Page 21 of The Last Good Man

I’m suddenly thirsty, and if this meetup wouldn’t be so important, I’d love to be someplace else, have a few drinks, and talk to someone close to me.

Not Thomas, evidently.

I resentthe waymy thoughts go on a tangent, and I whisk them away before drawing a plastic smile across my lips and slowly turning to him.

“Nice place,” I say when something catches the corner of my eye, and my gaze goes back to the window.

A dark car slowly rolls down his street.

It’s a sports car with white racing stripesandits headlights turned off.

I find it interestingfor some reason.

You would’t find a car like this if you looked down the entire street. This isn’t exactly acommonroute for drivers in Manhattan.

To add more mystery to the puzzle, the car stops next to a fire hydrant, and no one walks out.

“I hope you like it chilled,” Thomas says, pulling up next to me.

I swiftlyturnaround to erase the impression I was staring at the car with racing stripes and avoid making him curious about it.

“Yes, I love it,” I say, my voice pathetically disingenuous as I grab my drink andbegin askingquestions about the framed art on the walls.

5

MELODY

Minutes later

I’m perched on one of the upholstered swivel bar stools, holding a half-empty glass in my hand.

A juicy piece of salmon sizzles under the broiler while two bowls of salad await on embellished placemats in front of me.

I’ve already dismissed the idea of dining at the table, mainly because we seem unable to be comfortable with each other, and the pressure is already too much.

It’s not as if this type of situation hasn’t happened before.

Most of the time, the men behave like that, and I don’t need a‘shrink’––to quote the stranger from last night––to know it has to do with me.

I am so uninspiring that they can’t let their guard down.

Part of it is done on purpose––I’m not making it easy for them asI want to know if they’re willing to put in the effort or not.

It’s just about the only time they have to do that, and if they fail at it, there’s no hope for bigger gestures later.

“It must be ready,” I say, flicking my chin toward the fish before taking a sip of wine.

The alcohol warms me, and I wish I had a different outfit as I begin to sweat.

Flashing a smile, Thomas agrees, turns his back to me, and handles the fish when a rumbling noise drifts from the street.

My mind goes straight to that car.

They must’ve waited for someone and are picking them up now.

Thomasseemsunaware of the unusual noise when a strange thoughtpopsinto my head, connecting the car to the man I met last night.

No… There can’t be a connection.

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