That evening, on a whim, she consulted the phone book and located a listing for a William A. Finley, 223 Pace Street, Apt. #6,Auburn Hills, in nearby Monotoning. So, she thought, he was around her age, he'd worked at Target---and he lived in the same apartment compex as she did! Her heart started to race. However did he manage that?, she wondered. Everyone knew that Target didn't pay very well.
She picked up her cell. Her slender fingers trembled, as she punched in his number.
Almost immediately, a recorded female voice cooly informed her: "The number you have reached has either been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check your number and try you call again."
Sarah turned off her phone and set it back on the coffee table in her living room. For just a second, she experienced the same mild sensation of shock and bewilderment she'd felt when the young girl at the store had told her that Will no longer lived there.
The next afternoon, on her way home from work, ever wild and impulsive, she decided to drive by the Auburn Hills apartment complex in Monotoning. After all, it was only three miles out of her way. Sarah was not a stalker. She hadn't done this sort of thing since she was sixteen, and she and her three best friends used to drive past the homes of boys they were crazy about, and blow the horn, and swiftly speed away, laughing hysterically.
Sarah wasn't exactly sure what she expected to see there. Maybe Will standing outside his condo, hopefully dressed in nothing except his bathing suit, or maybe a pair of baggy shorts. She wondered if he had hair on his chest. The sight of hair on a man's chest had always been a major turn on for her. No matter. Just the thought of catching even a brief glimpse of those beautiful brown eyes, or that devilish, little-boy smile caused her heart to race in wild anticipation. She gripped the steering wheel of her white Mustang convertible even tighter in her talon-like hands.
The Auburn Hills apartment complex was pretty much what anyone would typically expect to find in that part of Pennsylvania. Bland, boring, and totally unappealing. Two storied structures built of ugly, mud-brown brick. There was no car parked in front of door number 6, and the red drapes on the window, next to the florescent-orange front door, were closed, so she couldn't see if there was any furniture inside his apartment. Still, the ugly, little apartment did seem dark and deserted, as if no one lived there.
"Oh, darn," she said aloud to no one in particular. (Yes, she actually said darn, although she could swear worse than a Marine whenever she felt the need to do so.)
Sarah let out a deep sigh of frustration and despair. Her heart dropped like a stone inside her chest and her thin, round shoulders slumped in unwilling defeat. She drove up the winding street to her own apartment, two streets up, on Sycamore Street, slowly, almost reluctantly, her lower lip puffed outward in a defiant, little-girl pout.