Thankfully, the sound of Lisa’s phone buzzing on the kitchen table saved me from having to form more words. With an irritated huff, she let me go and walked to the kitchen. I swallowed several times and lifted my eyes to the ceiling, willing back another confounded wave of tears.
She was right. Abram hadn’t called or texted or made any attempt at contact. But, even if he did have my number, he was on tour. One quick Google search two days ago also told me that he was giving nonstop interviews to media outlets, radio stations, and magazines. He was busy. Having watched my parents go through similar times in their lives, I knew how full his days were. Just like them, he (probably) barely had time to sleep, and just like them, he didn’t have time for me yet.
You should call him.
This wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to me. It was an insidious little whisper, a prodding, pushing, haranguing voice, and it disregarded facts.
Fact one: I didn’t have his number.
Fact two: I could call my brother to get it, but I had no guarantee he would give it to me. After my discussion with Leo in Aspen about Abram, how he’d warned me away, I doubted he’d want me calling his friend. Yes, I would probably be able to extract the number from him after many minutes—or hours—spent in hostage negotiations, but that was assuming I didn’t start crying on the phone. If I cried on the phone, Leo would never give me the number. Since I couldn’t stop crying, calling Leo would just have to wait until I was more “myself.”
Fact three: I wanted to talk to Abram, more than anything, but he’d been the one who left this time. He was the one who’d insisted it wasn’t goodbye. I had to be patient. I had to be practical. I would give him space. I would wait. But I promised myself, if a month or two passed and he still didn’t reach out, then . . .
Then you will still want to see him.
GAH!
Was Lisa right? Was I becoming someone else? Someone pathetic? Over a guy? But Abram wasn’t “a guy.”
But is he “the one?”
I hated the term, the one. However, here I was, using it, because I needed to call him something relative to my feelings for him. And yet, he couldn’t be “the one.” He didn’t meet the minimum requirements.
By his own admission, Abram had never thought of getting married. I wanted kids, a house, a picket fence, normalcy, consistency. My feelings for Abram hadn’t made those dreams go away, they’d just shifted, settled around him. He’d now become part of that picture.
But what if he didn’t want to be part of that picture? What if he didn’t want any of those things? What if his picture was completely different than mine? What then?
I rubbed my chest with stiff fingers, massaging my hurting heart through my ribs, telling myself that it wasn’t Abram who’d made me weepy, he wasn’t the cause for my constant catastrophic crying. It was me.
I was the problem. Me and my quest for stability while falling in love with a musician.
“Yeah, come over and help me talk some sense into her.” Lisa raised her voice, obviously wanting me to hear her phone conversation, and I glanced up. She was sending me a stony look, her eyes slightly narrowed.
I glanced at the phone in her hand. “Who is that?”
“It’s Gabby. She’s on her way, bringing over ice cream and wine, but also offered male strippers.”
Ah, Gabby.