Page 89 of Not on the Same Page

Just as I’m starting to feel less shaky, the phone rings. Grumbling to myself about Ashton not knowing when to quit, I answer with the most professionalism I can muster.

“Casey?” Imani’s voice comes through the receiver. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

I drag up all the energy I can find in my reserves. “Not at all. What’s going on?”

“Have you talked to Trina recently?”

A pit of dread builds in my stomach. Swallowing hard, I say, “Not since yesterday. Why? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, actually. I got an email from the head of the agency that said Trina is no longer employed with them. But she didn’t call me or anything, and she’s not answering her phone.”

“She’s no longer employed with them?” I repeat, dumbfounded. There was nothing more important to Trina than her job. That was the root of our fight and the whole reason I’ve been miserable for days. The dread grows in my belly, coupled with guilt. If Suzanna found out about us and fired Trina…

“She didn’t tell you anything?” Imani asks, clearly hopeful I might have some information.

“No,” I say distractedly. “Let me see what I can find out, okay? I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

“Okay.” She sounds uncertain, but there’s nothing else I can tell her. I try not to let my worry overtake my common sense as I usher Imani off the phone as quickly as I can. There’s an explanation for this, and if I can fix it for Trina, I will—whether she wants to be with me or not. I’ll never forgive myself if I ruined this for her.

As soon as Imani hangs up, I don’t waste any time grabbing my cell phone and pulling up Trina’s contact information. I call her, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try again, but the same thing happens.

Thunder rumbles outside, and a quick glance at the clock on my phone tells me it’s time to get out of here. With at least an hour drive and the season’s first thunderstorm ahead of me, traffic back into the city is going to be awful. Which will give me some time to decide if I’m going to go straight to Trina’s apartment and bust down her door if I have to, or go home first and try to come up with a better plan.

31

TRINA

Finally, I’m able to sleep for several uninterrupted hours. When I wake up, it’s late. There’s thunder rolling outside accompanied by flashes of lightning, but I don’t hear any rain. My apartment is dark, though it feels early for it to be night. A glance at the clock tells me I’m right.

Slowly, I lift myself off the couch, stretching and rolling my neck to relieve the tension from sleeping with my head on the armrest. I fluff out my hair and readjust my clothes. I don’t feel great, but I feel better than I did. Maybe dumping Suzanna was exactly what I needed. Or maybe it was the conversation with Scarlett.

Remembering my phone and feeling a little better equipped to deal with what is sure to be an onslaught of communication, I walk over to where I left it and power it back on. It starts pinging almost immediately, with several texts and voicemails. I start with the texts, most of which are from Isabella.

Isabella: I am so sorry. Suzanna cornered me about the offers, and I thought she’d want to know what Ashton was up to.

Isabella: Please don’t hate me. I never meant for it to mean you’d lose your job.

Isabella: Is it too early to tell you I’m proud of you, though?

Isabella: I just tried calling, but your phone is off so I’m going to stop texting you. I hope you’re okay. Call me when you get this.

It would be cruel not to put her out of her misery, but I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now, so I fire a text back.

Me: I’m fine. I took a nap, which is a weird thing to say. Call you later.

And then, after some more thought, I send another message.

Me: I’m proud of me too, actually.

Isabella must have been waiting by her phone because she sends a string of pink and sparkly emojis, which makes me smile. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I found some really amazing friends.

I send a few more texts to worried authors letting them know I’ll be getting back to them soon before starting in on the voicemails. I put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter to let the voice messages auto-play.

The first comes from Isabella. “Bitch, you can’t just quit your job and go dark. Call me.”

Pouring myself a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge, I shake my head and laugh quietly.

The second message comes from Scarlett: “Hi again. Just thought you might want to know that Casey called Ryan. I think he’s worried about you. I don’t know what’s going on, but you might want to give the poor guy a call.”