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He demands, “Why haven’t you been answering your cell phone?” His furious tone takes me aback. “Why? Is there an emergency?” “Yes,” he says, jaw clenched. “I was trying to reach you.” When I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him with lifted brows, he adds, “I don’t like it when I can’t reach you. And your shop phone goes straight to voicemail.” My internal anger thermostat ticks up several degrees, but I keep my voice calm when I reply. “What’s the emergency?’ “That is the f*****g emergency.” He says it as if it should be obvious. As if not being able to get in contact with me after only a few hours being apart is the rudest and most inconvenient thing he’s experienced in his entire adult life, and I should immediately throw myself at his feet and beg him for forgiveness. “Ca
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