Page 23 of The Art of Almost Losing It
No one is being locked up in any cellars.
This is an eighty-million-dollar penthouse directly off Central Park, in a building that is on the National Register of Historic Places.
It’s civilized, goddamn it.
“I’m not letting you go.” My voice is harsh. “You have to be my girlfriend. Youaregoing to be my girlfriend.”
“I have a job—I can’t be your girlfriend.” She’s shrill. “You let me go right now.”
“No.”
That nervous energy is back, like she’s going to bargain her way out of it. Innocence in her hands as they clasp in front of her.
“I mean—you could join me, if you want.” The hesitant flirtation. “Who knows—maybe we’re just what the other needs.You don’t need to keep me locked up here. I could be your girlfriend for real, if you let me.”
She’s happy you kidnapped her. She’s falling for you,the dark part of me whispers.See? All women just want a man to tell them what to do.
“No.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m not relationship material. I’m a monster—clearly. My mom is sweet and nice. My dad is a monster. And I’m all Stuart Richmond.
I can’t fall in love with any woman. I don’t deserve it. I’m too dangerous. And for fuck’s sake, I can’t fall in love with a girl I kidnapped. That’s definitely some Dad shit.
She’s misreading me. She’s too close now.
My tongue darts out to lick my chapped lips. I stare into her brown eyes so I don’t look down at her, naked under my shirt.
“There must be something you want!” she begs me. “Please—I’ll do anything. I don’t want to be trapped in here forever!Please.” She grabs me.
I shove her off.
“I told you. I don’t want you. You’re revolting.”
“Fuck you!” she screams. “You’rerevolting. You’re a monster. You’re going to burn in hell, and I’m going to make sure your life with me is miserable. You think I’m going to be your little girlfriend, jerking you off when you get home from your nepo-baby job or whatever the hell you do? You’ve got another thing coming.”
“You’re going to be my girlfriend. You’re going to hate it. It’s going to be painful and—”
Those are my dad’s words. His little speech, perfected over the years, honed in the dark of the cellar.
“My family’s going to know I’m missing. They’re going to find you, and then you’re going to go to jail forever!”
“No one’s going to find you. No one knows you’re missing. The sooner you accept your fate, the easier it will be for you.” I clamp my mouth shut and turn, locking the door behind me.
It’s all coming back to me—the defiance, the bargaining, the way the life was slowly sucked out of the girls my father locked up.
This penthouse is so damn big I almost don’t make it to the en suite bathroom in the neighboring bedroom before I’m hurling up all of that Italian food I ate with my family.
I wipe my mouth and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My father’s reflection.
“Just let her go,” I beg my reflection.
But I can’t, because it will ruin brunch. I’m committed. I’m going to brunch, then I’ll let her go. I’ll blame the end of the relationship on my family—say that she dumped me, that it was too much, too quickly.
I lean against the closet door, listen to her in there, crying.
I sink down to my knees.
What have I done?
