I curl up on the couch with a throw so I can hear him when he gets home, and flip on a movie.
I watch two movies before I text Nolan.
Me: Hey. Is everything okay?
An hour later, I message him again.
Me: Are you okay? I’m getting worried.
Thirty minutes later, I’m contemplating calling the police. Instead, I call my sister.
“Hey. Are you okay?” Her exhaustion has me wincing with regret. It’s one in the morning in Vegas, four here.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking. It’s late. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. What’s wrong.”
Her voice is so soft, so comforting that tears form in my eyes. “I can’t find Nolan.”
“Are you out together?”
“No. I’m at home, but he went out. They lost their game tonight. The coach benched him for some bullshit reason, and they lost.”
“He’s probably at a bar or at a buddy’s house blowing off steam,” she says. “Have you checked social media?”
“Nolan hates social media.”
“Yeah, but the rest of the world doesn’t. Someone’s probably tagged in a picture. We’ll each pick a platform. I bet we can find him in fifteen minutes.”
“How are you going to help? You’re not friends with anyone I go to college with.”
“I could be a cyber stalker. There’s this girl I follow who does casual doxxing and she can find anyone. I’ve learned so much. Christian is legit afraid of me now.”
“I’d rather my boyfriend reply to my texts, so I’m not forced to stalk him online.”
“He’s going to owe you some groveling for this one,” Katie says absently. In the background, I hear her fingers drumming against a keyboard.
I pull up my laptop, and scroll through my feed for several minutes, staring at pictures of food, and people’s attire for last night’s game.
“Who would he be with? Who are his closest friends?”
“Hudson, maybe? Try Hudson McKin—wait.” Flashbacks of Lenny holding an axe have me looking at the window. “Try Lenny Schmidt.” I enter his name on my side as well. Pictures of Lenny and Nolan drinking.
Posing with people I don’t know.
Taking shots.
More posing, this one with a crowd of girls.
More drinking.
Nolan dancing in a crowd. It doesn’t appear that he’s dancing with anyone specific but a dozen girls are watching him, near him.
My hackles are up, and so are my emotions.
“I found him,” I say.
“Is he home?” Lanie asks.