Page 60 of Wreckage and Rain

Forty-seven missed calls. None from Summer.

Eleven from my father.

Fourteen from Cheyenne.

The rest are notifications from social media. Tags. Mentions. The firm's official account posted a celebration carousel last night. I am tagged in eight photos. Summer is tagged as my wife.

I open it.

The first photo is me, glassy-eyed but smiling, with Cheyenne tucked under my arm. The caption reads TIDEWATER CLOSED. CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR DREAM TEAM.

I scroll.

Photo two. My arm around her shoulder.

Photo three. Her mouth at my cheek.

I stop scrolling at three.

I throw the phone across the room.

It hits the wall and falls on the rug face down.

I sit on my bed in clothes that smell like another woman and I look at my wife's wedding band on the dresser and I understand, for the first time in my life, what it feels like to have done something I can't take back, even though I don't know what I did.

***

I try to call her.

Straight to voicemail. Her voice, bright and professional, the Summer Rain voice: Hi, you've reached Summer. Leave a message.

"Summer. Please call me. Please. I don't... I need to talk to you. Something happened and I don't understand what and I need to..." My voice cracks. "Please."

I hang up. I try again. Voicemail.

Text. Won't deliver. She has blocked me. Or turned off her phone. Or both.

I call Greg. He answers on the third ring. His voice is the voice of a man who has been awake for hours waiting for this call.

"She doesn't want to talk to you, son."

"Greg, please. I need to explain..."

"She doesn't want to talk to you." Slower this time. The patience in his voice is worse than anger would be. Greg King doesn't waste emotion on people who don't deserve it.

"Is she safe?"

A pause. "She's safe."

"Greg..."

"I'd respect my daughter's wishes if I were you. And you should think about why she had to make that request."

Click.

Jake doesn't answer. Autumn doesn't answer either, but a text arrives thirty seconds later:

Autumn