Page 62 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Once I’m done, I grab my keys and head downstairs. My landlady is in the lobby, sorting mail at a small table. She looks up when she sees my face.

“Athena,” she says, eyebrows lifting. “Everything alright?”

“No,” I reply, and my voice is calm enough that it sounds like a lie.

I step closer and lower my voice. “I need the lock changed,” I tell her.

Her mouth thins as she studies me for a beat, then nods. “I can call my handyman,” she replies. “He can come this afternoon.”

“I need it sooner,” I say, then add, “please.”

The please comes out rougher than I intend.

She looks at me more carefully then glances toward the stairs like she’s weighing whether she should ask questions.

“I can do a temporary lock,” she says finally. “I have a deadbolt kit in the back. My brother left it here. It’s not fancy, but it holds.”

“That’s fine,” I reply. “I’ll pay you.”

She waves a hand. “We can handle that later,” she says, then hesitates. “Are you leaving?”

My suitcase is upstairs, my life is half-packed. “Yes,” I say, and this time I can’t stop the tear that rolls down my cheek.

Her face softens. “Alright,” she replies then sets the mail down. “Give me ten minutes.”

I follow her toward the storage room and wait while she rummages through boxes, returning with a small kit and a set of tools. We go upstairs together. She installs the lock quickly, her hands steady. When she finishes, she tests it twice and hands me the key.

“You sure you want a new key?” she asks.

I nod. “I need it.”

She studies my face again. “Someone’s after you,” she says quietly.

I keep my voice level. “Someone thinks they can scare me.”

She gives a short nod like she understands that language then steps back toward the stairs. “If you need anything, call me.”

“Thank you.”

She leaves.

I lock the door and stand still for a moment with the key in my palm.

Then I pick up my suitcase and finish packing.

By late afternoon, my apartment looks like I never lived here at all. The couch is bare. The sink is empty. My sketchbooks are stacked in a box I can carry. The bed is made too neatly, like I’m staging my own disappearance.

I shower again and pull on jeans and a hoodie, tucking my hair into a cap. I move through the apartment checking windows, checking locks, checking the peephole, like I’m training myself to survive a new routine.

I go outside, open a rideshare app, and confirm the pickup. When the car arrives, I load the suitcase into the trunk and slide into the back seat.

The driver glances at me in the mirror. “Airport?”

I nod. “Yes,” I reply, then look out the window as the car pulls away from the curb.

The building shrinks behind us as my street disappears. My life at Hawthorne, my dinners, my routines, my carefully built stability, all of it slides out of view.

I press my fingers to my thigh and hold on tight enough to keep myself from shaking.