20 Questions

Chapter 53

Hunter

It's now June, one hundred and sixty-two days without a single trace of my Jenna. I have exhausted every option that I know of to locate her. I have called every hospital in the area to see if she is an employee there, but nobody will tell me. I've even lied and said that I was an employer looking to hire her. Still nothing. I called the lodge to see if they would give me her phone number, but they wouldn't for privacy reasons. Since they refused to violate the privacy of the woman whose privates I have violated multiple times, I asked them to call her for me. Apparently, that was too much to ask and I got the chipper customer service version of "Not gonna happen, stalker" and a line disconnect. I have taken her letter to a restoration specialist, but the numbers are still unrecognizable. I have tried different combinations of the last three numbers, but every call ended with a "sorry, you have the wrong number" or some other choice words. I even started dining at restaurants in southern Indiana hoping maybe, just maybe, she will walk in when I am there. I have done everything apart from hiring a private investigator. I won't give up hope though. I know I will find my girl one day and we will pick up right where we left off because my feelings haven't wavered one bit. I still want to marry this woman and spend the rest of my life with her.

The guys have been supportive, but I know their patience with me is wearing thin. They can't understand why I spend every minute that I am not at work or sleeping searching for her. It's become an obsession, I know, but I will remain vigilant. I stand by the fact that she is it for me.

~

It's a blistering Saturday in July and Patrick called to say he will be over in twenty minutes. It's eleven in the morning and I am already well on my way to a drunken stupor. At some point in time, I am going to have to admit that I have a problem, but today is not that day. My alcoholism is situational, as in I will stop when I get Jenna back. I can admit that at least. I am in the pool, sprawled out on a giant pizza float when Patrick slams the back door.

"I see it's five o' clock somewhere," he scoffs as he kicks six empty beer cans out of his path.

"I don't need a lecture or an intervention. Did you bring what I asked?" I ask him, flipping over and falling into the pool water. When I finally emerge to the surface, he is staring back at me all disgusted and offended, looking like a fucking Midol commercial.

"It's on the kitchen table, along with the anti-depressant medication samples I brought over weeks ago that have remained untouched. Care to explain?"

"Care to get off my balls?" I spit.

"I care about you and what a fucking prick you're being right now," he growls, arms crossed over his chest. "I am, however, going to put on a pot of coffee and wait for you to sober up before we go over the information I brought over."

"I'm not drunk," I yell.

"Yeah, and Bryson isn't a twat with crop tops. Get your ass out of the pool before you drown in chlorinated water like you've been drowning your sorrows in shitty beer. For fuck's sake, Hunt. The least you could do is drink something not out of a brown paper bag. You quit being homeless a long time ago so fucking act like it."

I roll my eyes when I see his red hair storm back into the house and slam the door. Fuck. Not only am I damn drunk, I'm a shitty friend with a terrible case of self-loathing. Fortunately for Patrick and unfortunately for me, his little temper tantrum has sobered me up faster than some Pedialyte and a banana bag. I had momentarily forgot how shit-tastic my life without Jenna has been, but now it's staring back at me with dark eyes and a demonic smile. I wade through the water and pull myself out of the pool before grabbing a towel and stumbling into the house, the earlier estimation of my blood alcohol level wildly off base.