Chapter Nineteen: Second-Guessing

The silence that emitted from Arnold's end of things as the weeks and months went by did nothing to assuage my fears. Once summer was in full swing, Greg informed me that Samantha was now on paid leave, and asked me to fill in for the hostess position, while a new waitress was added to the staff. This included extended work hours, as well as other duties, like helping Greg close up after the cooks had left. I didn't mind; after Samantha's relapse, a dialogue had been opened between us, and we were actually getting along.

"What did you mean that night?" Greg asked me in the second week of July, after a particularly long shift. It was just after ten p.m., and we were sitting at the little bar at the back of the restaurant—Greg with a bottle of beer and me with a soda. "It was when you said that I'd beat up your former brother-in-law..."

"He's one of those uptight Wall Street executives," I reply, sipping my drink. "I mean, silver spoon and all that. He was the first of two boys, but he was always the favorite of the two of them. Spoiled rotten, he was their heir to everything—one of those families with old money, you know."

"And your sister fell for him?" Greg asks.

I nodded. "She did, yeah. Like I said, I was the more emotionally mature of the two of us. We were both intelligent, but she got the beauty, I got the maturity. I guess that happens sometimes..."

"What did he do that was so bad?"

I sighed. "He was abusive," I reply. "The long and the short of it is that he was starting to turn on the children..."

Greg raised his eyebrows. "In that way?"

I nodded. "Yes. In that way."

"Bastard," Greg said heatedly, gripping onto his beer bottle. "Those poor kids. I can't even imagine..."

"You likely wouldn't want to," I reply. "The twins were babies at the time."

"Please tell me your sister got full custody..."

I sighed, deflating at the memory. "No, Olga did not get full custody. Her ex-husband had all these people of authority in his back pocket, so he got their son, and she got their daughter..."

Greg shook his head. "What can people do when the outsiders know that they're wrong?" he asks.

I shake my head back at him. "Even I can't answer that question," I reply.

. . .

"Who only says it once?" Olga demands, her eyes roving over my downcast face in The Enliven Éclair, trying to solve the mystery. "Which boyfriend in their right mind, who's been with their significant other for three years only says, 'I love you' one time?!"

I sigh. "Keep your voice down, Olga," I reply. "It's not like it really matters at this point, you know..."

"Of course it matters!" she says, exasperation in her voice. "Harrison may have beaten me to a bloody pulp whenever something went badly on the job, but at least he said it to me—"

I raise my eyes to hers. "That wasn't love."

"Helga?"

"That rat bastard beat you, Olga—he beat you," I say through my teeth, really hammering the point home. "What man claims to love a woman one moment and then wounds everything in his wake the next?" I shake my head, finally forcing myself to exhale my frustration. "He's a criminal, Olga, and he belongs in a jail cell with his name on it..."

Olga straightens herself out then, picking up her glass of wine and swirling it momentarily in her glass. "I can't press charges," she says softly before she lifts it to her lips and drinks.

I let out a half-gasp, half-scoff noise then. "I'm sorry. What?"

Olga sighs. "Harrison and I didn't have a prenup, but we did have...a contract of sorts," she tells me.

"What is this? Fifty Shades of Portman?!" I demand, my voice riddled with disgust and anger.

Olga turns white as the tablecloth and hastily returns her wine glass to it. "No, it wasn't anything like that."

"Then what was it like?" I demand, my voice hushed.

"If our marriage lasted less than five years, due to mistreatment or adultery, then I would get three hundred thousand dollars to live on, plus custody of any of our daughters," she replied.

I shake my head. "I don't understand."

Olga covered her mouth. "The conditions stipulated that I wasn't allowed to reveal any of the information," she says, her words seeping through her parted fingers. "I shouldn't even be telling you any of this..."

"Tell me," I whispered.

Olga shuddered, the tears escaping her eyes resembling finely cut diamonds. "I once caught Harrison in the nursery, blackout drunk..."

I found myself gripping the edges of the table. "Olga," I whispered, my voice shaking, "what are you telling me?"

"He was leaning over Eilis's crib," she whispered, her voice shaking and choked as she did her best to hold back her sobs.

"Olga..." I whispered.

"He said that if I didn't give him what he wanted—what I was required to give him as his wife—then he would take what he needed from...Eilis..."

"She's a baby!" I hissed in disgust, rage bubbling just beneath the surface. "What the hell was he thinking?!"

