His words catch me off guard, and I stare at him for a moment. I need to run, to escape, to crumple up tonight like a ruined sketch and start with a fresh sheet. And he’s telling me not to. Worse than that, he makes perfect sense. And he’s smiling again, taking my breath away and making me stupid.

Angry discomfort claws through me, and I hate his smile for how much I like it. I know it’s illogical. I know it’s cowardly. But I back away from him farther, shaking my head.

“I’m sorry, but I just … can’t. I’m really so sorry,” I say, and I hurry away so I don’t have to see his disappointment.

The journey back to my place goes by in an anxious blur, and when I finally shut myself in my apartment, I take my high heels off and carelessly toss them aside on my way to the bathroom. I peel the red dress off and step into the shower, even though I showered a few hours ago. That’s the routine after I’ve been out—unless I simply don’t have the energy.

As I wash the makeup off my face and rinse the product out of my hair, I grimace at myself. What an abysmal waste. I should be at the bar right now drinking and flirting and being the most authentic version of myself—not to mention preparing to have life-altering adventure sex with an inappropriate yet exceedingly appealing man.

But I’m not. I’m home, where I’m safe. When I curl up on the couch in my pajamas and ugly fluffy bathrobe, I’m so relieved it’s disgusting.

I’m also very much alone, and my apartment feels emptier and colder than it ever has before. Because I need a connection to others, no matter how slim, I get my phone. Surprisingly, I have two messages from Quan.

Hey, I hope you’re ok.

Did you make it back in one piece?

Biting the inside of my cheek, I reply, At home. I feel so horrible that I did this to you. Thank you for checking up on me.

Don’t feel bad. You looked like you were having a rough time. I don’t really get it, but I get it, if you know what I mean, he says.

Against all odds, I find myself laughing. I don’t know what you mean.

I mean I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but I know there’s something and I’m not taking it personal.

Something about his words makes my eyes water with tears even as I smile down at my phone. I’m trying to figure out what to say in response when I get another message from him.

I’m grabbing Mexican for dinner. What are you having?

The same, I say, but I’m not excited about it. It’s the last quarter of a giant super burrito that I’ve been slowly consuming over the past week. I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance it’ll give me stomach cramps, but I hate to waste food and there’s no way I’m leaving my apartment again today—unless there’s a fire, or a puppy stranded in the middle of the street with a truck barreling toward it, or a family emergency, something like that.

I’ll be home in about 30. Want to watch something with me tonight? he asks.

I cover my mouth as I process his unexpected invitation. It doesn’t make sense to me. But I like it. A lot. I can’t go out tonight, but I can do this.

I don’t really understand why you want to stay in with me, I tell him.

Why do you say that? he asks.

Because you’re … you. I saw you. You’re extremely attractive and good with people. If you go to a club or somewhere like that, you’ll have a date in minutes. Isn’t that what you’re looking for?

I think I could say the same about you, he says with a winking emoji.

I’m NOT good with people, I reply, pressing the send button with an extra-hard jab of my thumb. After what happened at the bar, that’s glaringly obvious. I don’t think I’m “extremely attractive” either, but I know from past experience that pointing that out will just make him insist otherwise and I don’t have the patience for that nonsense. Objectively speaking, I’m average in the looks department, and I dislike people lying to me about it. If someone’s going to lie to make others feel good, it better be me.

Scratch that, I’m not supposed to do that anymore either.

You don’t think it’s possible that I get cold feet too? he asks.

I frown at the phone in my hands. I forgot about his health issues and surgery. He didn’t look injured in any way at the bar. He looked like a man in his prime. It’s difficult to wrap my mind around the idea that he might not be as confident as he seems.

I guess it IS hard for me to believe that you can be anything like me. We’re so different, I say.

Not that different. We can watch that Our Planet documentary. It looks good, he suggests.

I liked that one a lot.

Lol, have you seen all the documentaries? he asks.

Yes, but I don’t mind rewatching them. Then, after a short hesitation, I add, We can watch something else if you want.

Is this a yes to watching nerdy TV with me tonight?

Trying not to smile, and failing, I reply, Yes.

SEVEN

Quan

“WHOA, WHOA, WHOA,” I SAY AS I JUMP IN BETWEEN THE TWO tinies whacking each other to death in the middle of the kendo studio and pull them apart, getting hit several times in the process myself. “Run after you strike. None of this standing and bashing. If these were real swords, you’d both be armless.”

On the other side of the studio, Michael is supposed to be overseeing the other students, but he’s watching me and laughing his ass off.

The bigger of the kids next to me, a seven-year-old, calls out, “Yes, sir,” and backs away.

The smaller one, only five, totters around and tries to lunge at the big one, his sword poised to continue whacking. I can’t help laughing as I yank him back and set him the required distance away from his opponent. He’s got a lot of attitude, this dude, and it’s stinking cute, especially because he’s wearing his older brother’s hand-me-down kendo gear and looks like Dark Helmet from Spaceballs.

I get their match started again, and they do make small improvements. It’s still messy as hell, though—and bloodthirsty. But what can you expect when they’re so small? Luckily, they wear enough armor that it’s next to impossible to get hurt.

When it’s time, I call an end to the sparring, and the kids back away from each other to form two neat rows, switch their wooden swords to their left hands in a resting position, bow, and shake hands like little warriors. We go through the closing rituals for class, and as the studio is emptying out, Michael punches me lightly on the arm.

“Good to see you here,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

I unlace my helmet and pull it off. Then I untie the sweaty bandana from my head and stuff it inside my helmet. “It’s good to be back. I didn’t realize how much I missed this.” And the kids specifically.

My family and friends all know about me being sick and everything, because I made the mistake of telling my sister, Vy, who told my mom, who then told literally everyone she knows. For the longest time, they treated me like I was two steps from dying. They still treat me different, like I’m made of glass or some shit—my mom is the worst. But these kids, they don’t care. When I showed up this morning, they hog-piled me. I loved that.