Is it still Friday? That can't be right. God damn, it's been a long ass day. I look around, trying to find Paul, the interrupting waiter. I sit in the uncomfortable booth, squirming for what feels like forever. Finally, Paul emerges from the kitchen, ordered food in hand. My Veal Parmesan with angel hair pasta and Rowan's manicotti with extra sauce. I bet he's going to be upset when I ask him to box it up. At first, he looks a little puzzled that Rowan isn't at the table. He sets down her lunch in the void space where she once sat. For some reason, an overwhelming sadness hits me.

He lays my no longer mouth-watering food in front of me. I work up the courage to ask him to bring two boxes. There's no way I can eat this without Rowan, no matter how hungry my miniscule workout made me. He turns to head back to the kitchen, but I decide to ask him one more thing.

"Excuse me, Paul?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

Rowan always gets "miss" and I almost always get "ma'am". No time to dwell on that, though.

"May I use your phone?"

"Of course. Just ask the hostess up front. In the meantime, I'll get those boxes."

"Thank you."

I instantly feel bad for how I treated him earlier. For my frustration. I grab my wallet from my purse and pull out my severely weathered and broken debit card. I leave it on the wobbly table for Paul to take when he comes back with the boxes. The sooner I get out of here the better. I make my way over to the hostess desk and ask again to use the phone.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but we don't let customers use our phone."

"Paul said it would be okay. I just need to call for a ride."

"Okay. But try to keep it short."

"Thank you."

I dial the number that I've dialed so many times before. It rings three and a half times before she picks up.

"What do you want, Harper?"

"Rowan, just listen to me. I didn't mean to upset you."

"God, this sounds just like the old you. I thought you were done with all this."

"I'm not lying. I swear someone was chasing me. I can't believe that you don't have my back!"

Before I knew it, I was shouting, all the restaurant staff and the customers were staring at me. I can't believe that she doesn't believe me. I mean, I could understand if this was 3-years-ago-Harper but it isn't and I'm not and I can't believe she doesn't believe me.

"I don't have your back?! Who was there when you were in that car accident? Me. Who was there for you when you joined the police academy? Me. And then when you failed? Me. Who was there when you wanted to kill yourself? Me. And who got you a job at the paper when you didn't have any other options? Me. It was all me. I've been there for you through everything. And now you're doing this bullshit again? I can't believe you, Harper. You're so much better than this. I know you're better than this."

I feel a tap on my shoulder. This twenty-something hostess is staring at me, moving her mouth, probably talking. I can't hear her. I can't hear anything. There's a long, irritating ringing in my ears. Something is bubbling inside me. I can't tell if it's anger or sorrow or jealousy. I just spit it out.

"Fuck you, Rowan."

I slam the phone down. I realize now that the bubbling was anger. I'm so livid that she doesn't believe me. I'm not that person that I used to be. Not anymore. I'm scared and worried for my life, but she doesn't believe me. I avoid eye contact with anyone and everything, sprinting from the restaurant and down the street towards my apartment.

This time, I don't feel the tightness in my chest. I've been running for what seems like miles, and nothing. I'm not out of breath and I don't feel like I need to take a break. Maybe it's because I feel like I'm running from something. No, that can't be it. I was running from the black figure before and I feel completely different now.

I round the final corner and I can see the front steps of my apartment now. I practically pole vault over the stairs and through my apartment door. I close all the windows and the blinds and turn on all the lights, even though it's daytime. I fall back into my normal routine, filling my cheap wine glass to the brim and flopping down on the secondhand couch. I'm shaking, or maybe it's shivering, but all I know is that my body is quivering. I take three huge gulps of wine and set my cup down on the coffee table. I grab the blanket from behind me, wrap myself up tight and close my eyes, mulling over the day's events.

It has definitely been a long day. Turning in my paper, selling my car to that weird guy, going to the gym with Rowan, lunch. I stand up and stride over to my purse, which is now lying on the floor. I threw it down when I came in the front door, unaware of what I was doing. I wanted nothing more than to drown my sorrows in alcohol. I pick up the small, olive green clutch. It looks like it's going to bust open with the amount of money I packed inside it. $15,000. And to think that I paid for lunch with my debit card? Force of habit, I guess. I pull out the stacks of money jammed into my purse. I lay it out on the coffee table. But something doesn't look right. Wait, where is my debit card?

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Fuck. I left it at the restaurant. I left it on the table for Paul to grab and then I went to talk to Rowan on the phone. But I ran out, not thinking about my card. Shit. I guess I have to go back and get it. Hopefully Paul didn't charge me extra or something. I was pretty mean to him. I wouldn't blame him. I would do it if I were him.

I throw the blanket back onto the couch, pull myself together and stuff 1,000 or so dollars back into my clutch. The restaurant is pretty far away and I don't have a ride. Nor do I have a phone that I can use to call a cab. Then again, I did run here. I mull over my options for a moment, which happens to be only one, and I decide to walk.

