Nice Guy

There really is No, written all over me.

I've been sitting at this metal table outside the café for what feels like twenty minutes now, watching the steam rise from my barely-touched coffee while this stranger continues his relentless conversation. He'd approached with such casual confidence, asking if the seat across from me was taken, and before I could even process an answer, he was already settling in, already talking.

I smile one too many times, hoping he'll get the hint for a second as he pesters me again. Each forced smile feels like a small betrayal of my own instincts. "I really am going to be late getting back to my shift," I manage to say. It was the only thing I could think to get this man to give me enough space to move away from him. The words come out softer than I intended, almost apologetic, and I hate that about myself in this moment.

He leans forward slightly, his elbows on the table, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort. "Come on, just a few more minutes. We're having such a nice conversation." His voice has that practiced charm that makes my skin crawl, the kind that probably works on other people. The kind that makes you question whether you're being unreasonable.

I grab my shoulder bag softly as I rise from the hot and heavy metal chair that sits between the just-as-heavy metal table and his arm which still stands in my way to freedom. The chair scrapes against the concrete with a harsh sound that makes nearby customers look over. He does seem nice, I think reluctantly. There's nothing overtly threatening about him – clean clothes, pleasant smile, the kind of guy who probably calls his mother regularly. The answer's still no though, I follow up in my head. Only I can hear myself pace back and forth inside my mind as the space between us thins.

No.

No.

No.

No.

The word becomes a mantra, a lifeline I'm throwing to myself as he doesn't move his arm from my path. He's still talking – something about a restaurant he wants to show me, how I'd love the atmosphere there, how we could go right now if I want. His words blend together into white noise as I focus on the weight of my bag, the feeling of my feet on the ground, anything to anchor me to what I know is right.

He doesn't hear me. Like a slow rolling earthquake, I watch his hand lift from the table and grab at my bag. The movement is so sudden, so presumptuous, that for a moment I'm frozen. I hold onto it tighter, fear setting in sharp and cold. He's going to rob me, of course he is! He's a stranger, no. He wants something from me, of course it's money.

Money... I hear a small voice echo in my head, but even as I think it, I know that's not what this is about. This isn't about money at all.

He smiles and pulls at the strap of my bag, a playful tug that he probably thinks is flirtatious. I follow it, refusing to let go, my knuckles white around the leather. "Hey now," he says with a laugh, "I'm not trying to steal it. Just trying to help a pretty girl with her things."

The word "help" lands wrong, makes my stomach turn. His smile pushes against my lips as he uses the momentum of our brief tug-of-war to pull me closer. I can feel how hard it hits as our lips embrace – unwanted, uninvited, a violation disguised as romance. I pull away quicker than I had enjoyed the taste of his Burt's Bees lip balm, the minty flavor now making me nauseous.

Tears start to form behind my nose as I sniffle back to the surface, a place I hadn't noticed I fell away from. There's this strange dissociation happening, like I'm watching this scene play out from somewhere above my own body. All he does is smile at me as I wipe away his kiss with the back of my hand, desperate to erase the feeling. My lip is slightly bleeding at a split where his teeth caught it.

Almost ironic, I hear the voice echo in my head. The voice that doesn't quite sound like mine, the one that observes without feeling. I feel myself start to fall into that sound as he takes my hand and pulls me away from the table. His grip is firm, not painful but insistent, and I find myself moving before my mind catches up to what's happening.

Wait a minute, I say almost next to the voice that echoed. We watch in horror – and it is horror, even if it doesn't look like much to anyone passing by – as he leads me down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. His hand is warm and slightly damp with sweat, and I can smell his cologne mixing with the exhaust fumes from the street.

"Where are we going?" I ask, though I already see his destination: a tan four-door '99 Civic with a dent in the rear bumper and a parking sticker from some college I don't recognize. The car looks harmless enough, the kind of vehicle that blends into any parking lot, forgettable and ordinary.

What's about to happen? The question bounces around my skull like a pinball as he doesn't say anything, just smiles at me as he leans down and opens the passenger door with his free hand, still clutching my hand firmly in what anyone watching might mistake for a romantic gesture.

"I uhm, I have to get back to work," I protest, and my voice sounds small and far away. I can see Roberta through the sandwich shop window, probably wondering where I am. My shift started ten minutes ago.

"This'll be quick," he promises, and there's something in his tone that makes my skin crawl – an assurance that suggests he's done this before. "I just want to show you something." He says as he opens the door wider, gesturing with theatrical politeness. "Here, sit." He points to his beat-up, dusty, grey passenger seat with what looks like coffee stains on the fabric.

"No..." I mumble and smile, that automatic response that I've been trained into since childhood – be nice, be polite, don't make a scene. I'm looking back at him but also past him, calculating distances, looking for witnesses, for help, for anything. "I really should be getting back to work." The words come out a little softer than I had intended, and I hate that my voice betrays my fear. "I'm just right there." I say, pulling my hand free from his grasp with more force than I expected I'd need, to point toward the sandwich shop.

