THE MAN WHO WARNED ME AWAY

CLAIRE ANDERSON 

The cab smells like stale air freshener and the faint trace of someone else's perfume. The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow. The whiskey is still warm in my veins, making everything feel soft around the edges, like the world is wrapped in cotton. I don't know where we're going. I don't know his name. I don't know anything except that his shoulder is warm against my cheek and his hand is still wrapped loosely around mine, and for the first time since Greg walked away, I don't feel like I'm drowning. The driver glances at us in the rearview mirror, his eyes flickering with something that might be judgment, but I don't care. I don't care about anything except the strange, fragile peace of not being alone.

He sits beside me, his long legs folded awkwardly in the cramped back seat, and I can feel the tension radiating off him even through the haze of whiskey that's settled over both of us. I raise my head to see face, his jaw is tight, his grey eyes fixed on the passing city lights, and I wonder what he's thinking. I wonder if he regrets this. I wonder if he's going to change his mind and tell the driver to take me home. The thought makes my chest tighten, and I grip his hand a little harder, like I'm afraid he'll disappear if I let go. The whiskey makes everything feel more intense—the warmth of his palm, the roughness of his calluses, the way his thumb traces absent circles against my skin.

The cab weaves through traffic, past crowded sidewalks and darkened storefronts and the occasional cluster of people spilling out of bars that look exactly like the one we just left. The city is alive around us, pulsing with an energy that feels foreign and distant, like I'm watching it all through a pane of glass.

The cab slows, and I open my eyes to see a glass tower looming above us, its windows reflecting the lights of the city like a thousand scattered stars. It's one of those buildings that looks like it touches the sky, sleek and modern and impossibly tall, and I feel a flutter of something that might be nervousness in my chest. I blink, trying to focus, but the edges of the building seem to swim slightly in my vision. I blink again, and it steadies. This isn't my world. I've never been in a building like this. I've never known anyone who lived in a building like this.

He pays the driver, his fingers fumbling with the bills, and I watch him drop a twenty before finally getting it right. He mutters something under his breath, and I almost laugh. He opens my door and holds out his hand, and I take it without hesitation. His fingers are warm and calloused against mine, and he pulls me gently out of the cab. I stumble slightly on the curb, the whiskey making my legs less reliable than usual, and his hand steadies me immediately. "You okay?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Fine," I say, and I am. I'm more than fine. I'm here, with him, and I'm not alone.

"Last chance to run," he says, and his grey eyes are steady on mine. He sways slightly, catching himself on the cab door. "You don't know me. You don't know what you're walking into."

I don't answer. I just hold his gaze and wait. The silence stretches between us, and I watch him struggle to focus on my face. After a long moment, he nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. "Okay," he says. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

He leads me into the building—marble floors, a massive chandelier, a doorman who nods respectfully as we pass. The lobby swims slightly in my vision, all glittering surfaces and expensive shadows. I feel out of place, small and ordinary in this world of polished surfaces and quiet luxury, but he doesn't seem to notice. He just keeps walking, guiding me toward the elevator. His hand is warm around mine, and I cling to it like a lifeline.

The doors slide open, and we step inside. The walls are glass, and as the elevator begins to rise, the city unfolds beneath us like a living map—lights and shadows, streets and buildings, the whole of Manhattan glittering in the darkness. I press my palm against the glass and feel the faint vibration of the elevator climbing higher and higher. The whiskey makes everything feel more vivid, the lights sharper, the darkness deeper. I'm rising above the city, above the noise and the crowds and the weight of everything I left behind.

He leans against the wall of the elevator, his eyes half-closed, his breathing slow and steady. "You're quiet," he says.

"I'm thinking," I say. "Which is dangerous, considering how much whiskey is in my blood right now.”

He's charming, even now, even with the alcohol softening his sharp edges. His grey eyes are unfocused but still intense, still seeing more than I want to show.

"You're drunk," he says, and there's a hint of something—amusement? concern?—in his voice.

"So are you," I say as I smile, a small, crooked thing that I can't quite control.

He laughs. It's a low, rough sound, and it makes my chest ache. "We're a pair, aren't we?" he says. "Two drunk strangers in an elevator. What could possibly go wrong?"

I laugh too, and the sound is surprising, foreign. I haven't laughed in hours. I haven't laughed since Greg dropped my hands at the airport. But here, with this stranger, I feel something that might be lightness creeping into my chest.

The elevator stops, and the doors slide open onto a private foyer. He steps out, and I follow, my feet unsteady on the polished floor. He unlocks a door, fumbling with the keys, dropping them once before finally getting it right. "Sorry," he mutters. "I'm not usually…"

"It's okay," I say. "I'm not usually either."

He holds the door open, and I see the penthouse beyond—spacious and modern and impossibly clean, with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city like a painting. He steps inside, and I follow, the door closing behind me with a soft click.