Page 61 of Mr. Brightside

The phone at The Oak is behind the bar, right in the middle of the action. Even if Jake is occupied, Dempsey or one of the guys will answer and give me an update. They wouldn’t leave Jake alone to deal with an unruly customer.

Each time the phone rings, chills tickle down my spine.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then four.

I’m shivering uncontrollably by the fifth ring, a perpetual freeze settling in my gut.

No one’s answering. I don’t know where my husband is. Something could be very wrong.

I blow out a long breath and try to center myself. I know I’m doom spiraling—jumping to conclusions and making baseless assumptions. But he promised he’d be home as soon as he could. Without any updates or any way to reach him…

I huff out a sigh and pace the kitchen, annoyed at myself for the level of anxiety I’m letting grip me right now. But that’s the thing about anxiety—I can’t pick when it flares up or how high it decides to climb.

Coming off a stressful week certainly doesn’t help. And being exhausted isn’t doing me any favors, either.

I peek at the kitchen clock—4:44 am—and consider my next move. I desperately need some advice right now. Someone outside the Jake Whitely bubble who could help me put this in context. But Tori is probably asleep. Abuela is still at work. And Lia has been giving me the cold shoulder since she found out about our marriage via text, which really sucks, because I know for a fact she’s awake at this hour.

I tried to talk to her at work on Thursday after Jake announced the buyout. But she just wasn’t having it. She’s upset about me keeping secrets: about Jake, about Clinton’s and The Oak—lying by omission, she dubbed it.

I’m so lost in my own head that I don’t hear the door open. It’s not until he’s strolling through the kitchen, spinning his keys on one finger and whistling softly, that I realize he’s home.

He freezes when he sees me.

“You’re up?”

I scoff and shake my head. “Of course I’m up, Jake. You left hours ago, and I haven’t heard from you since.”

His eyes flare, his expression softening in the next breath. “Shit. I figured you’d go back to sleep and forget I even left.”

Shame and something akin to anger blends in my belly. He thought I’d just go back to sleep? He was counting on me not noticing or remembering he was gone?

“Where were you?” I whisper. If I let myself speak any louder, I’ll yell.

He cocks his head and raises one eyebrow. “I was at The Oak, just like I said.”

I shake my head and avert my gaze. He wasn’t at The Oak thirty minutes ago when I called. And we only live five minutes from downtown Hampton. Four, if there’s no traffic, which there shouldn’t have been at five on a Sunday morning.

As embarrassing as my confession is, I still feel compelled to call him out.

“You weren’t at The Oak when I called there a little bit ago.”

His eyes widen to saucers. He takes a few cautious steps into the kitchen but doesn’t circle the bar to close the space between us.

“You called the bar?”

I turn to stare at the fridge before responding, suddenly fascinated by his collection of magnets. Las Vegas. Myrtle Beach. Orlando. Boulder Springs. When I look back to meet his gaze, I’ve built up just enough courage to lash out.

“I woke up and you weren’t here. I texted you a few times. I was worried, Jake. I was worried something happened to you, or the kid you went to help was causing more trouble than expected. I called The Oak to check on you. I’m entitled to know my husband’s whereabouts in the middle of the night.”

“Maybe you should put a tracker on me,” he quips. The remark is snide, although his tone is playful.

But I’m not interested in letting him get away with shit right now.