Page 127 of The Last Good Man

I’m not a phone person, to begin with, and I’m pretty comfortable with the idea that once a person fails to get in touch with me within twenty-four hours, there is no point in waiting for their call anymore.

My pulse spikes when I think about my session tonight. Unless Jax London requested a different time slot––I doubt Aretha has anything available––I might run into him this evening.

If he shows up.

Too many ifs.

He clearly doesn't want to see me if he moves his therapy session to a different day.

Ghosted and rejected. I’m getting good at this.

I barely roll my eyes when footsteps ring behind me, approaching me quickly. I yank my earbuds off and look over my shoulder. One can never be too cautious.

Wearing sunglasses like me, Marlowe closes the distance between us. He wears shorts, a dampT-shirtclinging to his torso.

“First time jogging?” he asks, no smile on his face, his eyes concealed behind his sunglasses.

“It’s my first time this month. How about you? I thought you were going to the gym around the corner.”

“I’m doing both,” he says, slowing down as we inch closer to our building.

Eventually we both stop running and walk to catch our breath.

“How do you like the area?” he asks as our conversation quickly goes nowhere.

“I have nothing against it,” I say, averting my gaze, not ready to share that I’m looking for a new apartment.

“What about you? Planning to stay here for a while?”

“No. Not really… But it’s convenient for me right now,”hesays.

We reach the stairs, and I get distracted as a car moves past us.

“Did you get your letter?” he asks as I remove my sunglasses and look in the distance.

I can’t read the plate number, but that car looks like Jax’s.

“Melody?”

The man’s voice jerks me out of my head. I focus on him, pleasantly surprised that he remembered my name and uttered it with a shred of humanity.

I take a better look at Marlowe.

“What letter?” I ask, thinking that maybe the landlord had stuffed some information I don't know about into our mailboxes.

He takes off his glasses and gestures to the entrance.

He must be time-pressed.I know I am. I should be.

“The one I got by mistake,” he says as we climb the stairs.

“Oh, that letter? Yes, I got it. I didn’t know it was you,” I murmur while he holds the door for me.

We enter the hallway, and soon after, we stop as are supposed to go our separate ways.

“Thank you,” I say, giving him a wry smile. “For the letter,” I add.

“Oh. Sure. No problem,” he says curtly.

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