The entire apartment would fit into my bedroom at Bancroft’s. Which is not my bedroom anymore. It never really was. Like this place will be, it was temporary. A stopover until I managed to pull my life back together.

“I know it’s small,” Belinda says apologetically, as if it’s her fault the apartment doesn’t have more square footage.

“That’s okay. It’s just me anyway. What would the rent be for this?” I’m afraid of the number she’s going to throw out. I have serious doubts about being able to afford this place.

“I’m asking for eighteen hundred a month, with a five-hundred-dollar deposit that you’ll get back as long as everything is in the same condition when I return.”

I stare at her, certain she can’t be serious. I’ve seen what these studio apartments go for. Living around here would not be possible for me with my current income, so this is a steal.

It’s really a no-brainer. I can stay here for the next two months, get myself sorted out, and then find something more permanent.

Chapter 21: Worst

BANCROFT

This is turning out to be the worst trip ever. Even the time I ate bad tacos and was sick the entire nine-hour plane ride home doesn’t compare.

First, our flight has connections and they lose my luggage. As if that isn’t bad enough, Griffin, who doesn’t manage planes well, can’t seem to find his damn passport once we land, so it takes us forever to get the fuck out of the airport. Then once we get to the hotel, I realize I forget my goddamn phone and my iPad on the plane.

It’s an epic clusterfuck. To add to the barrage of shit, when I finally manage to get a new phone on the second day of the trip I discover I haven’t backed up my iCloud, so any of the contacts I’ve added in the past three months cease to exist. Which includes Ruby. Who I haven’t been able to get in touch with. I’ve left private messages for her on Facebook and Instagram but I’ve heard nothing in response. It’s making me seriously fucking anxious.

I leave a message for Armstrong, but he’s terrible about returning phone calls at the best of times. I don’t have much of a chance to worry about that, though, because we have bigger problems—not the least of which is replacing Griffin’s passport so we’re not stuck here in London for the next week.

The permit issue ends up being a lot bigger than my father let on. Or maybe it’s bigger than he realized. We’d been one bad conversation away from a lawsuit. Lex was not in a good headspace for most of the trip. He generally makes sound business decisions, but this time he’s really messed up. I’ve spent more time on the phone with my father over the past twenty-four hours than I have in the past fifteen years.

The only positive to come out of the trip is that we dodged a lawsuit and my father’s accolades that we’ve managed to solve the problem.

When I walk into my condo the following Saturday afternoon, I’m exhausted and stressed. I haven’t heard from Ruby at all, which really isn’t like her. I expected messages from her but there’s been nothing, and Armstrong never managed to get me her number. I drop my suitcases at the door and call out for her, aware that she’s likely already left for work.

I pause at Ruby’s open door. She usually keeps it closed, so I’m surprised to see it wide open, with the light on. Something looks different. It’s tidier than usual, maybe. She’s not here, obviously, so I continue on to my bedroom, but there’s this feeling in my stomach that’s been present for the past few days that seems to be getting worse instead of better. It should be the opposite now that I’m home.

My bed is exactly the way I left it, unmade with my clothes still littering it. That’s odd. I would’ve thought Ruby would still sleep in here even without me considering it’s where she’d slept the entire time I was gone before. Something isn’t right.

That sinking feeling hits me again and gets worse as I turn and head back down the hall to her room. I flip the light back on and go to the closet, throwing the door open. The boxes. That’s what’s missing. They’re gone. Maybe she moved them to the other spare room. But even as I think it, I know I’m wrong. I rush to her bathroom and throw open the cabinet doors. They’re bare apart from towels. Everything is gone.

She’s gone.

What the fuck happened while I was away?

I need to find her. I need to talk to her. I need her back in my space.

But I can’t do that without her number, which I still don’t have. I have Amalie’s somewhere, it’s just a matter of finding it. I can always cave and call Armstrong again, even though he’s been less than helpful.

I cross over to the table where I keep mail, phone numbers, and miscellaneous papers I have yet to sort. I expect it to be more of a mess, because that’s where Ruby tosses all my mail, but it’s surprisingly still organized. My answering machine registers a message, so I hit the play button while I leaf through the papers, searching for a number I’m not sure I’ll find. Losing my phone has been a serious pain in the ass.

I shudder at the sound of Brittany’s nasally, high-pitched voice and stop leafing through papers.

“Hi, Banny, it’s Brittany! I just heard from Mimi and I couldn’t get through on your cell so I thought I’d try this number instead. I’m so sorry you had to go away on business this week. Such a disappointment when you just got back. I really hope you’ll be back in time for dinner this weekend. But don’t worry if you’re not. We can always reschedule our date. Mimi said you’re just as excited as I am about being able to spend time together again. I can’t wait to pick up where we left off last time. Call me when you can!”

It’s the “our date” part that I get stuck on. I haven’t spoken to Brittany since I took her to the engagement party. Not once. The fact that she’s treating a dinner party—one I’d completely forgotten about, and at which my entire family will be present—as a date is fairly concerning. The picking up where we left off part is another concern. Fuck dinner. I’m not going.

I hope Ruby didn’t hear this message. The machine is so old it doesn’t register the date or time messages are left.

I continue the hunt for Amalie’s phone number, but after another fifteen minutes of searching, I abandon the mission and call Armstrong. I get an answer, finally, but it’s Amalie, not Armstrong.