He does turn to follow my finger, and for a moment I think maybe he'll understand, maybe he'll let this go. But when he turns back, his smile has shifted slightly – still pleasant to anyone watching, but there's something harder underneath it now.

"We won't leave the parking lot," he offers, as if that's the reassurance I need. As if the problem is the distance and not the situation itself. "Let me drive you to the door. It's hot out here."

It's not hot. It's barely seventy degrees and there's a breeze.

"I can walk," I hear myself speak, and there's finally some firmness in my voice. Something about this really doesn't feel right – though that's an understatement so massive it's almost funny – as I pull away from the open Civic door and take a step back toward the sidewalk.

"Very well," he sighs, and there's disappointment there, maybe even a flash of something darker. He's closing the door behind me, but not before I catch a glimpse of the interior – fast food wrappers on the floor, something hanging from the rearview mirror, a blanket in the backseat that makes my stomach drop. I don't want to think about why that blanket is there.

I don't look back as I hop back onto the sidewalk and speed-walk back toward the sandwich shop on the corner. My legs feel shaky, and I realize I'm holding my breath. Behind me, I can hear his car door slam, but I don't turn around. I don't want to know if he's watching me leave.

~•••~

"Is he following me?" I ask out loud as I push through the glass door of the sandwich shop, the little bell announcing my arrival with its cheerful jingle that seems absurdly normal after what just happened.

Roberta looks up from where she's been restocking the chip rack, her eyebrows raised in that way she gets when she's about to lecture me about punctuality. But her expression changes when she sees my face. "Who, honey? Are you okay? Your lip is bleeding."

She asks with genuine concern, and I realize I probably look as shaken as I feel. I lift the hinged countertop and scurry behind the register, seeking the safety of familiar territory. The smell of fresh bread and deli meat grounds me, reminds me where I am.

I turn and with a rush of relief see a small family of three walk into the store – a mother with two young kids who are already eyeing the cookie display. Normal people, safe people, people who won't corner me or grab my bag or force unwanted kisses on me. I smile at them, though I'm nervous that I can't see that particular parking spot from behind the counter. I grab my apron from under the register and put on my company hat as the family moves closer to examine the menu board.

"Sorry I'm late," I mutter to Roberta as I tie my apron strings with shaking fingers.

"What happened to your lip?" she presses, her voice lower now that we have customers.

"I'll tell you later," I say, though I'm not sure I will. How do you explain something like that? How do you say that a stranger made you feel unsafe without sounding paranoid? That every instinct in your body was screaming danger but he never actually did anything that would sound threatening if you tried to describe it to someone else?

"Jerk..." I say quietly, throwing my bag at my feet and adjusting my hat as the family approaches the counter. The word feels inadequate, too small for what just happened, but it's all I have right now.

Roberta watches in confusion as I take the family's order, my voice steadier now that I'm back in my element. "Hi, welcome to Cornerstone Subs. What can I get started for you today?"

"Two turkey clubs and a kids' tuna," the mother says, smiling warmly. "And could we get those clubs on the honey wheat?"

Two turkey clubs and a kids' tuna, I hear myself repeat in my head as I ring up the order. Something about this voice doesn't feel attached – it's that same observational tone from earlier, watching me perform normalcy while part of me is still standing in that parking lot, still feeling trapped between a metal table and a stranger's arm.

I don't think about it again – or rather, I try not to think about it again – nor do I really give the Civic any more thought for the rest of my shift. But every time the door chimes, I look up quickly, and every time a car pulls into the parking lot, I find myself craning my neck to see what color it is.

The afternoon passes in a blur of sandwich orders and small talk with regulars. Mrs. Patterson comes in for her usual Italian on rye. The construction crew from down the street orders their daily pile of meatball subs. A group of teenagers debates loudly about chip flavors. Normal interactions with normal people who don't make me feel like prey.

But the day does eventually dwindle down into an empty store again, the late afternoon sun slanting through the windows and casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. When closing time approaches, I find myself reluctant to leave, to step back out into the parking lot where anything could happen.

"You sure you're okay?" Roberta asks as we're counting down the register. "You've seemed jumpy all afternoon."

"Just tired," I lie, but I think she knows it's a lie.

After my shift, my assistant manager walks me to my car. It's not like I was scared – or rather, it's not like I wanted to admit I was scared – it was just the smart decision. That's what I tell myself as we cross the parking lot together, Roberta chatting about weekend plans while I scan every shadow, every parked car.

Especially since I do believe I saw his car still sitting there at the end of my shift. Same tan Civic, same dented bumper, parked three spaces down from where it had been earlier. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe he works somewhere nearby too. Maybe I'm being paranoid.

But as Roberta waits for me to unlock my car and get safely inside, I catch a glimpse of someone sitting in the driver's seat of that Civic, and my blood runs cold. He's not even trying to hide the fact that he's watching me.

"Roberta," I say quietly, my keys shaking in my hand.

"Yeah, honey?"

"Can you stay with me for just another minute?"