Sorry, you’re right. Not funny,” I concede, walking up to her. “I promise to lock everything, and I’ll see you bright and early.”
“Bueno. Call me if you need anything at all.” She gives a hesitant little wave. “Buenas noches, Ames. Get some rest.”
“Thank you. You too, Helen.”
I watch her leave, then slide the deadbolt behind her, as promised. I listen as her footsteps fade away down the sidewalk. The silence crashes down, pressing in from all sides.
Alone.
Again.
But the quiet offers no peace, only space for the unanswered questions about Matthew to echo louder. His silence since my text has smothered the fragile hope I barely dared to acknowledge.
My hand, almost of its own accord, retrieves the phone from my back pocket.
The screen flares to life.
Maybe he missed the text?
Maybe he’s waiting for me to call?
The rationalizations my mind scrambles for are flimsy, transparently desperate. Calling him would be like ripping a bandage off. A quick pain, over in a second. But this silence, this uncertainty…
This is the real torture.
The kind that lasts.
My thumb trembles as it hovers over the green call icon.
Not answering my text is not exactly an invitation to call.
Don’t be pathetic.
But the need to know is too insistent. Before I can overthink it into paralysis, I hit CALL.
Lifting the phone to my ear, I hold my breath.
My heart beats so hard I can hear its echoes pounding in my head. I hear the connection. A brief pause. A couple of rings. Then it cuts off.
“You’ve reached Matthew Warren. I’m unavailable to take your call. Please leave a message.”
His voice is calm and professional. I can’t reconcile it with the man who held me so gently just days ago.
My stomach plummets.
I press END before the beep, my throat tight.
Unavailable.
The word hits like a brick.
He is choosing not to answer.
That’s it then.
He obviously doesn’t want to talk.
But even as I think it, a frantic, irrational voice whispers: Maybe he didn’t see the caller ID? Maybe he’s busy?
Just try one more time, quickly!
It’s the voice of desperation. The voice I hate. The one that clings when it should let go.
Against every shred of better judgment, fueled by that awful mix of hope and dread, my thumb hits REDIAL.
“You’ve reached Matthew Warren. I’m unavailable—”
I snatch the phone away from my ear as if burned, hitting END with unnecessary force.
His message is crystal clear.
The shield is up.
The door that felt slammed shut yesterday is now dead-bolted from his side.
He definitely doesn’t want to talk to me.
The confirmation lands with a heavy finality.
I’ve lost him.
The fear hardens into verified fact.
And it’s entirely my fault.
I stand there in the profound silence of the café, the phone dark and useless in my hand. My gaze drifts from the empty stools to where Lou sat just hours ago.
Tonight, this sanctuary feels more like a cage.
I need air.
I need to be out.
Anything other than this heavy silence and the four walls of my temporary prison. I need to move, to feel the fresh air on my face, maybe even outrun the thoughts churning inside me, if only for a little while.
I grab my purse from my office, my fingers closing around the metal of my keys. Each step toward the front door is sharp and decisive. I pull it open and step out onto the sidewalk. I pause only long enough to turn the deadbolt, then head toward my car.
Hearing the engine come to life feels oddly liberating after two nights spent locked up in my quiet café.
In seconds, I’m driving away, leaving behind a couch that was never a bed in a sanctuary that was never home.