Chapter 7 If I Die, At Least I Die Cute #2
The car feels smaller for a second, like grief is a third passenger.
August’s hand leaves the wheel for half a heartbeat just to touch my knee. Warm. Steady. Then it returns like he didn’t want to startle me.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I mean it.”
I blink fast, because crying in this man’s car is not on my bingo card.
“I’m fine,” I say, then add, because honesty is doing push-ups tonight, “I just… understand keeping something. Keeping a piece.”
He nods once, slow. “Yeah.”
We ride in that quiet for a few blocks, city lights slipping over us like water.
Then, like he can feel me trying to climb out of my own head, August says, “So. I have a question.”
“Okay.”
“Do you always meet men at train stations at night,” he says, voice lighter, “or am I special?”
I snort. “You’re deeply special.”
“Thank you,” he says, pleased. “I knew it.”
“That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
“Let me have my moment.”
I glance at him. He’s smiling like he enjoys the sound of my laugh. Like he collects it.
When we stop outside a small, unassuming building, my stomach tightens again, reflexive. My body does this stupid thing where it tries to prepare for danger even when there’s no evidence of it. Like my fear has bad Wi-Fi and keeps buffering the wrong memories.
August looks at me. “Before you make a joke about me chopping you up…”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
“…I was,” I admit. Hiding my smile.
He holds my gaze, calm. “You’re safe with me.”
The words are simple. Not dramatic. Not performative.
My body doesn’t fully believe him yet, but something in me wants to.
He opens my door, offering his hand like a gentleman who knows he’s pretty.
I take it.
As I start to stand, something tugs my shoulder.
“What the—”
Before I can finish, I’m yanked right back into the seat, my head bumping the roof with a dull thud.
“Shit,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my head. “Seatbelt.”
August’s laughter spills into the night.
I point a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”
He lifts his hands in surrender, grin wide. “I didn’t say a word.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I plead the fifth.”
I finally unbuckle and climb out, adjusting my top like that didn’t just happen.
The parking lot smells like warm asphalt and lake air. Somewhere down the block bass thumps from a passing car while traffic hums through the night.
We start walking.
August stays close. Not touching. Just close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
It’s honestly pissing me off, that I am just drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
Part of me wants to close that gap.
The other part remembers this man is dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with violence.
We follow a narrow path between brick buildings, the city noise fading behind us. Wind brushes through trees along the edge of the 606, carrying the distant rattle of an L train.
I glance around. I don’t recognize this neighborhood, but it feels alive. Like the kind of place you only find if someone shows you.
A shiver runs down my arms.
“This isn’t the part where you kill me and harvest my organs, is it?”
I mean it as a joke.
My hand still drifts toward my phone.
August chuckles softly.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“But you will kill me,” I say, only half kidding.
He shakes his head, amused.
“No. I’m just going to feed you. It’s up ahead.”
“But where is here?”
He glances down at me, mischief flickering in his eyes.
“You’ll see.”
The path opens to a small building tucked between two taller ones, easy to miss if you didn’t know it was there.
The door swings open and warm light spills onto the sidewalk.
Inside: lantern glow, quiet conversation, the soft clink of chopsticks. The air smells like soy, ginger, and something grilled that makes my stomach growl immediately.
August’s grin turns smug.
“There she is.”
“You remembered I like sushi,” I say.
“I told you,” he murmurs as we’re led to a corner table. “I listen.”
We sit.
Our knees brush under the table.
Accident. Still sends a charge up my leg.
A server appears, quick and polished, taking our drink orders. Her eyes linger on August for a moment too long.
He doesn’t notice.
Or pretends not to.
Either way, his attention never leaves me.
Wine arrives. Menus close. Conversation opens.
Somewhere between my very scientific explanation of being a “half vegan” and August accusing me of running a dairy-based emotional support program every twenty-six days, the night loosens.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just… easily.
August has this irritating ability to turn regular conversation into something that feels like a game. Questions slide out of him like he’s tossing pebbles into a pond, watching the ripples.
What did ten-year-old Harlee think she’d be when she grew up?
What’s the worst date I’ve ever had?
How I would absolutely help Wynter bury a body if needed.
He listens when I answer, too. Not the polite nod-and-wait-your-turn kind of listening. The real kind. The kind where he remembers things mid-story and circles back to them later like he’s been paying attention the whole time.
