Rebecca Caruso

The bathroom light buzzed faintly, a small, constant annoyance that matched the thrum of my nerves. I straddled on the closed toilet lid, phone in hand, thumbs flying over the screen: Call me ASAP.

I hit send, watching the message linger in limbo with the dreaded "Sending..." for far too long before the sharp red exclamation mark popped up. Failed to send.

My frustration bubbled over, and I gripped the phone tighter, as if willing it to work harder would somehow change anything. My time was running thin. The bathroom was my best bet. No one questioned you for taking your phone to the bathroom anymore, not in this day and age. And after Irene's overly cheery interrogation about my "self-care," I knew I wouldn't get another window.

I tried again, fingers moving with a frantic energy I couldn't quite control: Urgent Call Me NOW.

Another red exclamation mark.

"Fuck," I whispered, the words more exhale than sound. My knee bounced, a nervous tick I couldn't suppress as I stared at the phone screen, contemplating my next move.

Could I risk calling him? It wasn't exactly subtle. But what choice did I have? Marco had to know. He at least deserved a warning.

I glanced at the door, ensuring the lock was firmly in place. Maybe if I was quiet enough, no one would notice. I could run the sink—just enough noise to muffle my voice without drawing too much attention.

My thumb hovered over Marco's name in my contacts, hesitation prickling at the back of my mind. Was this smart? Was it safe? I shook my head, clearing the doubts. It didn't matter. He needed to know.

I tapped his name and held the phone to my ear, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest. The first ring felt deafening in the small bathroom, and I scrambled to lower the volume. The second ring came, and my heart started to race, each beat growing heavier with anticipation.

The third ring, and then—

Straight to voicemail.

The automated message sounded cold and final as if it were mocking my urgency.

"It's me," I began, keeping my voice low but sharp with frustration. "Call me back. It's serious."

I hung up and stared at the screen, willing it to vibrate with a return call. Time felt elastic, stretching painfully thin as I weighed my next steps. Should I wait? Try again? Or was I already pushing my luck by staying in here too long?

The bathroom suddenly felt smaller, the hum of the light louder, the air too thick. I pressed my back against the cool porcelain tank, trying to steady my breathing. My fingers hovered over the phone again, trembling slightly, the urge to try calling him one more time nearly overwhelming.

A soft knock at the door made me jump.

"Babe?" Christopher's muffled voice carried through the wood, tinged with concern. "You okay in there?"

My heart leapt into my throat. The phone nearly slipped from my grasp as I scrambled to school my tone, forcing a touch of casualness into my voice. "Yeah, I'm good," I called out, my throat tightening around the words. "Just need a minute."

There was a pause, just long enough to make me wonder if he believed me.

"Okay," he said finally, his tone warm but with a flicker of doubt. "Let me know if you need anything, alright?"

"I will," I replied quickly, my voice too tight, too rushed.

His footsteps retreated, but I waited a beat longer before daring to move again. I exhaled slowly, trying to shake the tension that had coiled in my chest.

I stared at the phone in my lap, my options narrowing. Another text was pointless. Calling felt reckless, but time was slipping away. Marco had to know. He deserved to know.

Screw it.

I tapped his name and held the phone to my ear, the slight tremor in my hand betraying my nerves. The first ring seemed louder this time, echoing off the bathroom tiles. My other hand hovered over the faucet handle, ready to twist it on if I heard anything outside.

The second ring. The third. My chest tightened with each one, each passing second stretching out longer than it should have. My thumb hovered over the screen, ready to end the call. I didn't want to deal with leaving another message, or the sinking dread of hearing that automated voice mock me with its emptiness again.

Just as I was about to hang up, the line clicked.

"Hey, you," Marco's voice came through, cautious but unmistakably familiar. There was a faint edge of concern beneath the warmth, like he wasn't sure if this was good news or bad. "What's going on?"

For a moment, my voice faltered, tangled between the relief of hearing him and the weight of what I needed to say. "Thank God you answered," I finally breathed, the words more a sigh than speech.

His tone sharpened, concerned now. "You ok—?"

"I don't have time," I cut in, glancing nervously at the door. The space suddenly felt smaller, the faint buzz of the bathroom light like a drill boring into my skull. "Hold on," I whispered, leaning over to turn on the faucet, letting the water run as a cover. "Listen, the DA's about to sign off on a warrant. I don't know what kind, or when, but they've got solid DNA against you."

"What? " His voice dropped, growing sharper, almost accusatory. "Whose DNA? They couldn't have—" He cut himself off, the sound of him exhaling sharply filling the silence.

I was about to say something else, but a sharp knock at the door made me jump.

"Rebecca, dear? Everything alright in there?" Irene's voice filtered through, all concern and faux sweetness.

I froze, gripping the phone tighter. I swallowed hard, forcing my voice into something resembling normalcy. "Uh—yeah, Irene," I called out, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I'm fine! It's just... the giardiniera. My stomach's a little upset."

"Oh, poor thing," she cooed. "Take your time."

I waited until Irene's footsteps faded, the tension in my chest easing just slightly. I leaned closer to the phone, lowering my voice to a whisper. " I gotta go."

"Are they there now?" Marco's voice was taut, laced with concern.

"Just—be careful." I cut him off, my voice tight, my throat dry. My thumb hovered over the screen, ready to end the call.

"Thank you." Marco's voice was softer now, almost fragile, like he wasn't sure he'd ever get the chance to say it again.

The line went dead, leaving a heavy, ringing silence in its wake.

For a long moment, I just sat there, staring at the phone, its screen dark. The faint hum of the bathroom light buzzed around me, a low, grating reminder of reality. Marco's words replayed in my mind: Thank you.

The weight of them settled on my chest, heavier than I expected. Did he know what he was thanking me for? Did I even know?

The faucet continued to run, the cold water pooling against the porcelain. I leaned forward, splashing some onto my face, the icy sting jolting me out of my thoughts. It didn't help much. I turned it off, the sudden quiet amplifying the muffled voices and laughter filtering through the door.

For a moment, I just stared at myself in the mirror. My face was pale, drawn, my hair slightly disheveled. I adjusted my shirt and smoothed my hands down the fabric, as if it would erase the cracks underneath.

When I finally unlocked the door, my fingers trembled. I paused, took a deep breath, and stepped out.

The hallway felt too bright, the air stifling after the cool solitude of the bathroom. Irene was by the kitchen, chatting with Christopher, her smile wide but her eyes darting toward me as I emerged. Robert leaned against the wall near the living room, his sharp gaze landing on me like a spotlight.

"Feeling better, sweetheart?" he asked, his tone light but his smirk loaded with something unspoken.

"Much," I replied, my voice steady and clipped. The mask was back in place.

"That's good," he said, straightening and stepping closer, just enough to make the space between us uncomfortably small. "We wouldn't want you missing out on the fun."

His words lingered like a challenge, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I smiled faintly, brushing past him.

Christopher's voice called after me as I moved toward the other room, my pace measured. "You sure you're okay?"

"It's the food, I can't handle it like I used to," I replied, barely glancing over my shoulder. My phone weighed heavy in my pocket, every step reminding me of the conversation I couldn't stop replaying in my mind.

Thank you.

I wasn't sure if I deserved it.