It takes me about half an hour to return to the restaurant. A line of people, waiting to be seated, begins to pool in front of the hostess stand. I apologize my way to the front of the line, not really caring if everyone thought I was budging. Budging was so third grade anyway. The hostess looks at me as if I have two heads. She must recognize me from when I bolted out of here earlier. Or maybe Paul had already told everyone that I had left without my card. I politely ask her if I may speak to Paul but apparently his shift ended at 1:30. I look at a clock on a nearby wall. 1:52. I must've just missed him.

"Well, did he say anything about a debit card? I forgot I left it on the table."

"Ma'am, Paul told everyone that you dined and dashed. Your card isn't here."

I felt a slight ringing in my ears and I think I heard someone behind me tell me to hurry up. Of course, this only made me angrier. That rat stole my fucking debit card. How dare he?! And if he thinks he's going to get away with it then he has another thing coming. To think I felt bad for how I treated him.

"I would like to speak to the manager, please."

"Sure, right away."

Moments later she returns with a 5'10, mid-thirties man, wearing a dress shirt and tie with nice slacks. The dirty apron threw off his whole look though. He removes the apron and extends his hand.

"Piero Ricci. Nice to meet you."

I instantly recognize his name. After all, it is plastered all over the restaurant. Ricci's.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Ricci. My name is Harper Torres. Do you have a moment to talk? I think there might be some kind of misunderstanding."

He gestures me towards the interior of the restaurant. I follow him to a nearby booth, not too far from the one that Rowan and I argued in earlier. We sit, a hint of awkwardness in the air.

"How can I help you, Ms. Torres?"

"Well, I was eating in here earlier with my friend, and we got into a little fight. She kinda stormed out, and I was upset, so I asked Paul if I could use your phone while he boxed up our food. I left my debit card on the table while I called my friend, and I was so upset about our conversation that I left without thinking twice. I came back to get my debit card and the hostess said that I'd dined and dashed. I definitely left my card on the table. I was hoping to talk to Paul but apparently his shift ended at 1:30."

"Wow, that is a very interesting story, Ms. Torres. We don't appreciate people who skip out on the bill but I'm not sure why you would return to explain yourself if your story wasn't true. Please, wait here while I phone Paul. Maybe he can shed some light on this. Just a minute."

He uses the wobbly table to help himself to his feet and disappears behind a door labeled, "Employees Only". I wait for what feels like a century, having watched waiter after waiter pass through the door. When Mr. Ricci emerges from the bustling kitchen, I half expect to see my silver Capital One debit card catch the fluorescent light. He approaches the table with a sunken head and I can tell immediately that he is about to hit me with some bad news.

"I apologize, Ms. Torres, but I just spoke with Paul, and he said that when he came to pick up your check that there was no card. He just assumed that you'd dined and dashed."

"Well either Paul is lying or someone stole the card off the table after I got up to use the phone. Do you have video cameras in here?"

"I'm afraid not. I will ask all of my staff if they've seen anything. I will cover the bill this time, Ms. Torres, but if this happens again, I'll have to ask you not to return to the restaurant."

"Mr. Ricci, I assure you that this is some kind of misunderstanding. I would never run out on my bill, especially not here. This is my and my best friend's favorite restaurant in town. I have no problem paying for our food."

I pull out a hundred dollars from my now stretched-out clutch and hand it to Piero. He looks at me in surprise. With my debit card gone and no money in the bank, what option do I have other than cash?

"Let me go make change for you, ma'am. I'll be back in just a moment."

"No, that's okay. This is for the bill and for your trouble. I absolutely love eating here and I couldn't spend that money in a better place. Let me give you my cell number as well, just in case one of your employees did see something."

I grab a napkin off a nearby table and begin to jot down my cell phone number. Halfway through I realize that I don't have my phone. I make a mental note to go buy a new one before I head home and I crumple up the napkin in my hand. Mr. Ricci looks astonished that I didn't finish writing my number.

"So sorry, Mr. Ricci. I completely forgot that I lost my phone and I haven't gotten a new one yet. I'm actually on my way to go buy one right now. I'll be sure to stop by on my way home and leave my new cell number for you."

He nods and thanks me generously for paying my bill twofold. I give him a humble smile and make my way outside. He didn't say much of a goodbye. I guess the thought of someone dining and dashing and then returning to pay the bill was a little too much for him. Of course, that's not even close to what happened. But at least I feel like I did the right thing.

After all the dust settles from my conversation with Mr. Ricci, I begin to feel the reality of the situation. If Paul didn't take my debit card off the table then that means that someone else had stolen it. It could've been another member of the wait staff or maybe another diner. But no matter who it was, my first priority was getting a new cell phone, dropping my number off at Ricci's, and calling Capital One to report my debit card as stolen.