Page 38 of Melancholia

As if my escape attempt is a fucking game.

My eyes flick upward to meet his, only to find that Amir is giving me the most patient stare, like he’s just waiting for me to make the right decision. The right decision, of course, being the one that ends with me in his fancy Range Rover. Not the one that ends with me doing literally anything else.

“Fine.” The word is a breath on my lips, and I side-step him, not wanting to seem as weak as I feel. When I slide into the Range Rover, I notice the seat is more comfortable than any car I’ve ever sat in, and before I can reach out to close the door, Amir has done it for me.

Closing me into his perfect car that has no sign of the dogs ever being in here.

My heart flutters when the driver’s door opens and Amir slides in, all feline grace and absolute patience. My fingers clench and unclench in my leggings, and I force myself to let out the breath I’ve been holding for long enough that my lungs have started to protest.

“Where are we going?” I ask after I can’t stand the near-silence of the car. The only sound in the air-conditioned space thus far has been soft music that is too classical for my taste.

“I told you, we’re going to dinner. You claim I don’t know you”—he pulls smoothly out from an intersection, driving past the center of town where most people would stop to eat—“so I’m going to fix that.” When he passes by the diner, I glance his way.

“Aren’t you stopping?”

“Absolutely not.” There’s not one ounce of hesitation in the words, and he glances over at the diner, looking at it like it’s personally offended him. “No offense to Betty. She’s very…kind. And very nosy. But I’d rather actually enjoy my dinner, rather than worry about if the menu is sticky or if there’s an impending emergency in the bathroom.”

I give him a look. Flat. Unimpressed. Though if he were anyone else, I’d probably be at least smiling somewhat at the criticism. He’s not wrong. And Honey Clove’s bathroom is questionable at best. At worst, it’s been a town-wide disaster. More than once, in fact, and I’ve only been here less than a year.

“Where are we going, then?” I finally ask, after a few more minutes of driving. The businesses fade to houses around us until finally we’re away from the town of Still Pines completely. And not heading toward any restaurant I’ve ever been to. A sign for Philly passes, and I glance his way, suddenly nervous. “We’re not going all the way to the city, right?”

“Why? Do you have something you need to do tonight? Other than having dinner with me?” But he turns off the interstate at the next exit, heading for the Fox Glen turnoff.

I have so, so many things to do tonight.

All of them being anything but this.

My fingers clench and unclench against my thighs, and I can’t help the way my body feels like I’m on high alert. But jumping out of the Range Rover feels like a drastic option, and I suppose we aren’t there yet.

I guess.

But I don’t know what else to say. I stare at the trees and the occasional streetlights, watching as Fox Glen slowly creeps up on us. It starts with houses. Old, ivy-covered. Cute, honestly. I don’t have it in my budget to buy a house anytime soon, but if I did, I could see myself living somewhere like this. The small-town vibe isn’t something I’m used to, having grown up in the suburbs of Chicago, but the more I live out here, the better I like it.

Specifically, I like the quiet and the way it settles my brain. Usually, at least. When I’m not in the car with a murderer who’s threatened me more than once and let his dog knock me over.

Once again I remind myself that shouldn’t be the unforgivable offense that it is. Murder is worse than being scared by a dog.

Finally he slows, and he makes another turn into the cluster of businesses that make up the main part of Fox Glen. A gas station, a bank, a chiropractor’s office—my eyes can barely keep up with the names on the signs in front of where all the businesses in town seem to be grouped together. Like this is the only acceptable place for them.

In contrast, the restaurant stands on the other side of the street. Alone, well-lit, and with ivy climbing up the trellises out front much like the houses we passed.

“Ever been here before?” Amir asks as he parks in the nearly empty parking lot.

“I didn’t even know Fox Glen was more than a turnoff,” I find myself admitting quietly. “So…that’s a definite no.” I don’t add that this place looks surprisingly high priced, and definitely not in my budget. Though I’m surprised that there’s such a seemingly nice restaurant in this small town.

How long have they been here?

What kind of place is it?

Does it really get enough business to stay open?

The questions weigh my tongue down against the bottom of my mouth, but I don’t ask any of them out loud as I unclasp my seatbelt. The music is still playing softly through the Range Rover, and when I reach out to grab my door, suddenly Amir is there, leaning across me to grip my arm.

“Let me,” he murmurs, too close to my face for comfort. My heart jolts in my chest, but he’s already pulling back, leaving me with the scent of his sharp cologne flooding my nose and searing the imprint of him there.

“But—” Whatever I was going to say dies on my lips when he gets out of the car. I wait, feeling so awkward, but within seconds Amir is around the other side, opening the door and reaching a hand in to me.

Like I’m important.