Page 112 of Another Girl Lost

Tears welled in my eyes. If Lynn was forever Tanner’s girlfriend, I was ever the brutalized basement girl. I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I needed to find normal.

My hands were trembling when I texted Luke.Dinner tonight? Believe it or not, I can cook.

His answer wasn’t immediate, and I gave up on waiting. As I drove back to my studio, I reasoned it was probably good he hadn’t responded. I wasn’t sure what a date with Luke would prove. Besides, my studio was filled with drying prints that required preparation for tomorrow’s printing. I needed to focus now.

I’d craved normal and thought I’d found it with endless self-imposed deadlines, paintings of Della, and trying to repair the unfixable Tiffany. I thought back to the couple I’d seen walking hand in hand outside the restaurant the other night. They’d been so relaxed and comfortable with each other. Envy mingled with fear.

An hour later, I was mixing paints when Luke texted.Come over to my place tonight?

I stared at the message, half-tempted to ignore it. But this invitation was my chance at normal. My hesitation surprised me. I thought I’d leap at the idea of being with a solid guy.

I spent the next hour going back and forth with myself. If I showed up at his place, how would I react? Would I be calm, or would I freak out? Finally, tired of the worry and questions, I texted him back.Sounds great.

After a moment, he responded.Excellent. I’ll cook.

Chapter Thirty-One

SCARLETT

Wednesday, July 17, 2024

8:30 p.m.

I stood outside Luke’s condo door, a bottle of red wine in one hand and white in the other. I’d spent a half hour deliberating what he might like, if these bottles were fancy enough, or if stylish graphic labels equated to good flavor.

Inside, the faint sounds of music drifted. Jazz. Which made sense. Luke struck me as a kind of classy individual whose tastes rose above pop. I rang the bell.

Footsteps moved toward the door. I drew in a breath. I’d not been alone in an apartment with a man, well, ever. Doors closing behind me still messed with my head.

When the door snapped open, I flinched. I tried to recover and smile, but he didn’t miss my display of nerves.

“You made it,” he said easily.

“I did.” A smile sputtered on my lips.

He wore jeans, a faded T-shirt, and some generic brown shoes. He smelled of fresh soap, and his hair was damp. I held up the winebottles as if they were proof that I was excited about the evening. Still, I remained on my side of the threshold.

“Do you want to come in, or are you going to toss those bottles at me and run?” he asked.

“I’m coming in.” The words sounded as if they’d been wrenched from my throat.

He stepped aside and held out his hand, giving me a wide berth.

I walked past him, feeling the buzz of energy in his body. His place was neat, furnished in a midcentury-modern style. Lots of teak, slim, low furniture, and light fixtures that were geometric space age. The kitchen was attached and there were two other closed doors. One had to be the bedroom, and I guessed the other was a closet or a spare.

The door closed softly behind me. “You can set the bottles on the kitchen counter.”

I moved toward the slate of white quartz and a tray of cheese and crackers. Two pots simmered on the stove—one for sauce and the other steaming water.

“Nothing fancy,” he said.

My bottles clinked faintly against the counter. “I live on sandwiches, so this is a major step up for me.”

He moved past me into the kitchen and opened a cabinet to a collection of matching wineglasses. That was another step up for me. I was all about mason jars. “Red or white?”

“Red.” It was the first of the two offerings, so I defaulted to it. Truth was, I could drink either.

He uncorked the red, poured it through a diffuser, and handed me a glass. “How was your day?”

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