Justin’s phone number no longer worked. My heart swam in misery, I retrieved the phone, dialed it a tenth time to prove it to myself. Yep. Bad number. At some point in my remaining ten minutes of break, Opal gave my back a small rub and said something about this, too, passing. This, too, would not pass. I needed him.I loved him.And I had no clue as to how to get a hold of him. Yellow pages had no rock star listing. Paula suggested I leave a comment on his MySpace. I’d settled for a not-so-easy-to-write email message. He’d yet to reply or call as I’d nearly begged him to. I should have spelled it out in the email. But telling someone about love didn’t belong online. Not for the first time. Not when they might balk. But how would I get to him in person? The Java Jungle manager had no information. Neither did any Santa Fe radio station.A part of me had started wondering if he existed. If it all hadn’t just been a dream. Then, in the middle of ringing up four bundles of yarn and a new set of knitting needles, my craving had awakened.
