Page 62 of Another Girl Lost

“Doesn’t that get lonely?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. Lonely might not always be fun, but it’s safe.”

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Why swing by my office?”

“Like I said, I owed you an apology.”

“Do you always apologize to the dates you ditch?”

This candor was oddly relaxing, and yet I was very aware that he’d made a career of drawing out the truth. “No. You’re the first. But there haven’t been that many dates. The record for my longest date is sixty-two minutes.”

“We didn’t break that record.”

“No.” I slid my finger through the condensation on the side of my glass. “How are we doing for time now?”

He checked his watch. “Thirty-one minutes if we count the moment when you entered the restaurant.”

“I didn’t think you noticed when I arrived.”

“I noticed.”

A warmth spread through me. Exciting to really be seen, but also unsettling.

“What’s special about me?” he asked. “Why do I win an apology?”

“Maybe I’m tired of ...” I couldn’t find the word.

“Your loneliness?”

“I’m not sure.”

The waiter appeared with menus. “Would you like to order dinner?”

Luke looked at me. “What do you think?”

“Dinner would be nice.” We each accepted menus.

When we were alone, Luke raised his glass and said, “Here’s to breaking the sixty-two-minute record.”

Chapter Eighteen

SCARLETT

Sunday, July 14, 2024

8:30 p.m.

I’d proven I could withstand a date for two hours and fifteen minutes. There’d been no kiss or hug. Not even a handshake. Luke hadn’t pressed for anything beyond conversation, and I’d relaxed a fraction. And at the end of our date, there’d been no talk of another night out. Oddly disappointing. And comforting. But all in all, it was a victory for me, and I took wins when they presented themselves.

Luke had offered to drive me home, but I’d politely declined and walked the five blocks to my place, my pepper spray clutched in my fist. As I punched in the code to my front door, the streets around me were slipping into the shadows.

Inside my locked concrete walls, I felt safe staring at the sea of partially made prints now drying from clotheslines. Alone in my warehouse, I wasn’t hurting, I had plenty to eat, and I could leave anytime. Tension drained from my body.

However, staying here sealed behind my own doors reinforced that I needed a prison to feel safe. I was maintaining the oppression with my own locks and self-isolation.

My runs and rock climbing, even painting the mural, were my ways of proving I was free to come and go. But I was never totally at ease outside. And most of my activities remained solitary and brief. All forms of self-imprisonment.

I glanced out my front display window and looked toward the apartment complex across the street. I knew all the windows and the people who lived in each unit. The man on the first floor closed his curtains the moment he entered. The guy on the second floor cycled every night on a stationary bike. The third floor was always dark, and the woman on the fourth floor danced and strummed an air guitar as she drank wine in the evenings.

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