Page 23 of Boardroom Mask

My heart is slamming so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I press a hand to my sternum and let out a shaky breath.

It’s Elliot. It’s just Elliot.

Not him. Not the Masked Man. Not cinnamon and leather andhello, little fox.

Just Elliot. Maybe the least threatening human alive.

But even as the relief pours through me, something else is pouring in right behind it. I’m standing here at the threshold of my own apartment, and I’m suddenly terrified to walk back into alone. The reason I’m terrified is because ofhim.Because he’s already in my head. He’s bought real estate in there and he’s redecorating the joint.

No. Fuck that. And him, too. He doesn’t have that right. No one does.The locked room stays locked, goddammit!

“Hey, Elliot,” I blurt suddenly. “That Thai place on Amsterdam. Is it still open right now?”

He blinks. “Uh... yeah, I think they’re open ’til eleven. Why?”

“I’m free.”

“You’re— Wait, what?”

“You asked me out, right? Well, I’m free. Right now. Tonight. Let’s go.”

Elliot looks at me. Then at his takeout bag. Then back at me. “You want to go to dinner. With me. Right now.”

I’m already shouldering my purse, closing my door, and turning around. “That’s what I said.”

“But you said you had a deadline on Fri?—”

“Forget what I said. I’m saying something different now. Do you want to go or not?”

“I—yes! Yeah! Absolutely, yes.” He’s grinning so wide it looks like it hurts. “Let me just, uh—” He holds up the takeout bag. “Let me throw this in my fridge. Two seconds. Don’t move. Ha! I mean, obviously, move if you want to, it’s a free country, but like… I mean, don’t, cool? I’m running. See? Running!” He takes off down the hallway at a half-jog, Nike slides slapping the carpet, then stops and turns back. “You’re serious, right? This isn’t, like, a prank or something?”

“Elliot. Go put your food away.”

“Going. I’m going.” He jogs the rest of the way to his door, fumbles with his keys, and disappears inside.

I make sure my apartment door is firmly shut and re-lock it from the outside. Whatever’s waiting in there—open window, closed window, smashed window, nothing at all—it can wait.

This date is going badly.

Not because of Elliot. Elliot is fine. He’s telling me about his fantasy football league and I’m nodding along while my eyes track every person who walks through the front door of this restaurant.

A couple in their sixties.Not him.

A group of college kids.Not him.

A delivery driver grabbing a pickup order.Definitely not him.

“—and then Rodgers throws this absolutebomb, right? Like sixty yards, no joke, and I’m sitting there in my living roomscreaming because I started him that week and everyone in my league said I was an idiot for?—”

“Uh-huh.”

“—but I had this gut feeling, you know? And my buddy Mav was like, dude, you’re gonna tank your whole season, and I was like?—”

The door opens again. A woman with a stroller. I exhale.

“—Mav owes me fifty bucks now, which he still hasn’t paid, by the way. Classic Mav.”

“Classic Mav,” I repeat dumbly.