The Breakup Doctor (11 page)

Then I lay down on the cream-colored leather and reached for the remote, letting the drone of CNBC bore me into an exhausted, restless sleep.

  

I woke up with a start, my heart racing, feeling disoriented in total darkness. Michael. Where was he?

I sat up, my fingers on the cool leather of the couch bringing me back to myself with a rush of shame. Kendall. I was at Kendall's house. What time was it? I blinked blearily at the DVR. Three in the morning? How had I slept so long?

I swung my feet off the couch and shook off the lingering dream I'd been having about my ex. I rubbed the back of my neck. It was stiff from being propped up against the armrest, and my shoulders had once again started to ache. I wished Kendall had woken me up when he got home, so I could have moved into the comfortable king-size bed.

I hauled myself to my feet and stumbled into the bedroom, focused on soft pillows and cool sheets and warm boyfriend.

Except that the bed was still perfectly made, and there was no lump in it where Kendall should have been.

I blinked again and tried to clear my head. I trudged over to his side of the bed and sat down, pulling the small alarm clock over closer in the darkness to peer at the numbers, wondering if I'd misread the other clock, or the power had gone out while I slept.

Two forty-nine.

A.M.

I reached to the nightstand for the phone and dialed Kendall's cell. Four rings, then voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message. Where was he?

I racked my brain. Had he told me he was taking clients out tonight? I couldn't remember. I didn't think so. Then again, if some visiting big shot had been in town looking for a good time, Kendall would of course have shown it to him.

My foot throbbed where I'd punctured it. My shoulders ached from wielding the heavy sander, and my eyes felt gritty from the Sheetrock particles. I knew this wasn't the way things would be forever—that I'd get the house into some kind of order, that Kendall's work would slow down. But right now I hated it. I might as well be single.

I scooted over to my own side of the bed and pulled the covers over me. Then I reached for Kendall's pillow and brought it over to my face, inhaling. It smelled like laundry detergent. I drew the pillow all the way against my body and curled myself around it, and after a few more minutes of feeling sorry for myself, I finally managed to drift back into an uneasy sleep.

  

Bright, sharp sunlight woke me up shining directly into my eyes, because I'd neglected to draw the blackout curtains. The cheery daylight illuminated the entire room, including the other side of the mattress—where the undisturbed covers clearly showed that Kendall had never come to bed.

thirteen

  

No need to get upset. Nothing would be accomplished by storming into the other room to find out why Kendall had stayed out so late without calling, or didn't even let me know he was safely home before crashing on the couch. We were both adults. We could discuss this calmly.

I stood up, smoothed my hair, and even took a moment to brush my teeth and check for eye crust in the bathroom mirror. No sense coming at a “we need to talk” moment with sheet creases and bed head.

When I thought I was ready to approach him in a rational, calm way, I strolled into the living room.

Where Kendall was
not
lying on his cream leather sofa.

Of course. He didn't even like me to curl my feet up on it. I headed for the guest room, not even trying to tippytoe. If he wanted more sleep, he shouldn't have stayed out so late.

The navy-and-cream comforter was as pristine and undisturbed as it always was, thick pillows plump and perfectly creased at the tops.

Had he not come home at all?

I fumbled my cell out of my purse and checked the call log—nothing.

Dropping down onto the leather-backed stool at the breakfast bar, I forced my foggy brain to think. Granted, yesterday was the first fight we'd ever had. But how bad had it been, really? A little disagreement, some tense words, that was it—we'd barely even raised our voices. Was this how Kendall dealt with conflict? We hadn't dated long enough for me to know, but if it was, it wasn't a great sign.

Maybe he'd just been out with a client, and it had gone late. I tried to imagine what kind of client could convince even Kendall to do an all-nighter, and couldn't imagine anyone with enough money for that. Well, at least not any of his clients I knew about. If a high-roller had enough money to invest, I could see Kendall dancing nude in the middle of the Edison Bridge if the client wanted him to.

What if something had happened to him? My heart faltered and then started back up double time.

No point in panicking
, I told myself firmly. It was only seven a.m. Kendall could come strolling in any second, looking rumpled and wrung-out and sheepish. If he'd taken his clients out too late—or had just decided to pout all night about our argument—maybe he stayed at his friend Ricky's house. Not calling was unacceptable, and we'd be having that conversation in no uncertain terms when he came home. But at least he'd had the sense not to make the long drive home if he'd over imbibed.

My phone vibrated in my fingers before the ring even started, and as I fumbled to answer, relief made my hands shake and my heart race.

“Where have you been?”

There was a beat of silence, and then, “Well, I've been to paradise—but I've never been to me.”

