Page 117 of Callan

He drags a pensive look over my face.

“I do,” he says quietly, suddenly downcast.

“I hope I didn’t ruin anything for you,” I comment, my eyes on him while he focuses on the car, smoothly steering it away.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says absently, and a few moments pass. “Let’s go for a ride,” he adds, his voice reminding me of one of those movies in which someone is about to get whacked and is invited for a ride.

The car moves slowly, guided by his touch, rolling through intersections and past homes with joyful lights tucked behind the windows.

I can’t say I’m not a little envious.

I wish I were in one of those homes with him. Or Kayla. Or someone else. Forget for a few hours that we are otherwise alone.Imagining that we could stop time and feel like we belong.

Snowflakes float their way to the ground, enhancing the silence.

He drives without looking at me and seems more familiar with the area than I am.

Soon, we cross the Brooklyn Bridge, and the majestic skyline of Manhattan shivers, wrapped in thousands and thousands of gleaming lights pulsing on the evening backdrop.

Here, Christmas is a noisy, vivacious affair.

People are still walking the streets. They’re going out, visiting their friends. It’s a different way of celebrating.

It’s been a while since I visited Manhattan. The last time I was here, I was interviewing for that job. The job I’ll be hopefully getting in January if I’m lucky.

I worked in Manhattan before, but somehow, I rarely got to move around and explore it.

We drive through it as he shows me around.

My eyes move over the most amazing decorations, lights, and Christmas trees.

The most magical corners, stores, and restaurants.

Our trip is as relaxing for him as it is for me.

It’s pure escapism to think about something other than being hunted down by some weird, crazy neighbor.

“So, where were you going?” I ask, moving my eyes to him. “You’re dressed nicely,” I say, pushing my stare down.

He flashes a smile, and I know that because I catch sight of it when I lift my gaze.

“I’m always dressed nicely,” he says with humor.

He veers the car toward Central Park and drives slowly, looking for a parking spot.

“Tell me,” I say, unimpressed with his attempt to avoid my question.

He finally finds a spot and stops the car before throwing it in park and focusing on me.

“I planned to go to a club,” he says, secretive about something.

And amused.

Is he entertained by me?

My question?

Or the fact that I sound like a girlfriend?

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