Bail out

Kennedy

I should’ve called Anna last night. Or I should’ve at least tried. Even better, I should’ve turned back up at Riven’s and told her I’m not going to be pushed away by her sticking her middle finger up to everyone trying to help. I should’ve told her that if things were different, if I was ten years younger and hadn’t spent the last five months with her on my books, that I’d be falling into bed with her in a heartbeat, for right or wrong.

I should’ve told her I care. That I care too much.

Riven’s right; this is a midlife crisis and it’s getting the better of me. I can’t get her out of my mind, and it takes every scrap of determination to stay focused on my meetings through the morning, knowing full well she’s at Riven’s getting up to Christ knows what.

If she’s even still there.

The idea she’s taken off again sends a chill up my spine.

I’m talking through career options with a kid called Brooklyn when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I hope it’s her calling. I hope it’s her wh