It feels settled, as if we’ve been together years, rather than days. This is it, she is my life; my heart has already decided anyway.
I call her to make sure she is feeling better now that she’s home, focusing on work, but it goes to voicemail. I know work is overwhelming her, L.A. went terribly. It’s no surprise that she’s shutting herself in to focus.
But this understanding grows into unease when Lola doesn’t answer for the rest of the day and she doesn’t text. Saturday night passes in silence, with me alone at the house watching B movies on mute, trying to read through a stack of new releases from Wednesday.
Trying, and failing, to feel casual about it all, that we don’t need to be together every night, that it’s all right if she doesn’t reciprocate the infatuation I feel.
When I wake on Sunday, I don’t even have a text message from her, and I skip breakfast, feeling mildly nauseous. I get about four hours into busywork at the store—packing up overstock, cleaning out the back counter, putting in orders—before I break, heading into the office and calling Finn.
“Let me ask you something,” I say. “You’re going to have to be my barometer on appropriate reactions today.”
“Wow,” he says, “let me just . . . there. Had to note the time stamp on this conversation.”
Normally this would make me laugh but right now I’m wound too tight. “I last saw Lola on Saturday morning, after not having seen her all week. She’d stayed over Friday. But now it’s Sunday evening and I haven’t spoken to her since then. I’ve called and texted, and heard nothing.” I spin a pen on my desk. “That’s weird, right?”
“That’s definitely weird.” I hear him cup a hand over the phone, mumble something in the background. “Yeah, I mean Harlow says Lola’s home and working this weekend.” Harlow says something else I can’t make out, and Finn repeats it: “For what it’s worth, she hasn’t answered Harlow’s calls, either.”
I thank him and hang up, crossed somewhere between confused and hurt. I understand her wanting to disappear into the work cave this weekend—hell, even last week in L.A.—but it’s mildly fucked-up that she can’t even be bothered to answer my texts, and if it’s going to be something that she does a lot on deadline, we’re going to need to compromise somewhere, or at least give me a heads-up on the deal. When she left Saturday morning, she was eager to get to work, but still, she was nearly boneless in her satisfaction, dizzy smile in place.
I take the stairs to the loft instead of the elevator, trying to work out some of my stress. Outside the stairwell, I walk down the long narrow hall to her door, stopping in front of it to breathe.
Nothing’s happened. Nothing’s wrong.
The thing is, that’s bullshit. I know Lola. I know every one of her expressions. I have a fucking advanced degree in this woman’s reactions, her fears, her silent panics. Even if it has nothing to do with me, something is going on with her.
London answers a few moments after my knock, with a Red Vine between her teeth and game controller in hand.
“Titanfall,” she explains, nodding me in and turning back to the couch. “Wanna play? Lola’s holed up in there.”
I shake my head, managing a wobbly smile. “Just wanted to stop in and say hi to her. She’s down in her room?”
London nods absently. “Hasn’t emerged for anything but coffee and cereal in about a day.” I turn down the hall, hoping my footsteps on the wood floor warn her to my arrival. I knock quietly at Lola’s door before turning the knob and stepping in.
I’ve seen her room a few times, and it looks much like I remember; it’s an organized mess. The floor is pristine, her bed neatly made. But every other surface is covered, nearly chaotic. There’s a huge desk in one corner; her computer and digital sketch tablet are crowded at one end. Every other exposed surface is coated with pencils and pots of paint, stacks of drawings and various sketchpads. Scraps of paper and napkins and even gum wrappers litter the top, random ideas she’s jotted down while away. The wall just above and adjoining it is practically wallpapered with sketches and panels, some of them nothing more than charcoal while others are filled in with colors so vivid I’m not sure how they’re real. A strand of lights runs the length of the ceiling and I imagine how soothing and calm it must be at night. How much of an escape this must be for her. A dresser beneath the window and both the tables opposite the bed are filled with framed photographs.
I take another moment to look around, and realize I’m basically standing inside Lola’s brain. Spots of organization surrounded by an unending, overwhelming stream of ideas.