"I wanted to kill him," Olga whispered. "But Harrison got so paranoid that people were watching us that he hid spy cams all over the house..."

"Why didn't you go to the spy cam room then?" I whisper. "Why didn't you just go to the spy cam room and delete footage of you killing him and then just make up a story about a robbery gone wrong?"

"Because his family wouldn't have believed me, and they would've found a way to dig up the footage eventually," Olga replied. "And besides, the servants and Harrison only knew where the spy cam rooms were, and they were under strict orders not to tell me..."

"What did you do?" I whispered then, my fingers knotting around themselves again as anxiety got the better of me. "When Harrison threatened to do god knows what to Eilis, what did you do?"

"I couldn't let him do it," she whispered. "I told him to come to bed... I told him I would let him do whatever he wanted to me. As long as he didn't touch Eilis, I knew things would work out..."

"You let him...?" I say, unable to say the word.

Olga nods. "Yes."

"Why?" I whispered.

Olga raised her eyes to mine, a sad smile upon her face as her tears continued to fall upon her cheeks. "When you're a mother, you'll do anything to protect your children," she replied simply. "I couldn't let him hurt Eilis... I just hope she doesn't remember any of what could have happened, or what did..."

"Did Harrison ever—?"

"No," Olga replied. "No, I always got there in time to make sure he did whatever it was he wanted to her, to me."

"You took the abuse to protect Eilis," I whispered. "But wait... Wouldn't Harrison ever hurt Osias?"

Olga shakes her head. "No. He's never too blackout not to ascertain what Osias is —a son. He would never hurt his son."

I nodded, although I was not entirely sure Olga really knew her soon-to-be ex-husband at all.

. . .

I had arranged to go and see Olga and Eilis in Los Angeles for three weeks in August, so I did my best to work double-time as July went on. As the head of the days turned into warm nights, I found myself considering showing up in New York for the umpteenth time. Shaking my head, I forced the thought from my mind; since Arnold had not written me back, I concluded that he did not want to write anymore, and I have to accept that. My lies had managed to tangle themselves into an unrecognizable web, and I now had to face the facts.

I was approved for the time off in the first week of August, and as I left work that Thursday night, I officially had seventy-two hours left before I was due to leave for the airport. I drove into the attached garage of the apartment building and went inside, saying goodnight to Christina as I headed upstairs. Heading inside, I decided to crash early that night and get an early start tomorrow. The plan was to sleep all day Friday—virtually, anyhow—and then to spend all Saturday cleaning the apartment, so as it was clean when I came back. Then, all of Sunday was to be spent relaxing and packing before the big trip. I found I was actually looking forward to the trip this time around, as Eilis was now four-years-old and would likely be running around spouting English or Mandarin or whatever other language Olga was having her daughter learn that week.

I went online to have a package delivered to me by Saturday, of a little gift for Eilis and another for Olga, which would fit into my suitcase. I wanted to thank them for their generous hospitality towards me, as I knew that none of it was absolutely necessary. Although Olga and I had taken years to truly see eye to eye with one another, I was pleased that, at long last, such a situation had come to pass after all these years. Now that Olga had Eilis, she was getting over her baby fixation upon me and transferring it to her daughter, and yet I hoped that it did not last forever, like when Eilis went to college.

With still silence coming from Arnold, I gathered my things together and began my final preparations for my departure to Los Angeles. I was due to leave on a three o'clock plane the following afternoon, so after dining on Chinese takeout and binge-watching some Netflix, I crashed a little after midnight. My alarm was set for eleven-thirty the following morning, and I gathered and organized my various documentation—including driver's license, ticket, and boarding pass—and placed them upon the kitchen island, ready to take upon my departure. After an early lunch, I surveyed my now-clean apartment briefly, mulling over what could be done next. I'd already filled out the form for all incoming mail to come to Olga's address, but decided to head downstairs anyhow, so as to do a final once-over of my mailbox.

I waved at Christina as I walked through the lobby, making my way over to the hallway of mailboxes and using my key to unlock the small rectangular space. I looked through the false credit cards, making a note to take them upstairs and to cut them up before my ride to the airport arrived. Finally, at the bottom of the pile, I was shocked when my heart nearly stopped within my chest when I saw a letter from Arnold. Hands shaking, I gripped it tightly in my hand, locking up the mailbox and dashing back upstairs. The elevator couldn't go fast enough, and as I looked at his handwriting on the outside of the envelope, I detected anxiety within every stroke of the pen, and it worried me.

