The phone rang for what felt like the hundredth time, and just like all the other attempts, it went straight to voicemail.
“Elvis, pick up!” I muttered through gritted teeth, pacing back and forth in my bedroom.
Each unanswered call was like a slap to the face, and my frustration was mounting by the second.
“Hey, it’s Elvis. Leave a message!”
The sound of his voice, even pre-recorded, sent a feeling of longing through me. I ended the call without leaving a message and threw my phone onto the bed.
This wasn’t like him. Elvis always picked up, no matter how mad he was. But tonight, silence.
I grabbed my jacket, determination coursing through me. If he wasn’t going to answer his phone, I was going to his house.
It wasn’t the first time I have gone there unannounced, and it
