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It’s not…her voice.

Oh.

Yeah.

I’m starting to get that shit now.

This is not my woman’s voice.

She didn’t write this shit.

There’s no…her in it.

No excitement.

No misplaced emojis.

No disappointment.

Not a single fucking flake of the woman who would be heartbroken she didn’t get the chance to teach us about the different types of fiction, or lecture us about the sub-genres, or gender bias that made some women write under assumed masculine identities simply to get published.

She rambled about the shit last night ‘til she passed out.

She wanted me to keep talking about swans and I wanted to hear her voice instead of my own.

And this shit ain’t it.

What the fuck is going on?

“Can the rest of this wait?” I ask Ap yet leave no real room in my tone to insist otherwise. “I’ve got an emergency to handle.”

“Yeah!” squeaks the black-haired female. “Totes!” She quickly retrieves the item and asks, “Anything you need from me? Or any of us?”

Uncertainty is what leads me to stating, “I’ll let you know.”

Once the five foot four bikini and cut off shorts sporting female exits, I swiftly swipe a number on my phone.

Hit speaker.

Head with it in hand over to my small, corner closet.

Not getting any sort of response from Emmerz isn’t surprising.

But I wish it were.

I immediately hit her info again and listen to the device ring while ditching my flops along with my board shorts.

After still not getting an answer, I repeat the action.

Stare at the damn thing like that’s going to help.

Though, can’t hurt.

Nothing.

Three times of getting her voicemail has me scrolling and tapping another contact.

One that will get me answers.