Page 17 of My Girl to Take

“It matters.”

She looks away. “I didn’t want you to change your mind.”

“You think I would’ve?”

“Yes.”

“Not a chance.” I take her chin and bring her face back. “Not once I started.”

“Then why did you stop?”

“Because you’ve had one man’s hands on you in twenty-five years. It’s been less than five minutes, and I’ve got a belt in my hand.” I sit back. “That’s not how you’re doing this.”

“That’s not your decision.”

“It is tonight.”

She sits up fast, and her hands finally come up. “I’m not fragile.”

“I know you’re not. If I thought you needed protecting from me, you’d be out that door.” I hold her eyes. “This is so that when it happens, you’re sure it’s the thing you wanted and not the thing that happened to you. You get to be sure. That’s all.”

Whatever she was building goes out of her.

“Okay,” she says. Then, quieter: “That’s not what I thought you’d say.”

“What did you think I’d say?”

“I thought you’d stop and be kind about it.” She does up a button, not looking at me. “You weren’t kind about it. I liked that better.”

Christ.

“Friday,” I tell her. “Here. Eight.”

Her hands stop.

“Between now and then, you can decide it was a bad afternoon and never mention it again. I’ll take the interim chair anyway. Nothing changes.”

“And if I come here on Friday?”

“Then this isn’t a one-time thing,” I say. “And I’m not letting go.”

She does up the rest in silence, picks up her bag, and gets as far as the door.

“Logan.”

“Yeah.”

“Nobody’s ever told me to leave my hands somewhere before.”

And she’s gone.

I stand in four hundred square feet with the door shut for quite a long time. It’s still temporary.

All of it. A bag I haven’t unpacked. A flight I haven’t booked. A month in a chair with my father’s name on it and my own name on the door of an office nobody’s been allowed into.

And a Friday.

Everything about my life in this city is temporary. I’ve been extremely clear with myself about that.