I tore my gaze away from Lee Marlow and made my way toward the back of the bar, where the bathrooms would be. The emcee welcomed Lee up to the microphone, and he introduced himself, and said he would be reading from—from— “When the Dead Sing. It’s a little book you might’ve heard buzz about. It’s coming out in a few months, so please be gentle with me,” he said modestly.
A few months? That soon? This past year, time seemed to slip through my fingers like sand. How could it be a year already and still my heart hurt this much? I could barely breathe. I didn’t watch where I was going. I just knew I needed to leave, and I needed to leave now— But the line to the women’s bathroom was ten people long. That was at least thirty minutes. And I felt the tears at the corners of my eyes burning. I couldn’t wait.
And I refused to break down where Lee could see me.
I wouldn’t.
Beyond the women’s bathroom was a glowing emergency exit sign, and I took it as a girl in a sparkly purple dress asked if I was okay. “No,” I mumbled truthfully, slipping past the line to the emergency exit, and burst out into the cold April air.
I had to breathe. I had to calm down. So I did. I filled my lungs up with so much frigid air, I felt they might burst, then I let it out again. And again. I tilted my head back and blinked the tears out of my eyes, hugging myself tightly so I wouldn’t rattle apart. Not here. Not anywhere.
Never again.
I hated that I cried when I was angry, or upset, or annoyed. I hated that I cried at the slightest flux of emotional nuance. I hated how helpless I felt. I hated how I wanted to both march up to him and give him a fistful of my thoughts and run as far away from him as I could.
I hated how I couldn’t do both.
“I told you,” sighed a soft male voice, “I don’t need to hear you read from your damn book agai—oh. Hello.”
I spun toward the man—and froze. A tall shadow sulked against the brick wall. He quickly pocketed his phone and stood straight, making himself even taller, and with my eyes already blurry with tears, he looked like a shadowy nightmare.
Oh no. Narrow, darkly-lit alley. No one around. My life spinning out of control.
This was where I got murdered.
“If you’re gonna kill me, do it already,” I hiccuped a sob.
He paused. “Come again?”
“No one’s around. Do it quick.”
He sounded baffled. “Why would I want to do that?” He stepped out of the shadows, and I could see his face finally. And that made it all the worse. It was a murder-y stranger, but not of the life kind. He was the kind to murder a career. My career.
Benji Andor.
And worse yet, he could see my face now, too. His thick eyebrows knit together. “Miss Day?”
“Shit,” I cursed, quickly looking away. Oh no, could he see me crying, too? That was mortifying. I wiped my eyes. “What are you doing here, Mr. Andor?”
“Ben,” he corrected, “and same as you, I suppose.”
“Crying in a back alley?”
“Not that, no . . .” He judged his words carefully, frowning.
Why—why did he have to be here of all places? I had half a mind to turn around and go back inside but . . . Lee would still be reading from that stupid book. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to remember it existed. I just wanted to disappear.
I pressed the palms of my hands against my eyes and took a deep breath. It’s okay, Florence. Calm down. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter— Then his voice, soft and a little hesitant, asked, “Is there anything I can do?”
No.