Page 108 of Keeping Kasey
The urge to ignore it is strong, but I can’t.
I can’t let myself wonder.
With one hand hovering over the fingerprint-activated safe—disguised as a hyper-realistic English dictionary—that houses my gun, I open the door.
“A heads-up text would’ve been nice,” I say, dropping my hand when I see the visitor.
Mark pushes into my apartment with his usual goofy grin and a bag of takeout.
“You love it when I drop by unannounced,” he says, dropping the bag on the table. He grabs the plates and utensils like he lives here, and not the apartment next door.
“I can promise you that I don’t.”
His smile grows. “Well, you’ll forgive me when you see what I got us for dinner.”
“Wasn’t it my turn to pick?”
“I revoked that privilege after you chose the absolute worst burger place in the world last week.” He takes the to-go boxes out of the bag, and I recognize the logo from one of the local Italian restaurants.
“At least I don’t choose the same three places every time.”
“Why fix what isn’t broken? Besides, I would double that list if you liked Mexican food. I mean, seriously, Katie. Who doesn’t like tacos?”
Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.
“You interrupted my work,” I say in a bid to change the topic.
Predictably, Mark goes for it.
He gestures down the hall, where he knows my office is located. “Be my guest. I’ll just watch.”
“I’m not sure sales support is dinnertime entertainment material.”
“Who says I’ll be watching the work?” he asks, falling into a chair with a playful grin.
I point to the door. “You know the rules: you hit on me, you leave.”
“I’m done,” he says, hands lifted in surrender. “Man, you’re a ray of sunshine today.”
Mark is a Clark Kent type: slicked-back hair, black glasses, and a friendly smile. He’s a fairly handsome man with tanned skin and all dark features, and every time I see him, he’s in casual wear despite his work as an associate at a law firm.
And he definitely has a Superman complex.
Since the day I moved here two months ago, Mark has been out to save me. It started with relentless offers to help me move boxes and furniture—all of which I declined. Then, it was attempted conversations when we ran into each other outside—all of which I ignored. After an entire month of being blown off, Mark finally asked what it would take to get me to talk to him.
And I blame my complete and utter loneliness for the fact that I gave him an answer—two conditions for my company.
No questions about my life, and no hitting on me.
I should probably feel guilty for being so harsh, but I don’t.
Mark might be a harmless companion, but I won’t let myself get attached—not when there’s a chance I’ll have to run again.
I don’t say a single word throughout dinner, but that doesn’t discourage Mark. He goes on and on about how his mother has been trying to set him up with her yoga instructor.
One moment, I’m half-listening to Mark drone on. Next, everything fades into white noise.
I don’t even see my kitchen anymore—just flashes.
