O.B. paced the floor of Avery’s living room, running his fingers through his hair with one hand while holding his cell to his ear with the other. Coco sat on the arm of the sofa, her eyes following O.B. as he walked back and forth.
“Come on, come on, Avery, answer. I can explain this. It’s not what you think.”
O.B. had lost track of how many times Avery’s cell voicemail had answered: “You’ve reached Avery’s cell phone. Leave a message.”
This time O.B. didn’t say anything. He’d left countless messages already. He didn’t know what else to say. He left a text message instead. He hated texting. His fingers were so big it took him forever to get it right. But he was desperate so he muddled through.
Why didn’t Avery just come home? Was it because he knew O.B. would be there and didn’t want t
