I told myself a dozen times to sit down. I put the phone on the charger, poured a cup of tea I did not drink, picked up a book, and read the same paragraph four times before finally giving up.
Then, three hours after my son’s departure, my phone lit up, and my stomach turned over.
The caller ID showed Madison’s name.
Not Nathan’s.
Madison’s.
Every awful scenario I had buried over the last few weekscame roaring back. I pictured Nathan stranded somewhere, his suit jacket folded over his arm, that shine in his eyes gone. I almost could not make myself swipe to answer.
“Hello?” My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
“Miss Walker?” The girl on the other end sounded steady, almost gentle. “It’s Madison, Nathan’s date.”
“Is he okay?” I blurted. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no, please don’t worry,” she said quickly. “He’s totally fine. He’s actually on the dance floor right now. I just stepped outside for a minute because I wanted to call you.”