Flying from the elevator, I hurried down the hallway and ran for my apartment door, unlocking it quickly and stepping inside. Shutting the door behind me, I made quick work of locking it as well, and advanced upon the kitchen island, where I'd left my paperwork. Managing to rip open the letter without doing any damage to the piece of paper inside, I saw that it had been written on lined paper, and wondered then if it was written in haste. Carefully, I unfolded it, knowing that nothing could be good at this point, but forced all the bad thoughts from my mind as I looked down at the pen strokes.

I understand why you didn't tell me. I don't know what I would've done, if the roles were reversed. Likely, however, I wouldn't have waited as long as you did. I will let you know if and when I want to write again.

My heart spasmed then, and a small gasp escaped from my throat as I attempted not to sob. I covered my mouth then, not wanting my neighbors to think I was even crazier than I already was. I knew he had every right to be mad at me—the rational part of me knew that. But I couldn't help but think that this—all of it—could've been avoided if I wasn't such a goddamn coward. Nevertheless, I folded up the letter and walked back into my bedroom, in what turned out to be one of the longest walks of my life. Crossing the space, I put it into the desk where I'd kept all of my correspondence with Arnold, and now realized that there was some bad mixed in with the good.

I saw that it was encroaching on one o'clock then, so I decided to just pick at spot to stare at one the wall until I could leave for the airport. The walls of my bedroom were a coral pink, and while I'd never liked it myself, the seamlessness and simplicity of the color took me away, far away, from everything. I imagined a coral reef, deep beneath the ocean's surface, waving back and forth as a deep-sea current attempted to move it from its rock. I thought of slipping beneath the ocean waves, and obliterating everything in my psyche, just slipping underneath the depths, and having the salt water fill my lungs, the blackness that would likely follow next, overtaking my vision, and then nothing, nothing...

. . .

The notion that autumn had begun and that I would no longer have to make the trek to school was a god-send. I was relieved to know that footage had been found of Dr. Crawford, and that Jane and the distinguished members of the school board had seen fit to fire him. Many others came forward, telling about past experiences that they'd had with him, and although I had not been named in what I believed was the latest attack, I felt part of a movement. It was not as grand a scale as the women's marches had been, but it was something, and I knew then that it had to be something great in Hillwood history—young woman and girls standing up and taking a stand against men attempting to beat us down.

Although she was not back on a permanent basis, Samantha was at work a few times a week. She and Greg had decided that, due to my assistant hostess duties, that it was only appropriate that I take over as interim hostess in her absence. It meant five more dollars an hour, which I was not upset about, and I was pleased that the both of them admired my work output. Halloween arrived during one of these life-changing conversations, and Samantha was only too pleased to tell me of the party that Tess had been invited to, and Willy's excitement to go trick-or-treating on that night. The restaurant closed early that night, after little kids came by with their goodie bags around four o'clock, and then we closed at four thirty, so there was no dinner rush to worry about.

"I still can't believe it's Tess's first Halloween party," she said quietly. "I'm going to drop her off, take Willy trick-or-treating, and then come back and hang out with all the other moms."

"Looking forward to that?" I ask her.

"Yeah. The parents at Tess's school are really nice. They've been so considerate, in light of everything with Chad."

"How is Chad?" I asked, curling my lip to let her know that I am being sarcastic when it comes to his well-being.

Samantha laughs. "He and Ruby eloped in Lake Tahoe last week," she replies, and my brows shoot upwards. "Yeah, I know."

"How are you handling it?"

She sighed. "Well, I thought when I heard the news, I'd be enraged, but actually I'm all right. I think it's going to be okay."

"And Tess and Willy? Do they know about it?"

"Yes... In point of fact, I had to tell them that, and that they won't be seeing as much of their dad in the future, unfortunately for them... I mean, he may have treated me and our family unit like garbage, but he ended up being a really good father, so I'm sorry to see him go for their sake..."

"Why isn't he going to be seeing a lot of them?" I asked, immediately suspecting that Ruby was behind such a request.

"Because Ruby has announced her pregnancy all over social media and I guess she wants Chad all to herself. Hey," she says with a little shrug, "at least he put it in writing, because now I've got full custody."

"That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

She sighs. "It was—well, it is. But it's complicated, Helga, all of it..."

"Why is it complicated?"

"Well, because Chad... Well, Chad strayed about six months before we were married, and the engagement and everything was called off..."

