Where the fuck was she? It wasn’t the first time he’d asked the question and he had a bad feeling it wasn’t going to be the last. Christ. Anyone else and he would have called it in by now and started a search. Anyone else and he wouldn’t feel raw at the prospect of having been lied to. He scrubbed his hands over his face as if doing it would erase the conflicting thoughts and emotions. He never should have let her out of his sight, but fuck, trust had to start somewhere. He left the lounge chair and added another round of charcoal to those already dying out in the brick grill. He’d give her a little bit longer then decide what action to take. Returning to the chair, he accepted the impossibility of getting any songwriting done. Composing didn’t come naturally to him on a good day, something his partner razzed him about when early versions of a piece could be likened to torture by a listener. He put the guitar in its case and hauled it into the cabin, bringing the flute out and sitting on the back stairs of the wraparound porch.
