At first, I’m just so relieved he’s alive and well—or else kidnapped by someone who texts exactly like him—that I literally sit down in the middle of my pacing, right on the library’s lawn, and say aloud, “Thank god.”
But then, slowly, a new feeling simmers through me.
This is Miles, I remind myself. He’ll have an explanation.
I’m backsliding toward the pit I’ve found myself in a hundred times before, waiting on someone I know in my gut isn’t coming.
But in the length of our friendship, Miles has never stood me up.
The things he said the other night—about the men in my life not wanting to be seen, running as soon as they are—play back, like a siren, a warning I missed.
It doesn’t make sense. I’m missing something.
I hammer out another text: I thought you were picking me up.
Miles types for a second, then stops without sending a message.
My body goes hot, my skin too tight. Suddenly I need to move. I need to get away. I can’t stay here another second.
I grab my stuff and walk. Leave the parking lot. The sun has started setting, but I’ll make it back before dark.
Except the idea of going home nauseates me.
In a temporary fit of deluded ambition, I pull my phone out to Google CrossFit gyms. Maybe I could burn off this anxiety by throwing tires, or whatever.
Miles is calling.
I try to answer, but I’ve just missed the last ring. A car honks, and I realize I’ve stopped in an intersection. I wave an apology and run across, dialing him back.
Straight to voice mail.
He must be leaving me a message. As I power walk, I eye the screen every few seconds, waiting for the message to buzz in. Instead I get a text alert: ya sorry something came up im really sorry
Three sorries deep and no closer to an explanation.
At this point, I feel stupid and a little angry.
I take a deep breath.
Things come up. We don’t owe each other anything, I tell myself. We made no promises.
But the truth is, Miles made me feel so safe, and now I feel completely discarded.
This is what you get, a voice taunts in my mind.
When you make all the same mistakes again and again.
When you choose the wrong people to trust and let down the right ones.
When you let someone in who’s told you in every conceivable way not to rely on them.
Trust people’s actions, not their words.
Don’t love anyone who isn’t ready to love you back.
Let go of the people who don’t hold on to you.
Don’t wait on people who don’t hurry for you.
Instantly, I feel so tired. Exhausted. As badly as I don’t want to go home, there’s nowhere else for me to go.
I’ve just started back toward the apartment when my phone rings again.
My heart soars in anticipation. He’ll have an explanation, something that makes sense of all of this.
Except it’s not him calling. It’s an unknown number.
I answer, just in case, trying to sound cool, calm, collected, and overall diametrically opposite how I actually feel. “Hello?”
“Hi!” a chipper, feminine voice says. “Is this Daphne Vincent?”
“Um.” I sniff, modulate my voice. “Who’s this?”
“My name’s Anika. I’m calling from the Ocean City Public Library.”
It takes three full seconds for me to make sense of what she’s saying.
“We were really impressed by your résumé,” she goes on, “and we’d love to set up a virtual interview.”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. The world keeps spinning.
This is what I’ve been waiting for, hoping for.
“Hello?” she says.
“Sorry,” I stammer. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Would you be available for an interview sometime in the next two weeks?” she says. “Assuming you’re still interested.”
It feels like I’m swallowing a rock.
“Of course I am,” I force out.
I’m not even sure which part I’m agreeing with—whether I’m available, whether I’m interested.
But it’s the only answer that could possibly make sense, right?
The escape hatch I’ve been waiting for, right when the whole house of cards is falling down, and I should feel happy, or at least relieved, but all I can feel is this whole-chest ache, yet another loss of someone, something, I didn’t even have to begin with.