"I don't understand."

"Ruby—she's worked with him for a long time and her...erm, charms...were very difficult for him to resist, I'm afraid."

"But you said you were living together, and that you got pregnant with Tess, and then you decided to get married—"

She sighs. "I guess I was just trying to make myself feel better. I made one mistake while Chad was off with Ruby that first time—although, at this point, I'm not even sure how many times there were..."

"What mistake?"

Samantha's shoulders slacked then, and I knew it was a difficult thing for her to talk about with anyone, let alone with me. "Tony was in town for business and he gave me a call. I was single—because of what Chad was up to—and he heard that the wedding was off. I told him he was right, and we went out for dinner. One very expensive bottle of wine and some oysters later..."

"Samantha...?"

"I never liked the taste of oysters," she said quietly. "A food you actually had to slurp, and they were an aphrodisiac?" she said, wrinkling her nose. "Please... Well, I found out I was pregnant, and I gave Chad a call to let him know, because Tony had already left town and I was convinced it was Chad's baby. Chad came over the night after I'd told him, with a ring, a bouquet of roses, and a thousand apologies, and I stupidly listened. Since I thought that Tess was his, I thought it would be better if I married her father. So, we got back together, re-planned everything, and then we got married."

"Were you still in love with him?"

Samantha sighed. "I thought I was, and at the time, it was enough. It was enough for me to think I was in love with him, and then when we had Tess, she looked enough like my side of the family for Chad not to second-guess it. And then we had Willy, and things seemed better, but I think it's why Chad cheated again with Ruby, because he slowly but surely figured out that Tess wasn't his. He never faulted her for it, though—never let on to her personally that she wasn't his. I can never thank him enough for that, although when she does finally know the truth, I can't say what will happen."

I nodded. "Well, I don't blame you," I told her, and her green eyes flashed to mine in a moment of hope. "I have no reason to. It's your personal life, and although we share ours with one another, that's something you could decide whether or not you wanted to tell me."

She smiled. "Well, I just hope that she's not traumatized because of it, or that she doesn't ultimately hate me for it..."

"She won't," I reply. "Let her know when she's old enough to understand the frame of mine you were in. That's what I would do."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Don't mention it," I tell her.

. . .

A week before Christmas, there was a knock on my door and I immediately checked the spyhole before I answered it. Seeing Gerald on my threshold was definitely something new but, due to his questionable behavior of late, I was worried about just letting him in. I made a grab for a baseball bat from the umbrella stand just in case, before unlocking both locks on the door. Opening it, I stood on the threshold, just looking at him.

"Hello, Gerald."

"Hey-yyy H-Helga," he replied, his speech slurred then, as he removed a flask from his leather jacket. "Long tiiime...no seee."

I nodded. "Yeah. I got my GED, and I'm working now..."

"I heeeaaard from Phoeeebeee," he continued, putting the flask to his lips and drinking deeply from it. "Congratulations!" he said, jutting out his flask as if it was a crystal-cut champagne flute.

I felt my nose wrinkling at the stench of cheap whisky on his breath, and instantly stepped back from the stream of it into my nostrils. "Thank you, Gerald. That's nice of you to say."

"You're welcome!"

I pursed my lips, not wanting to be rude, but also wanting to get to the bottom of the conversation he intended upon having with me. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Gerald?" I asked.

"You can stop lying to my best friend."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"He has a right to know, you know," he said, his speech clearing up a bit in his anger as he brought his flask back to his lips again. "He has a right to know that the competition people wanted..." He hiccupped. "...you first."

I sighed. "Gerald, I know that you care a lot about Arnold, but the correspondence between him and me is none of your business. I know you mean well, Gerald, and you have his best interests at heart, but you have to understand that he and I need to figure this out on our own."

"He's my best friend, Helga," Gerald slurred, "and he's only your ex-boyfriend—I said ex-boyfriend, Helga, ex. Meaning it's over, and that it's all in the past. You broke up with him, remember?"

I pursed my lips in an effort to stop the stream of insults that I desperately wanted to throw at him. "Yes, Gerald, I'm well aware."

"And now you're just sitting around here waiting for him to come back home—back to you. Did you maybe understand that this lie, combined with you breaking things off like that, might prove to be just a little too much for him?"

I narrowed my eyes at Gerald. "Did you just come here to yell at me, or was there another purpose of this visit?" I ask levelly.

