“I’ll find it.” I reply, waving a hand at him. “Stay with your friends.”
Josh pauses mid-stand, and his brow furrows. “Are you sure?—”
“Yeah. I’ll be back.”
Josh frowns as he studies my face, and I can see the muscles working in his throat. He doesn’t say anything, probably because his friends are paying attention now, but his eyes are begging me not to leave. His body looks filled with tension as he watches my retreat, and I can tell it’s taking all of his willpower not to chase after me.
One of his friends, Michael, I think, breaks the tension by coughing “simp” under his breath, and the others laugh again.
Josh doesn’t join them. Instead, his eyes stay on me. I can feel them burning into my back, even after I turn and walk away.
CHAPTER TWO
Dahlia
The hallwayI’m walking down is narrow and dimly lit, lined with dozens of autographed photos of celebrities I vaguely recognize. I glance at each one as I pass to help distract myself, but after a while, it starts to feel dizzying, so I give up and focus on the floor instead.
Releasing a long sigh, I massage my temples and try my hardest to rub the memory of Josh’s pathetic puppy-dog face from my head.
God,I knew coming here was a mistake.
Five dates.
Five freaking dates.
That has to be a new record for me.
On the bright side, it’s still early enough to end things without too much fallout, so I guess there’s that.
I let out another long sigh.
I honestly don’t even know why I bother dating anymore. I’m fundamentally incapable of giving people the one thing they’re really after. And contrary to popularbelief, it isn’t sex that men want most, it’s love, adoration, and attachment.
Sex, I can do. Sex is simpler. Sex can happen without feelings ever needing to be involved. But I’m not equipped to handle all of that other stuff, and I can’t keep setting myself up for failure like this.
Maybe I just need to create a Tinder account and be completely blunt about what I can handle to save everyone the trouble.
Hey, I’m Dahlia Delacruz. I’m 27 and my hobbies include reading, watching movies, and running away at the first sign of emotional attachment. Wanna bang?
A harsh laugh spills from my lips.
Yeah, that’s a great way to attract a sociopath.
The hallway curves to the right, and I follow it, expecting to finally find the restroom, but instead, I land in some kind of storage hallway. There’s a long line of metal shelves filled with various food packaging supplies, and a bunch of liquor boxes piled against the wall.
I’m probably not supposed to be back here, and I definitely took a wrong turn somewhere, but I’m not even mad about it. The farther away from Josh and his friends, the better.
The heels of my boots click softly against the linoleum floor as I wander farther down the hall, biding my time. And before long, I reach the end of the hallway. I’m about to turn around when my eyes catch on the emergency exit. There’s an empty milk crate wedged against the door, holding it open just enough to let a sliver of the back alley peek through.
God, yes.
Exactly what I need. An escape route I can takewithout having to explain myself to anyone. No awkward conversations. No evading questions. No public displays of emotion.
Before I can overthink it, I shove the door open and step outside.
The alley behind the sports bar is nearly pitch black, save for the few scattered streetlights, casting dim pools of yellow on the rain-slicked pavement.
I walk along the side of the building, or at least I think I do, but I can barely see anything beyond the silhouette of a few dumpsters and parked cars ahead of me. It’s so disorienting. The alley keeps branching off into smaller, darker paths, and it feels longer and more twisted than it should.
