The House Mate (Roommates, #3)

Max

When I pulled up to the house, Addison’s sporty red Maxima was gone and there were no lights shining through the windows.

I checked my phone, thinking maybe I’d missed a message, but the screen held no notifications except for a reminder that Tiffany had sent for a meeting next week.

Quickly, I dialed Addison and stepped inside the house, calling out for her and Dylan a few times before I finally made my way up to the nursery. It was empty and dark, just like everywhere else.

I called her phone again. And then a third time, still with no answer.

“It’s probably fine,” I mumbled under my breath, but it didn’t stop my heart from pounding. My blood thundered in my ears as I scrolled through my contacts again, stopping when I reached Tiffany’s number.

I dialed her, listening to the agonizing ring, and then it clicked to life.

“Hey there,” she said.

“Hey, this is a weird question, but Addison didn’t call you, did she?” I asked.

There was a pause. “Addison? Your nanny?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Why? What’s going on?” Tiffany asked. There was a clatter of noise in the background, and I felt guilty for interrupting whatever she was doing, but I pressed on.

“I just came home and nobody’s here. I didn’t know if she might have left a message with you at the office and you forgot to tell me.”

“Do you want me to come over and keep you company? Maybe try to help call around?” she asked.

“No, I’ve already interrupted you enough. Thanks, anyway.”

“Keep me posted,” she said.

I turned off the phone and stared down at it, wondering what my next move was. It was too early to call the police-and if Addison and Dylan had only run up the street for something, I’d feel like a jackass. Still, it didn’t seem like Addison not to message me.

I opened her messages from earlier in the day, reviewing the picture of Dylan covered in applesauce, and another of the blanket fort they’d made, but none of the messages hinted that they were heading out later.

Why wouldn’t Addison have told me where she was going? Surely, she knew that I’d be worried.

Maybe she’d called my mother? Or my father? I scrolled to their numbers, my thumb hovering over Dial when headlights shone through the front bay windows.

I stepped onto the porch, my pulse still hammering, to see Addison pulling Dylan from her car seat, her free hand laden with bags of all different colors and sizes.

“Let me help.”

Addison shot me a strained smile. “Thanks.”

I rushed over, took Dylan from her, and scooped up some bags, embarrassed by the rush of relief I felt when the baby was finally in my arms again. She snuggled close, burying her face into my neck. Everything was all right. Dylan was fine, and Addison was fine. All was right with the world.

So then why was my stomach still churning?

Afraid to speak for fear of what might come out of my mouth, I turned and carried Dylan inside and set the bags down, then took her up to her room. After quickly changing her into her footie pajamas, I settled her in her crib. She was clearly exhausted because she lay down without complaint. I read her a book and within minutes, her eyelids drooped and closed.

For a long moment, I stood by her crib and stared at her. Parenthood was a real motherfucker sometimes. There had been no sign of a struggle. No ransom note or reason for panic. But my hands were still clammy with icy fear, and my fury was mounting.

I knew Addison cared for Dylan, but who did she think she was, leaving the house without a note or even a quick text to let me know they wouldn’t be here when I got home? I still couldn’t shake the knot in my gut, and there was only one person to blame.

I could hear Addison bustling around downstairs, and I balled my fists at my sides and took the stairs two at a time to find her standing in the middle of the living room, pulling items from the multicolored bags.

“Where the hell were you?” I hadn’t made it all the way down the steps yet, and for a second I worried the volume and harshness of my tone would wake the baby.

Addison blinked up at me with wide, confused eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, where the hell were you? It’s eight o’clock. That’s past Dylan’s bedtime. I get home and find an empty house. No message, no note. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“W-we went shopping,” she stuttered. “I went to get things for the baby’s room like we talked about last night, but then it was late and Dylan was hungry, so we went on a dinner date. I didn’t expect to be gone for so long.”

My heart softened a little at the idea of the two of them sitting at dinner together, enjoying themselves, but that did nothing to dissolve the memory of the very real terror and dread she’d left me to face.

“I didn’t know you’d be going today.”

“I mentioned it to Tiffany when she stopped by earlier. I thought she’d tell you once she got back to the office.”

I opened my mouth again, debating what to say next, but Addison ducked her head and skirted past me, back out the front door. She left it open behind her, and I stared into space until she reappeared with yet another bag in her hand.

“I don’t know if you like Italian, but I ordered something for you and had them pack it up just in case you hadn’t had dinner. It’s probably still warm.”

I took the bag and looked inside to find spaghetti and meatballs in a clear container, waiting for me.

“I hope you don’t mind, but there’s a little bite taken out of one of your meatballs. Dylan was curious.” Addison chewed on her bottom lip, and my tense muscles loosened.

It was thoughtful of her to have gotten this for me, even if she’d been careless about keeping me informed. It was a gesture she hadn’t had to make, but she’d done it anyway. And her bond with Dylan was so clear to see already. That was the important thing. Forgetting to tell me her plans had been an honest mistake, and one I was sure she wouldn’t repeat.

“Make sure to send me a text if you’re going to leave next time, okay?” I let out a little sigh, then walked over to examine what she’d picked out for Dylan’s room. It was like her Pinterest board come to life-stacks of books, and a box with a light gray bookcase inside. And a framed Bob Dylan album too.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

It must have taken her hours to find it all, and my overreaction seemed all the more stark to me. Nice job, dickhead.