Scotch Sam could handle. His family owned a distillery in Scotland, it was everywhere, at every event. He knew how his body responded to the smokey substance, knew his limits, knew it's effects. 

But beer was different. He rarely drank beer. Not really at all since his high school days. In high school, he had consumed copious amounts of beer. One after another, on the way to drunken interludes. Mixing it with shots, a heady combination often ending in blackouts and morning regrets. Mornings where he woke up in Vicky's bed.

Vicky, she was here. Vicky with her sloppy kisses. Vicky with her skillful hands. The memories all swam up after years of repressing them. Beer and Vicky, Vicky and beer, Vicky and sex. Vicky with her hand on his chest.

Wait, Vicky did have her hand on his chest. What was going on? Vicky was sitting in his lap. Her harsh laughter ringing in his ears. She was too close. Why was Vicky on his lap? He didn't want this. Where was Ali?

Sam shot up, pushing Vicky off to the side. She landed on the seat beside him but Sam wasn't paying attention. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be with Ali.

Looking at his watch, Sam groaned. He was supposed to be with Ali now. Sam pulled out his phone to arrange a ride and saw 3 missed calls from her. He had told her he would be home an hour ago. Just one drink with the crew he had promised. 

Shaking his head, he tried to clear his foggy brain.  Call her back now, his head fuzzy and full of beer or get home and use the ride to clear his mind.

Making his way out of the bar and on to the street, the freezing air slammed against him like a slap to the face. He would use the time to sober up so he wouldn't say anything stupid.

Ali would understand. Wouldn't she?

The driver seemed to be on his side as he made quick work of the trip. No one was in the lobby, the concierge off helping another tenant maybe, so Sam was able to avoid the small talk and head straight to the elevator. Opening the door to their apartment, Sam called out the start of his apology.

To empty air. No dog came running to greet him. No Ali waiting to hear his latest excuse. The apartment was void of life.

The dining room table was laid out for two, one wine glass untouched. Sam walked towards the kitchen which was emanating the most amazing aroma. On the counter sat a selection of dishes, each brimming with a different delectable. Mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, grilled brussel sprouts, what was most likely a prime rib sitting beside a boat full of now congealing gravy. Sam moved forward and spotted a basked of Yorkshire puddings.

His favourite meal was growing cold in front of him.

Ali had arranged for all this to be brought in as part of his surprise.

He was an idiot.

Vainly hoping that Ali had given Scout to his mother for the evening, Sam ran to the bedroom. But he knew that Ali would not be there. Instead, he found a crumpled red dress strewn across the bed.

He was a bigger idiot.

Her closet door was open and Sam felt a prick of panic when he saw a large gap in her clothing rack. Pushing into the bathroom, that panic blossomed. Her things were gone. No toothbrush, no hairbrush, that tub of floral-scented cream that he loved so much. It was evident now that Ali was not just out cooling off, she was gone.

Sam brought up her number on his screen and pressed talk. It rang and rang, her voicemail kicking in. Her voice sounded happy, recorded on a day that Sam hadn't disappointed her. Such a day seemed long ago. The greeting invited him to leave a message.

He didn't know what to say. "Ali. I'm so sorry.

Please call me back." Then he texted her a similar sentiment. No return message.

Over the next 30 minutes, Sam tried to call and text her again. He didn't get a response. He tried to determine where Ali might have gone. Who would she turn to here in New York?. It hit him hard. Ali didn't know anyone here, she didn't have any friends he knew of.

Guilt roiled through Sam. All those nights when he had left Ali alone, she really was alone. He had somehow convinced himself that she was keeping busy, fine on her own. And Ali was when she was working on the charity event and with his parents. But it couldn't fill up all of her time. It was more likely Ali was spending most of her days and evenings alone.

Sam sank into their comfy couch. The one they had picked out that sunny Sunday, shopping to decorate the new home they would live in together. Bile rose in the back of his throat. Creating a home, just like Ali had once done with Jack, her ex-husband. Who then promptly isolated her, ignored her, left her alone. The realization he was not better than Jack sliced through his heart.

He was more than an idiot.

Sam could barely breathe at the thought of hurting Ali this way. Desperate to find her, Sam called the only person he thought Ali might run to as a friend.

"Sam?" his mother's voice sounded like she already knew something was wrong.

"Mom, hi. Ummm, is Ali there with you?" He didn't have the will power for small talk.

"No Sam." Evelyn paused. "She isn't there?" Sam couldn't bring himself to say the words. His mother filled the void. "Did something go wrong with the Yorkshire? Tell her not to be so hard on herself. Learning to cook a meal takes practice. You should have seen the first dinner I made for your father."

His mother's words cut at him. "Ali cooked?"

"Yes, dear. She...she wanted to do something special for you. She has been trying out recipes for weeks. Sam, is everything okay?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know Mom. I was... I was late getting home and she wasn't here when I returned."

"Oh, Sam. She put so much effort into this meal. You have no idea."

"Mom, I already feel terrible. You don't have to rub it in."

"I didn't mean to.

It's just this meant a lot to her.

Where could she have gone?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing. If she calls there or you hear anything..."

Evelyn cut him off "I'll let you know the moment I hear from her. You do the same." Sam agreed and hung up.

Sam rubbed his forehead as if the simple act could erase the stress of not knowing where Ali was. He decided to text her again.

Ali, I know you are mad at me.

You have every right.

I'm an idiot.

I'm so sorry.

Nothing. Maybe she couldn't answer him. Maybe she was driving. Or on a plane back out west. No that was silly. Ali wouldn't leave him.

Sam looked at the ruins of the meal, the half-eaten roll, the wine glass marked with red lipstick.  Ali had been drinking. 

Images of a crushed car flooded Sam's mind. He could not breathe. Maybe she was unable to answer him.  Maybe there was an accident. Maybe she was hurt. Or worse.

Sam typed furiously.

Please Ali.

You can ignore me. I deserve it.

But if you care for me at all, just tell me you're safe.

That you were not in an accident.

That you're not hurt.

This time there were three little dots under his words. She was typing him back. Relief flooded through Sam. Until Ali's words popped up on the screen.

But I am hurt.