“Oh. Sash.”

“Wow, you know how to make a girl feel special.”

I sighed and got up to go around the counter and into the kitchen. I didn't really need the caffeine after the jolt of adrenaline the phone had given me, but I started the coffee brewing for the comforting routine and smell of it. “Sorry. I thought you were Kendall.”

“I can't imagine any way you might mistake me for him.”

“He didn't come home last night.”

“What?!”

I was instantly sorry I'd said it. “Don't get excited. He...” I didn't want to tell her about our stupid argument. Sasha had never warmed to Kendall, and she didn't need any fuel for that particular fire. “He was with clients, I'm sure, and probably just stayed with a friend once it got too late to drive home.”

“Uh-huh. A ‘friend.'” In case I missed her implication, she underscored it with a heavy tone of irony.

“Stop it, Sasha. That's not helpful.”

“Did you call him?”

“Of course I did. It kept going to voicemail. He turns the ringer off if he's with anyone really important.”

“Like you?”

I battled an urge to hang up on my best friend—the old-fashioned way, with a slam of the phone down onto something hard and unforgiving.

“Sasha, it's fine. Please don't worry.” But she was right—I should have tried calling him already this morning. “Listen,” I said, keeping my tone deliberately casual, “was this something important? Can I call you back in a minute?”

Sasha knew me too well. “Call me
right
back, whether you reach him or not. I mean it—immediately.” She clicked off and I dialed Kendall's cell.

Voicemail. I waited through his outgoing message and then said, “Kendall, please call me as soon as you wake up.” That was all. Simpler was better.

Despite my reassurances to Sasha, I actually was starting to get worried. Not that he was up to anything illicit—just that maybe I should seriously consider that something might have happened to him. Was I in his phone yet as his ICE? We'd never talked about it. Like a lot of things.

I didn't want to overreact. I forced myself to calmly pour my coffee and stir in sugar and milk, then coolly booted up my laptop and pulled up the numbers for the three hospitals between Fort Myers and Naples. A quick check, just to make sure, wasn't alarmist. Just cautious. Concerned.

Not one of them had a record of a Kendall Pulver being admitted, and I let myself take in a full breath. At least he wasn't hurt. He was fine. He'd be home any minute.

As if I'd summoned him, I heard a rattling at the front door, and I shot down the steps to open it wide.

Sasha stood there looking grim. She had to have left a
Smokey and the Bandit
-style caravan of cop cars piled up willy-nilly along the sides of every secondary road in her wake between here and her house. “You didn't call me back.”

“Dammit, Sasha! I keep thinking you're Kendall.”

“Seriously, you have to stop saying that. It gives me the willies.”

I let go of the doorknob and turned to walk up the stairs. Sasha followed me up to the living room, hammering me with questions: “What time was he supposed to come home? When was the last call you had from him? Could you hear anything in the background? Did he sound different—funny? Who was he with? Did you call the hospitals?”

I answered only her last one. “Yes, I did. You want some coffee?” I shuffled back toward the kitchen.

“Why are you acting like this? How can you be so calm?”

I turned around with a clean mug in my hand to see her standing planted in the kitchen entrance, hands on hips, fixing me with an exasperated stare.

“Because,” I said, in the unruffled, overenunciated tone you use with children, “he's not checked into any of the hospitals; ergo, he is fine. He'll be home when he gets home, and getting all stirred up about it isn't going to bring him back a second sooner. There's no sense being dramatic.”

She continued staring at me for a few silent moments. Then she shook her head, threw up her hands, and walked out of the room.

“Sash?” I stopped midway through filling her cup. “Sasha? Where are you going?”

I found her in the master bathroom, wrist-deep in Kendall's vanity drawers, pulling out the contents and lining them up on the counter.

“What are you doing?”

“Teeth whitener—I knew it—spare glasses...ew, nose hair clippers... Ha!” She held up a strip of condoms.

I snatched them out of her hand. “They're
ours
.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Have you counted them?”

“No, I haven't counted them, freak show, but trust me—these are not exhibit A.”

She yanked them back and gave me an arch look before throwing them into the drawer. “Trust
me
—
always
count the condoms.”

“Sasha. Stop it. I mean it.”

She paused in rifling the drawer and turned to face me, leaning against the marble countertop. “Okay, look,” she said. “I'm not saying this is what happened. But being realistic for a moment, I do think you have to admit at least the possibility that he might be screwing around.”

I braced myself in the doorway, curling my fingers tight around the frame, feeling my nails nearly dig crescents into the wood.

“No, actually, I don't think I do have to admit that possibility. Not everyone's relationship is a soap opera.” I could hear the frost in my tone.