"I came here to defend my best friend, and to yell at you for completely ruining my life!" he cried out, so much so that I was afraid that my neighbors would complain about the noise-level. "You made Phoebe break up with me—"

"No, I didn't," I interrupt him, and he seems shocked that I would dare step on his words like that. "Phoebe broke up with you because she couldn't trust you. Phoebe broke up with you because you betrayed me, her best friend. Phoebe broke up with you because of you, Gerald."

Gerald reaches out then and punches me in the jaw. He looks shocked for a moment then, and then he curls his hand back into a fist and punches me on the other side for good measure. Without thinking about it, I feel my hands gripping the baseball bat then and I bring it out from around my back. Quick as lightening, I swing it as fast as I could and get him right in the knee with a loud thwack! I dash back inside then, slamming the door behind me as I hear Gerald's moans of pain from the other side of it, and run to the island, where I have left my phone. I dial the three numbers, my hand shaking.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?" says the drone of a woman on the other end of the phone.

"Please help me," I whispered. "My friend is drunk. My friend showed up at my house, yelled at me, and then assaulted me. I... I hit him with a baseball bat, and now he's outside my door, shouting profanity..."

"Give me your address, miss," the woman replied.

"Yeah... O-okay," I said, turning back to the door, the sound of Gerald's wails doing nothing to help the situation.

. . .

"So, the police just showed up?" Samantha asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Did you find out what was going to happen to him?"

I smoothed the stack of menus before me, which always seemed to want to get jumbled and out of place. It had been a week since Gerald had come to my apartment unannounced, and I was still shaken from the ordeal, but relieved that it was the final working day before our Christmas holiday break. I had heard that he had gotten himself a place in rehab, and that he had finally admitted that he had a problem with alcohol. "Rehab," I reply, leaving the menus alone, knowing a lost cause when I saw one. "He's admitted to having a problem and now, hopefully, he can get the help he needs."

"Hopefully, yes."

I turned to Samantha and smiled. "What do the kids want for Christmas?" I want to know, wanting to change the subject.

"Tess wants a cell phone, and Willy wants some Lego sets."

I nodded. "Sounds wonderfully typical."

"Wonderfully," Samantha replied, checked her watch. "Break time for me," she said, getting to her feet and making a grab for her cane. "I'm going to go and get a snack. Want me to order you anything?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine, thank you." I shuffled the menus as she walked away, and did some quick tidying upon the desktop of the hostess desk. The door opened beside me, and I made a grab for the stack of menus, turning to see who had come into the restaurant. "Welcome to Hillwood Hideaway—how many people in your party today, sir?"

"It's Tony," came the reply from the man who'd entered. Six-foot-two, raven-black hair, charismatic blue eyes—he was a knockout. "Sorry to be a bother, but is Samantha Showalter here?"

"The Tony?" I said before I could stop myself, and I quickly slapped a hand over my own mouth.

He raised an eyebrow. "You've heard of me?"

I nodded. "Of course—Samantha and I discuss you at least once a week. I'm her friend, Helga."

"You discuss me?" he asked, reaching into his pocket then and producing an important-looking piece of paper with a golden sticker. "Well, do you think you can explain this to me?" he wanted to know, holding it out.

I took it from him, the words CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH staring back at me, with the name Contessa Kate Davies staring back at me, and the line following the word FATHER saying Anthony Thomas Davies. My eyebrows shot upwards then, and I wonder how long the birth certificate had said that. "I personally can't, although I did know the information," I say, and Tony swears in surprise under his breath, and I raise my eyes to his.

"Sorry, sorry," he says. "Is Samantha here?"

I nodded. "Yeah," I reply, handing the paper back to him and making my way back towards the kitchens. Stepping inside, I nod at the various cooks and head back to the staff area, where Samantha is sitting with a half-eaten club sandwich. "Visitor for you."

Samantha raises her eyebrows, swallowing her bite before wrapping it up. "Who was it?" she wanted to know.

"Come and see," I reply.

We walk out of the staff area together, and back through the kitchen, where we find Tony, still standing by the hostess desk. I give them a little space, but know that I cannot leave my post entirely. I stand off to one side, not knowing what to expect from this impromptu reunion.

"Samantha."

"Tony."

"I got a call from Greg the other day," he said, nodding to her cane. "He said that you had a relapse. I'm sorry to hear it."

"Why didn't you show up immediately, if you were going to show up at all?"