Which, apparently, he has.
At some point he tells a story about getting locked out of his apartment in nothing but gym shorts and bribing the doorman with DoorDash. I laugh hard enough that the table beside us turns to look.
And the annoying part is that I forget, briefly, that I’m supposed to be resisting him.
August doesn’t brag. Doesn’t name-drop. Doesn’t posture.
He just sits there across the table in soft lantern light, asking questions like the answers matter.
Like I matter.
Which is frankly suspicious behavior coming from a man who looks like he belongs on the cover of a very expensive watch ad.
An hour slip by without either of us noticing.
By the time the check appears, the restaurant has grown quieter around us. The dinner crowd has turned into the late-night crowd—glasses clinking, whispers rising from the bar, the warm buzz of a Wednesday night settling into the room.
We eat. We talk. We flirt.
Mostly him.
But he’s peanut butter and I’m jelly when it comes to sweet talk, so it works.
At some point the handheld card reader appears with the check.
I reach into my purse and pull out a few bills. The numbers have already sorted themselves out in my head.
Two rolls. Wine. Tax. Tip.
Fifty-five dollars.
I slide the cash across the table.
“Here.”
August looks down at the money like it personally offended him.
“What’s this?”
“My half.”
His brow furrows. “You just… calculated that?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even see the bill.”
I blink at him.
“It’s math.”
He studies me for a second, the corner of his mouth slowly lifting.
“What’s 313 times six?”
The answer drops into place before the question finishes.
“1,878.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, pulling out his phone. “Then what was our bill?”
I squint at him. “Did you not look at it?”
“Humor me.”
I sigh.
The numbers are already waiting.
“$109.20.”
August glances at his phone.
Then back at me.
“You’re not human, are you?”
“It’s math,” I say.
Like that explains everything.
He leans back, looking at me like I just took my clothes off. “That is… wildly attractive.”
I choke on a laugh. “Please don’t.”
“I’m serious,” he says, voice low. “Intelligence is sexy.”
Heat floods my face. “Stop flirting.”
“I can’t,” he says simply. “I told you.”
Outside, the night has cooled.
Chicago air off the lake carries that late-summer mix of warm pavement and water, the city humming softer now that the dinner crowd has thinned.
August walks beside me, close but not touching.
His arm hovers occasionally like he’s offering something without quite taking it.
When it brushes my side, my skin lights up anyway.
“So,” he says casually, hands sliding into his pockets. “Dessert?”
I glance over. “Frozen yogurt?”
He nods, completely serious.
I stop walking and stare at him like he just suggested we go meditate.
“You’re really taking me for fro-yo,” I say slowly, “and not making a single ‘I want to devour you’ comment?”
August smiles, dimples flashing.
“Restraint is very sexy.”
“Oh my God.”
“Besides,” he adds, nudging my shoulder as we start walking again, “I’m building suspense.”
“You’re building confusion.”
The fro-yo place is bright and cheerful in that aggressively happy way all frozen yogurt shops seem to be. Neon menu boards. Pop music. A teenager behind the counter who looks deeply uninterested in either of us.
August loads his cup like a man who has absolutely no intention of pretending this is a health choice.
By the time we leave, we’re both laughing about something stupid—whether gummy bears count as a topping or a lifestyle.
We eat while we walk.
Chicago opens around us in layers.
Streetlights glowing amber. Cars sliding past in quiet bursts of headlights. The distant rattle of the L train somewhere above the rooftops.
At some point my shoulder leans into his. At some point his hand lands at the small of my back like it’s been trying to get there all night. Neither of us comments on it.
We grab our the full cups and climb into his car. The drive south is quiet in that comfortable way that sneaks up on you. Windows down. Lake air rolling in. Music low enough that the rhythm feels more like background than a soundtrack.
August drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely between us.
Not reaching.
Just… there.
Streetlights slide across his face in warm gold flashes as we pass under them.
I catch him glancing at me once.
Twice.
Like he’s checking something.
The city thins out as we near the water.
By the time he pulls into the quiet stretch of Promontory Point, Chicago feels far away—just a distant skyline glowing behind us.
We climb out.
The lake stretches dark and endless in front of us, waves folding softly against the rocks.
Wind pushes through my hair.