May Kill Me

Four

"Why?" I snapped at him, "I'm not allowed to be here or something?"

That was probably not very smart of me to say: Jonathan looked down at me as if he considered slapping me again.

"I dare you!" I said in a whisper, narrowing my eyes at him.

At that, Jonathan leaned back, smiling.

I couldn't believe that this was the guy I was dating for almost two years. That I tolerated his moods, bullshit, and demands for so long and let him get away with it. Let him get away with treating me like I was nothing more than an armpiece. And why? Because he was an All-Star? Because his family was wealthy? Because of his handsome face?

"Enjoy the party." The smile didn't leave his face as he moved to the side, making a path for me.

He even extended his hand mockingly, the humble servant welcoming a guest.

I didn't say anything as I walked briskly past him, not wanting to meet his gaze.

There was something wrong about his reaction: Jonathan was not the type to 'surrender' this way, to back away from an argument without at least one retort.

***

I found James sitting on the couch by himself, scrolling through whatever he was looking at on his phone.

"Where's Rory?" She was my ride, although I doubted she was fit to drive in her condition.

"No idea," James shrugged, not bothering to look up from his phone.

"What do you mean no idea? She was sitting right next to you for a few minutes. Did she just up and vanish in the air?"

James raised his eyes slowly from his phone and looked at me, scrutinizing my face as if seeing me for the first time.

From his expression alone, I had the feeling he wanted to tell me to fuck off — but, I was the friend of the girl he still had a thing for. Argo, being a dick to me meant less of a chance for the two of them to hook up/get back together.

"She said something about going to the washroom." He replied, getting back to his phone.

"Okay, thanks."

Making my way around the people drinking, laughing, and talking, I tried to remember how many bathrooms there were in this house.

I was pretty certain there was one downstairs, and at least one more upstairs. Hopefully, that's where Rory was. I planned to convince her to go home.

The bathroom downstairs was occupied, and when the door finally opened, Natalie Delon walked out rubbing the tip of her nose.

"Hey, have you seen Rory?" I asked her.

Natalie looked at me wide-eyed and dazed, shaking her head.

There was no sign of Rory upstairs either.

I took my phone out and scrolled through my texts, found Rory (saved as Roar), and dialed her number.

After five rings the call was forwarded to a voicemail.

Hey, you've reached Rory, don't bother leaving a message because I won't bother listening to it. Text like a normal person. Peace and love.

So I did just that: I texted her.

Leaning against the wood-paneled wall on the second floor, I waited for about five minutes for a reply.

When nothing came through, I called her again, getting the same annoying voicemail.