Chapter 22 Leticia
LETICIA
It’s been two and a half hours. I ate my food in silence, and now I’m moping rather than putting my room back together.
I can’t believe he joked about me standing him up for a date and then did so to me.
I’m pathetic. The first guy who made me feel something, I let him into my head and my life, and at the first opportunity, he bolts.
Worst of all? I texted Toni for at least someone to talk to, and she hasn’t responded.
No, scratch that. Not the worst of all. Worst of all is that I still have to do Christmas with the Cavanaghs.
That is, if Christmas still happens. Maybe I get uninvited.
If I don’t though . . . how embarrassing will this be?
Maybe I’ll get lucky and Royal won’t be there.
I won’t have to look at his face and give him a gift. Do I even give him the gift still?
I don’t have to look to know the matching microphone blankets, part of a 1950s-themed collection from a chic boutique, are still there. I guess I could just return those. Won’t need late-night talk-show host blankets since —
What if something happened to him?
I’d been so busy wallowing in self-pity that I didn’t even think of it. Maybe he can’t text me back because something bad is happening. We’ve been so adamant about not talking about work and our families that it’s been so easy to forget — Royal is Irish Mob. He could be hurt or worse.
Guilt and worry feel like two stones battling for place in my stomach.
How could I be so dense?
I pick up my phone and see the three pointedly worded messages from when I thought he was standing me up.
More politely, I send:
Leticia:
Proof of life. At least let me know something bad didn’t happen to you?