shoulder and steers me away from the door, leaning back against it himself, blocking the only exit. He considers me, the dress, the sparkly shoes. The shiny hair, the blush, the mascara. The effort.
I’m an idiot.
He takes in the rest of the apartment, sparse and uninspired. The television, the laptop, the balcony. His eyes narrow slightly when he spots the maps, and I know then that he’s never been here before. However he found me, it only just happened.
His gaze settles on the crumpled bags of groceries, the roast chicken visible on top.
“I knew you weren’t going to cook a chicken,” he says.
“I bought potatoes.”
“We’ll eat them later.”
Now it’s my turn to take him in, though he looks exactly the same as he always has. Handsome, rough around the edges. Careless, guileless, determined. I glimpse the duffel bag and swallow. It’s full. If he emptied it out there would be enough room for a body.
He laughs as he reads my mind. “Relax,” he says. “You’re not going in the bag.”
“Of course I’m not.”
His eyes comb over me. “You look pretty.”
“Fuck you. Who are you?”
“I told you my name.”
“I told you mine.”
“Well, only one of us was lying. About that.”
I drag in a shaky breath. I want to cry. And not just because I’m concerned about my well-being, but because this has all been for nothing. Three years. A thousand lies. And the only person I’ve fooled is myself.
“Who are you?” I ask again.
“Chris Sherwood.”
“You don’t work at the agricultural college.”
“No.” He shakes his head once, slightly. “I don’t.”
“Then...?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Then what?”
I don’t know what to do. It’s like being in a dream where you need to run, but you can’t convince your legs to move. You need to scream, but your voice won’t come. I need to do something—but what? What does he want me to do? What does he plan to do?
I take a few steps back, and he doesn’t follow. There’s only one entrance to this apartment, and he’s blocking it. I reach into my purse for my phone, and he doesn’t move.
“Do it,” he says, when the screen lights up. “Call the police.”
“I’m going to.”
“What will you tell them?”
“That there’s a stranger in my apartment.”
“Will you tell them your name?”
“Yes.”
“Your address?”
“I don’t care if people know I’m here. I don’t care anymore.”
“You care,” he says.
“I don’t.”
“You wish you didn’t. But you do.”
I stare at the screen. All I have to do is press three buttons. Say one word. Help.
The last time the police came to my home, they didn’t come alone. They came with the press. They came with cameras. They came with gossip and stares and accusations. They came until I couldn’t take it anymore, until I retreated, until I hid so far and so long that they forgot about me. Until it almost felt safe. Until I could almost make my escape.
I can’t escape now. But if there’s only one person watching me, that’s better than thousands of prying eyes, cameras and journalists. Because if Chris is here for the reason I think he’s here, then there’s something important I need to do, and I need to do it alone, without an audience.
“You want a drink?” he asks, crouching in front of the grocery bags and contemplating the bottle of red I bought for our date. “This is a good one. Nice choice.”
“No. But you should have some.”
He smiles a little. “What’s your rule on dates? Two glasses with food, right?”
My heart, still pounding, stutter-stops. I use that line on my Fantasy Friends profiles. I say it up front so the men know what to expect. This isn’t meet in a bar and fuck in an alley. This is a meal, this is two adults doing what two adults do. It’s not as seedy and desperate as it sounds. It’s not tragic and lonely and deceitful. It’s not me in a costume, pretending my life is fine. It’s not. I have rules. I have standards.
I have nothing.
“How long?” My voice is hoarse.
Chris studies the wine bottle and sets it on the table, like we’re just saving it for later. Like there’ll be a later. Like one of us isn’t going to be leaving this apartment in the next two minutes. I’m already a prisoner here, but it’s different when I’m not the guard.
“A while.”
“And how much longer?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” I’m not interested in his games. If the masks are off, they’re off. None of this movie villain bullshit. No drawing it out until