I twirl a loose piece of hair around my finger. “Can we treat the rest of today as a date?”
“That depends on what you have in mind,” he says.
“What if we did something like an escape-room challenge?”
He stops walking and stares at me. “Does that involve getting locked up in a prison?”
“Not exactly.” I hide a laugh with my hand.
“Escape rooms can be held in an actual room or out in the open. From a few SearchTube videos I’ve watched, it looks like we’d be given a challenge by a game host and then have one to two hours to complete said challenge through a series of mini games.”
“Okay, and what types of challenges are we talking about?”
“There are all sorts of different ones. For instance, we could be asked to find an antidote to stop an army of escaped radioactive spiders. Or maybe we’ll become passengers stuck in an abandoned Tube station and challenged to figure out how to escape.”
He strokes his chin. “It sounds like an activity that would be right up your alley. We’d have to use logic to solve the challenges.”
I clap my hands together. “Then we can do it?”
“Ifwe can book an experience so it’s just us and we’re not in a public setting, we can make it a date.”
“Thank you.” I squeal with delight.
We walk quickly to the car, jump inside, and not wasting a single moment, share a tender kiss. The private times we have between us are now few and far between. We have to make the most of every opportunity.
Twenty-Two
To my frustration, we aren’t able to have our escape-room date until Friday afternoon. Contrary to what I wanted, arranging the date around Art’s schedule, finding a private tour guide, and booking the venue solely for our use required advance planning.
We enter a nondescript warehouse in the Greenwich area of London, not far from the famed observatory. The sign above the door reads “Locked in London.” I laugh. What a perfect name for an escape room.
“I’m so excited! Aren’t you?”
“Thrilled,” Art says sarcastically.
I roll my eyes and ignore him. He didn’t have to agree to this as a date. I like the idea of doing something outside of the box. It’ll help make the occasion more memorable.
It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the lobby. “Do you feel like we’ve stepped into the film set of a low-budget American horror film? Because I do,” I whisper.
“Yes, ma’am. Low budget indeed.”
There’s a series of dusty, spider-web-covered mailboxes behind a long desk. Flowers that have been placed in a takeaway cup from aNorma’s Cafe have long since shriveled and dried up. All that remains are their yellowing stems. An attendant dressed in an ill-fitting, stained bellhop uniform with boxy shoulder pads greets us. His face is covered in a thick layer of white makeup, contrasted with heavy black eye shadow under his eyes, giving him a zombie-like appearance.
“Welcome,” he says in a drawn-out, bored tone. “Are you here to check in?”
“Yes,” I confirm just as the lights flicker on and off.
The attendant blinks slowly. “Your name?”
“It’ll be under the last name Wales,” Art says, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Ah yes, we’ve been expecting you.” From under the desk, he retrieves a ring of oversized ancient brass keys. “Come, come with me.” He limps away.
Off the lobby are a series of three doors. The attendant inserts the key into the middle one. It opens with an eerie creek. “Will you be requiring any assistance with your luggage?”
“No. We’re fine,” Art responds curtly.
“Very well.”
