Page 9 of DadBod

ELIZABETH

I wake up slowly.And confused. And sweaty. Also, why is my pillow wet? Oh. Right. I’m a drooler and a stomach sleeper when I’m exhausted. I roll onto my back and wince. My back hurts, and that’s all thanks to my job. Closing my eyes, I remember the night before at the restaurant and wince again. “Bad night.” Embarrassing, really. Part of me wishes I could just do my job. Sell the stupid special like he wants, but the other part––well, I just can’t. See? Stubborn.

It’s frustrating because I’m not the only person to ever talk back to the man. Our chef, Antony, has done it plenty of times. Jeriann has let him have it once or twice. I’d add Monica to the mix, but she’s always kissing his ass due to her attendance issues. Or lack of attendance. No. I’m not the only one to clap back when he’s being unreasonable, but I guess I’m the only one not allowed to.

Instead of being sad that my stupid heart got a little dented, I’m pissed. But I prefer pissed to heartbroken.

I saw him in a good mood once––last fall. I wasn’t sure what caused it, but I suspect it was because it was the day his divorce was final. Rome’s pleasant mood only lasted an hour or two that day, until he found out that our head chef ordered the wrong kind of beef. To be quite honest, I didn’t like it. I’m used to the brooding Rome James. I had no idea what to do with one that was, well, chipper. It freaked me out, plus something about his growl is hot. At least I used to think it was hot. Before last night, I imagined him growling like that during… intercourse. I have to say “intercourse” because imagining Rome James doing that, in all his naked glory, well, it’s too much. Thinking of it, I get overheated and flushed. That’s why all dirty thoughts of Rome must happen in the privacy of my tiny apartment. A tiny, sunny apartment I adore. And not because it’s cheap, even though it is cheap. For Chicago. My neighborhood isn’t the best in terms of safety. There’s more crime in this part of the city than, say, the north side where the restaurant is, but I have everything I need in a two- or three-block radius. Albeit small, my apartment is big enough for me. Plus, Jeriann lives next door.

That’s how we met. She was already living here. The day I moved my meager belongings into my place, she popped her head into my open door and welcomed me to the neighborhood.

We didn’t become best friends right away. It happened over a span of a few months. It started when she invited me to a party at her place. I wasn’t going to go, but the music was loud; I knew I either needed to call the manager or join the fun. I joined the fun. And it was fun, or she was. Jeriann was the life of that party and pretty much every party since. She’s got lots of energy, and she’s always showing those dimples.

It’s why I worry about her. She’s trusting and kind to everyone. Well, everyone but Gianna and Monica at the restaurant, but that’s deserved. Jeriann and I are alike in many ways. We both grew up in small towns, although her reason for leaving that small town is different from mine, and she still talks about going back someday because she loves how close-knit it is. I felt that way once. Unlike me, though, I’ll never go back. Also, Jeriann’s an optimist who tends to wear rose-colored glasses. Take last night for example. She traipsed off to some new guy’s apartment, probably someone she met on an app or at a bar, without a care for her own safety. That’s why she needs me––to remind her of the dangers in the real world.

Which reminds me. I reach out to grab my phone from the small table next to my bed slash sofa, but it’s not there. Rolling toward the edge, I groan in pain. I place my feet in the ground and push myself up to standing. I scan the small room in search of my bag, which hopefully holds my phone. I need to check on her. She never did message me. At least not while I was on the way home.

I spy my purse next to the door. Bending, I make a little grunting sound and grasp the bag. I should do some stretching exercises today. Maybe it’d make my back hurt less.

I dig around inside my purse until I find my phone. Setting my bag on the one and only kitchen counter, which isn’t technically a counter, more like a partition between the kitchen and the rest of my living space. Staring down at the device, the screen is dark. “Shit.” I step over to the table next to where I sleep, and search for the power cord. It’s fallen behind the bed. I get down on my knees to snag it. Once it’s plugged in, I stare until the red battery icon appears. Five minutes later, it comes to life. “Finally,” I sigh.

The first thing I notice is the red circle with the number two over my messages app. Hitting it, I see Jeriann’s text first. I’m safe you worrywart. She lists a Lincoln Park address, a neighborhood on the north side of town. The photo of the guy comes next. He’s standing at what looks to be his open door. He’s shirtless and wearing those baggy sports shorts guys like to wear. He looks like she woke him up, because his hair is all messy and his eyes are barely open. Say hello to Cael.

Cael? That’s an interesting name.

I feel terrible that I let my phone die before knowing she was okay.

God, I’m the worst friend. I quickly type: Are you home now?

I stare down at the phone for a minute or two expecting those three dots to appear. When they don’t, I look up at the time. “Shit.” It’s seven in the morning. “Why the hell am I up at seven?” Oh, right. I woke up hot and drooling because I forgot to open my windows last night. I’m about to set my phone down to do just that when I see the other new text. It’s from Rome. I note the time it was sent: 3:17 a.m. I’m hesitant to open it because I’m pretty sure he’s going to yell at me some more. I do it anyway. Rome: Sorry. Don’t quit.

Quit? Why would he think I’d quit? I need this job. And believe me, I’ve tried to find something else. A day job. But no one wants to hire a small-town hick who barely graduated high school.

Ha. Barely is an understatement. I think they just felt sorry for me. Either that or they wanted the last remaining member of the Duncan family out.

Probably the last part. My little town wanted nothing to do with the Duncans after what happened with my brother––

No. I can’t think about that right now. I’ve got too much to do to let myself wallow about him. Like unpacking the text from Rome. First of all, he doesn’t text me. Ever. Well, I take that back. He sends employee text messages whenever he wants to have a staff meeting or if he needs to tell us all the same thing. Other than that, I’d say this was my first text from Rome just to me.

Why now?

Why would he think I was quitting?

Unless Jeriann…

Pressing the text icon again, I type: Did you tell Rome I was going to quit?

I stare, hoping those three moving dots appear. The ones that let me know she’s writing back. To my surprise, they do appear.

Jeriann: Jesus, woman. It’s seven in the fucking morning. My phone keeps making that annoying dinging sound thanks to you. I’m fine. Go back to bed.

Me: Just answer the question.

Me: Wait. Are you home now?

Please tell me you’re home, safe and sound?

Jeriann: No. Heading home soon.