Tony sighed. "I was in Italy when I got the call," he replies. "And no, I wasn't at the villa, I was on business."

"Sure," she replied.

"I got this in the mail," he says, unfolding Tess's birth certificate and handing it over to her, and she visibly stiffened.

"That must've been Chad," she said quietly.

"Is Tess mine, Samantha?"

"According to the government, apparently so."

Tony blinks, taking back the birth certificate. "Well, yes, I understand that. But, I mean... Physically speaking?"

"You don't have to do this," she said, her voice shaking then. "You don't have to come waltzing in here, as if nothing's happened, to stake your claim on a child that you didn't even know was yours."

"Samantha—"

"No. You broke my heart, Tony. The way you ended things—I never even wanted to get married after that."

"Hey, now—"

"You let your father talk you out of our engagement," she said, her voice coming undone right before my very eyes. "He had you convinced that we were too young, and that I was after your money, and that we'd never finish college, because I was likely to get pregnant before we even started."

"I know."

"Did you happen to mention to your father that we hadn't done anything?!" she cried out then, angry now. "Apart from prom night, just weeks before graduation and your proposal, there was nothing?"

"Yes, I told him."

"And what did he say to that?"

"You know how he was—he didn't believe that birth control pills worked and that condoms were poisonous. He thought you were going to get pregnant despite the fact that we took precautions, and that you needed to take Plan B, or go to the hospital..."

"What are you saying?"

"My father was convinced you were pregnant, and that you needed to... That you needed to..."

"Say it," Samantha said, her voice hinging somewhere between devastation and pure, unadulterated rage. "Say it, Tony."

"That you needed to have things taken care of."

"Even if I did, it would've been his grandchild!" she sputtered.

"Don't you think I know that?"

She crossed her arms. "At least you could've had the decency to end things with me face to face."

"I couldn't."

"What do you mean?" Samantha demanded. "I'm not some frail flower, Tony! I'm a woman!"

He shook his head. "No, I literally couldn't."

"What are you talking about?"

"Dad beat me to a bloody pulp, Samantha!" Tony thundered. "That's why I couldn't end things face to face with you! I told him I was going to marry you no matter what, and he beat me!"

"Tony..."

"It's true—ask my mother, the saint of a woman," he said quietly. "That's why Dad was thrown in jail, and that's why I didn't go to college, because the company wanted me to take over for him."

Samantha hesitated for a moment. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that," she replied, and I knew then that she was very sorry. "But that doesn't excuse the rest of the story, Tony, it doesn't."

"Samantha, please don't be like this—"

"I waited five days, Tony," she said, her voice hitching on a sob. "I waited five days after I found out I was pregnant for you to call me back. Why didn't you call me back?" she whispered.

"I don't know," he replied. "I was going to, Samantha, I really was, but then I got the news that you got married, and I knew it was too late."

She sighed. "Tess is yours."

His eyes lit up then. "She is?"

Samantha nodded. "Yes. Yes, she's yours."

Tony stepped forward then, but thought better of it and stood back. "I just want you to know, Samantha, I didn't only come here for Tess and to be her father. I came here for you, too."

She lowered her eyes. "It's a little soon to even consider that."

"I'll wait."

Samantha looked up. "What?"

"I'll wait," he repeated. "I'll wait for as long as it takes. I know life is short, Samantha, and I know that I've messed up—we both have. All I know is that I want to see where this journey takes us."

Samantha smiled a little then. "I can accept that."

I stepped away from everything then, walking back towards the kitchen and making my way towards the staff lounge. I walked over to where my locker was and unlocked the combination lock, my hands shaking as I did so. Getting out my phone, I hastily dialed the numbers that could make or break everything in life as it was, and I knew that it was ill-advised. But what else could I do?

"Hello. You've reached Arnold Shortman's cell phone. I'm either too hard at work to answer, or I deliberately let the phone ring six times to make it look like I'm not really around, but am. If you have something important to say, then say it. I'll call you back if I feel like there's something to talk about. Bye."

Shaking, I parted my lips to say something, but no sound would come out. I lowered my phone then, wanting more than anything to break the silence as the beep resounded in my eyes, but I could make no move to do so. Shaking my head in disappointment, I pressed the "End" button before I said anything stupid. I locked my phone back up in my locker, running my hands over the grating, and bit my lower lip, calling myself every name in the book.

"What's the matter with you?" I whispered to myself. "Why do you have to be such a goddamn coward?"

TO BE CONTINUED