Mistakes and Regrets

“Shay, I’m so sorry. I was wrong; I didn’t think John was that much of an idiot. Please, just come back to the party,” Jared pleaded.

“Daisy Shayla Royce, where the hell are you? Pick up your damn phone!” Kennedy shouted.

“Shay, it’s been a week. No one’s heard from you. We’re worried, just call us back,” Garrett reasoned.

“Shayla-bayla, I know how much you hate it when we all blow up your phone, but this isn’t like the other times. I haven’t seen you in over a month, and well, I’m scared. Lemme know when you get this,” Pat whimpered.

118.

It’s the amount of days I’ve been away from Tempe, my best friends, and the only home I’ve known. The guys, they’ve been worried, and, as I’m assuming, mad as hell.

493.

The amount of messages in my voicemail from the moment my feet hit the pavement outside the hotel that night, up until now. Jared and Garret called daily; Kennedy’s anger towards my bitchiness faded, and he started calling me after the first week, sometimes up to five times a day. I know he’s pissed at me, with reason; I still owe him an apology. Pat’s calls were about every two weeks, each time sounding more frantic than the prior was.

One person was missing from my call list, and it was glaringly obvious. John didn’t leave a single message or text. He never asked where I was, or tried to tell me about his impending marriage. As much as I tried to talk myself out of caring, it was useless. I missed him the most and he could care less whether or not I was dead. Or at least that’s what I thought.

I was about to find out too, because after 118 long days and nights, I was headed home.