How well did I know him, ever?
Those are the questions that have been running through Bob’s mind for the past hour, as he sipped a beer and nibbled the appetizer he’d felt compelled to order. The restaurant is crowded tonight with several office Christmas parties occupying the private rooms and large tables, along with crowds of shoppers who made their way across the street from the Union Square Holiday Market.
He can’t sit here much longer without either ordering dinner or asking for the check.
He types another text to Rick—-Worried about you, and adds it to the stack of sent messages that include: Where are you?; I’m at the table; Can I order you a drink?; and Is everything okay?
No reply.
Ten minutes later, the waiter has pocketed a generous tip, a pair of German honeymooners has happily settled at the unexpectedly vacated table for two, and Bob is out on the street. He pulls up the hood of his nylon jacket, wishing he had something warmer to ward off the chill and knowing it would take more than a layer of down.
Rick’s silence and failure to show up seem even more ominous now that he’s left the restaurant.
The sidewalk is teeming with -people. It’s still rush hour, and this is one of the busiest neighborhoods in the city. The NYPD presence is strong, with uniformed cops directing traffic and pedestrians. Across the street, Union Square Park is bedecked with garlands, flooded by warm white twinkle lights, and lined by red--and--white--striped canvas--covered market stalls.
If Rick had taken the subway to Union Square from his midtown office as he’d claimed he was about to do earlier, then he would have had to walk through or around the market to get to the restaurant.
Maybe he got this far, was drawn over to . . . to pick up a last-minute gift, and . . .
And lost track of time? For over an hour? And didn’t notice his phone ringing or buzzing or vibrating?
It seems ludicrous to imagine that something happened to him along the way, though. Not here, anyway. This isn’t a deserted outer borough street corner in the middle of the night. If there had been a violent crime or a serious accident in the vicinity, Bob would have heard sirens and there would be evidence even now: bystanders, commotion, flashing red lights.
Most likely, Rick never got this far. Maybe something came up at work.
He would have called or texted, though.
Okay. What else might have happened?
Maybe Rick lost his phone. He doesn’t have a landline at his apartment. A lot of -people don’t these days—-that’s not unusual.
He still could have found a way to call—-unless he kept Bob’s number stored in his phone and not on paper or in his head . . .
That’s possible.
Or maybe it was plain old cold feet?
That might have made sense yesterday, when they were about to see each other for the first time since Vanessa died. But not today. The ice was already broken. Rick seemed to want to talk.
Even if he’d changed his mind at the last minute for some reason, he’d have come up with a reasonable excuse. He was always good at telling white lies.
And I was always good at seeing right through them.
Rick may have teased him about playing detective, but Bob does have a keen sense of intuition. Right now, his instincts are telling him that something is wrong.
A gust of raw wind goes right through him, and he thinks longingly of his warm hotel bed thirty blocks north. He should probably head back there—-but this time, he isn’t going to walk. Having had no luck finding a cab on his way downtown, he can already sense that it’s going to be a challenge to find one heading back up. He can take the subway, and keep an eye out for Rick as he makes his way toward it, just in case.
Shoving his chapped hands deep into the pockets of his light jacket, Bob crosses the street toward the maze of brightly lit stalls.