Sasha held up a hand. “All I'm saying is—”

“No. Stop saying it, because you're wrong, and I won't forgive you for saying it once you realize you're wrong.”

“Yes, you would.”

“Okay, I would, but seriously, Sasha, stop. That's not possible, okay?”

“Honey... I'm sorry—it's always possible. Men are men... You never thought Michael would—”

I slammed a hand against the doorframe so hard it made both of us jump. “That is so cynical. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe part of the reason you can't keep a relationship going is that shitty attitude?”

I'd gone too far, and I knew it even before I saw the look of hurt flash across Sasha's face.

I slapped a hand to my mouth and pulled it down across my lips as if I could wipe the words away, trying to calm myself down. “I'm sorry. That's just fear talking, and... I'm sorry, Sash—I really, really didn't mean that.”

She nodded, even though I could see my comment still stung. Still, she didn't make any move to walk out.

There were a lot of times I thought I didn't deserve Sasha.

I reached over and squeezed her hand. She didn't return the pressure, but she didn't yank away. I pulled her with me out of the bathroom and over to the bed I still hadn't made, drawing her down to sit beside me, then took a couple of calming breaths.

“Okay, could Kendall be seeing someone else? Well, I suppose so, in that people are only human and they are capable of doing anything, given the right circumstances. But do I think he is? No. I don't.”

Sasha looked like she'd swallowed a bee and it was buzzing to get out.

“Go ahead—it's okay,” I said. “What?”

“Well...so would it hurt, then, just to take a quick look around the condo?”

I mulled that over for a second, and no sooner had I nodded my head than Sasha was up and off in a puff of dust like Road Runner. I stood to watch as she tossed the bedroom with a practiced efficiency: underneath the bed, underneath the
mattress
, in dresser drawers and beneath them, even knocking on the bottoms, presumably to see if they were hollow (“This isn't a Russian spy novel, Sash,” I protested, but she was in the zone), and along every square inch of closet, including the pockets of each and every pair of pants, jeans, and shorts he owned. She was really alarmingly thorough, and I was beginning to think that maybe my dearest friend's issues ran just a little deeper than I had suspected.

Finally she leaned back against the bed (from where she had been sitting on the floor peering into all of his shoes) and gave a frustrated sigh. “Well. You may be right,” she admitted.

My knees felt suddenly loose, and I sank back down onto the bed. I blinked fast, feeling helpless. The seed of doubt she'd planted was starting to send up ugly shoots. I didn't want to, but I was traveling back to last summer...when my fiancé told me over the phone as I drove down Gladiolus that he was sorry, but he just couldn't go through with our wedding.

After I'd calmly said goodbye and hung up, I'd found myself continuing on to the bakery where we were supposed to meet for our cake tasting. I knew even as I made the drive that it was crazy to go now—alone—but all I could think was that we'd had an appointment. I couldn't break it.

Michael was scared, I'd told myself as I forced my throat to swallow tender bites of expensive cake that might as well have been sponge. He needed some space. Some time. Everything would be fine.

But the space Michael needed turned out to be halfway across the country, and the time he needed was...forever. I ate the cake, along with seven thousand dollars in deposits—the money I still owed my parents—sold my wedding dress and cashed in our honeymoon tickets to Hawaii, and put that money down on the first house I found inside my price range, determined to move on and not get stuck in regrets for what might have been.

But that was the past. It was
not
now. Kendall wasn't Michael. I pushed away the panicky feeling that was threatening to engulf me and made myself focus on Sasha.

“See?” I said, my tone hollow even to me. “There's no one else.”

Sasha levered herself up onto the bed beside me. “Well, if it were me, the next step would be the paper trail. Cell phone bills, credit card statements, that kind of thing. That'd tell you if there's some other woman.”

I put a hand on her leg to try to soften my words. “Sash...that's kind of crazy. And it's also a big breach of trust.”

She lifted an eyebrow and made an exaggerated show of checking her watch. “Huh. Well, here it is close to nine a.m., and there's still no sign of him. No call, no show...no explanation. From a guy you've spent every single night with since the day you met him.” I thought I heard a little resentment bleed into her tone, but she kept talking. “The man you expected home last night, like always. Who, if he's not dead or in a coma—and, Brook, you're the one who taught me this: they're
never
dead or in a coma—has now broken a big, fat, foundational trust with you.”

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “I can't. It just isn't right. And I
know
he isn't seeing someone else,” I tacked on, but even to my own ears it was starting to sound less forceful. Maybe I should tell her about our argument. But what would that accomplish? He still hadn't come home last night, and Sasha would only take that as further corroboration of her theories.