I absently nod and send her back a text.

What hospital? I can come there.

I wait a few moments for a response but nothing comes through. I see her original text was sent not long ago so she’s probably driving. Putting my iPhone back, I decide not to worry about it for the moment and head into a shower.

***

Checking my watch for what may be the hundredth time in the past hour, I peer down Sutton’s street, looking for some sign of her car. I’ve been sitting on her front porch step for about an hour, hoping she’ll come home at some point.

She and I were texting back and forth for a few hours, but now I haven’t heard from her in several hours. It’s getting dark and I’m getting worried.

Darkness I can handle. The worried part is a feeling I can definitely say I do not like. I have no clue why Sutton hasn’t texted me back. I learned that the kid who overdosed was stable and that Sutton would be staying awhile so she could talk to her. She hoped to be home around dinnertime, but that was the last message I got from her. After a few texts to her to ask if I could see her tonight—because again worried about her and want to make sure she’s okay—I gave up after she didn’t respond to the fourth one and just decided to stalk her house instead.

A car engine purrs in the distance and I can see headlights approaching. Standing up from the bottom porch step, I walk down to her sidewalk to get a better look. When a white Audi sports car comes into my field of vision, my heart slumps because I know that is definitely not Sutton’s bucket of bolts.

Rather than pass on by, the white car pulls into Sutton’s driveway, but with the headlights on and dusk waning into night, I can’t tell who’s in the car.

I don’t have to wait long because the driver’s door opens and a guy gets out. He has short brown hair and he’s neatly pressed in khaki pants and a pink button-down shirt. Rounding the front of the car, he walks toward me on the sidewalk.

“Can I help you?” I ask, intent on asserting my position on Sutton’s doorstep.

“Is Sutton here? I need to talk to her,” the man says casually as he approaches me. Once he steps into the yellow glow of the porch light, he can finally see me clearly and he says, “Holy shit—you’re Alex Crossman.”

“Last I heard,” I respond dryly. “And you are?”

The guy gives me a huge grin and leans forward, sticking his hand out to me. “I’m Brandon James. Sutton’s boyfriend.”

My teeth clench even as I take his hand to shake, and before I can even address the fact that he has asserted himself as Sutton’s boyfriend, he rambles on. “Well, actually ex-boyfriend, but we’ve reconnected and I’m hoping to make something click again. I just…I can’t believe I’m standing here talking to Alex Crossman. Sutton told me she was working on some type of project with you, right?”

I start to tell him I’m here on personal business but he doesn’t give me an opening. Moving at lightning speed and before I can protect myself, the douche jumps toward me, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. “Hey…I got to get a picture of me with you.”

Before I can protest, he slings an arm onto my shoulder and attempts to pull me down toward him, holding his arm outstretched with phone in hand.

“Selfie!” he yells just as the flash goes off, and I want to strangle the dude. I would, if I could in fact see, but the damn flash has me temporarily blinded.

Blinking a few times, I stare at Brandon as he admires the photo. His mouth turns downward and he practically whines, “Shit. Top of your head got cut off. You’re tall man, really tall. Next one, if you can lean down a little…”

Brandon moves toward me, intent on roping me into another selfie. I stick my hand out in self-defense and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to hip check him into the concrete.

Luckily for him, I hear Sutton’s car coming down the street, chugging and sputtering along. Because Brandon’s car is in the driveway, she pulls along the curb and cuts the engine. It wheezes and whines, sputters and even coughs once before it goes silent.

Then she’s out of the car and stalking across the grass toward both of us. She looks pissed and I don’t know who it’s directed at.

“Hey, baby,” Brandon says genially, pointing at me. “Look who’s here…Alex Crossman. Can you believe it? We were just getting ready to do another selfie.”

Sutton slides a glance my way and the tension inside of me eases a bit because in just that brief glance, I actually see apology in her eyes.

Turning back to Brandon, Sutton is calm when she asks, “What are you doing here, Brandon?”

Sauntering up to her, completely forgetting his selfie with me, for which I’m grateful, he says in a placating tone, “I thought we could hang out…maybe you could even make your tuna casserole. I love that stuff. Then we can talk.”

Sighing with fatigue, Sutton places her hands on her hips. “I told you on the phone that I had a rough day today and tonight wasn’t a good time.”

Interesting. They talked on the phone today?

“Yeah…but I figured we could just chill…that would be a great way to relax after a hard day,” he says, giving me a sideways glance.

I’m not sure exactly what sets Sutton off, but I’m betting it might be the fact he asked her to cook dinner for him when she was clearly exhausted. Her face turns red as she walks up to him and pokes him in the chest with her finger, causing him to take a step backward as his eyes flare with surprise.