Daniel

After I drop Kita off, I watch the front of the house for a few minutes. I want to make sure she gets inside okay, but I also want to make sure that she doesn't come right back out.

That's not going to happen, I tell myself. You need to get going. Do something else.

Forget this ever happened.

I drive away, not really sure where I’m going. I need to think about something else, find something positive to focus on. Why am I acting like this? I don’t usually run around telling women what to do. But something about her makes me want to guide her, keep her close and safe.

About a half-mile away from the warehouse district, there are a cluster of primary education groups. The director of one came to me for startup funds a few years ago, right after I sold my workout app. Soon after, the other three came to me as well. They didn’t need much, and I was happy to help.

The workout app made that all possible. That was a strange experience. After a career in the military, wallowing in top-secret data and keeping so many confidences that I sometimes couldn't even think straight, the thing people really wanted from me was exercise. Military style workouts, rolled up into an app that people could keep on their phones, keeping track of their progress as they went along. That thing took off at just the right time, and I was left with so much money that I felt guilty.

Educating preschoolers and grade schoolers is basically the exact opposite of what I've spent my adult life doing. I roll the car to the curb and just get out to watch the kids in the enclosed playground area. I hired a group of architects and engineers from the University to create a playground that is stimulating mentally and physically, to support some of the work this particular group is doing with autism spectrum kids. Seems like physical activity has some positive effect on the more drastic symptoms of ADHD as well.

It is sort of gratifying, watching these kids run around, screaming their heads off. Not that different than the kids that I was with back in basic training. These kids could've easily dropped through the cracks before they even got old enough to enlist. Now, by all accounts, they're doing great. Thriving.

It's nice to know that I can do something positive with my life.

For a moment I consider going in, maybe just walking through and saying hello to the woman who runs this place, but for what? Do I really need that kind of affirmation? Is that what I'm looking for?

No, I’m not going to interrupt her day just to inflate my ego. It’s time I got going.

On my way back to my house, I swing by the technology incubator. Just a square-shaped, four-story building that I bought from the city when it was in danger of being knocked down. Now it's got fourteen companies ranging from one to twelve people all working on apps, computer programs, basic technology services. Eighty people work in this building every day, keeping this part of the city moving, supporting the small grocery stores and haircut places and the taco take-out joints.

I could probably go in there too, get my dose of gratitude to fluff up my ego a little bit. But that also seems pathetic.

When the garage door rolls up, Freddie stands up straight from under the hood of my ’64 Mustang, wiping his hands on oil rag and nodding at me respectfully. I park the Mercedes in the line and wave at him in greeting. He gives me an abbreviated salute and bends down again, probably changing the oil or air filter or something like that. Basically, something to do, something for him to keep busy. I've got ten cars that he keeps in tip-top shape, and he still doesn't have very much to do.

That's pretty much it; that's my life. All the money I made helps a brigade of other people live from day to day. Maybe it makes some basic improvements in people's lives, but is that enough?

I still have more money than I could ever spend. I’ve gotten my thumbprints all over the city to the extent where buying anything else just seems like showing off. Is that it?

I really have to wonder, as I walk through this completely silent house. There's nothing here to hold me. It looks like a large-scale hotel room, like nobody even lives here. The sofa looks the same as it did when I picked it up off the showroom floor. Everything is in its place, because nobody ever touches it.

Even making breakfast for Kita this morning has made a notable small difference in the house. It smells like I cooked here, because I did. Pancakes, too, which is not something I would normally indulge in. Too many carbs, not really the sort of thing a fitness instructor indulges in. But I was happy to do it for her, because I just wanted to make her happy. Standing in front of the refrigerator, I considered about fourteen kinds of protein smoothie or dairy free, fruit-based energy drink and finally just realized that a young woman that age would really prefer pancakes.

I can still smell the oil in the air, and her chair is still slightly askew from its usual place. That's actually sort of nice.

I remember her standing there, trying not to be seen in the archway into the kitchen. As soon as she appeared and I realized she was wearing my shirt, my core trembled with excitement. It was so familiar, such an intimate gesture that I couldn't help but savor that thrill, something I hadn't felt in years and years.

But I can't think about that, I remind myself. She's gone, and it's for the best. The last thing someone her age needs is some 40-year-old man… some old man… bossing her around and managing her details. Which is what I would do, I know it.

But she looked so beautiful. I can think about it for just a moment more, can't I? Those tiny, graceful steps she tentatively took into the kitchen. The elegant, strong lines of her legs and back... clearly she is someone who was trained as an athlete at some point. But her hands are soft now, not calloused. I don't think she's doing anything at the present time. The pads of her fingers are pink and almost translucent, like a doll’s. When I pressed the key into her palm, her hand fit so neatly between my hands, I didn't want to let her go.

It reminds me of when I pulled her out of that bar, picking her up so effortlessly and holding her to me like a doll. She awoke something inside me, something primal and undeniable. I want to keep her there, gathered to my chest, where she is safe from those other girls. She seems to fit there, as though I am a lock and she is a key. Now that she is no longer here, I feel empty again.

Just like that, she is gone. Everything is back to the way it was, where I'm the only sound in the space. Just me and maybe the refrigerator. Maybe the computer. That's it. Only my footsteps.

That and more money than I could spend. What am I supposed to do, just keep giving it away to strangers? Is that really going to be fulfilling? Or am I going to look back in ten years and realize that I frittered away a fortune because I was too stubborn to reach out to another person in a personal way?

I wonder if I could run into her again. I could make an effort, become more of a part of campus life. I already know what people might think of me, that it's strange to have someone my age who is not truly affiliated with the school skulking around the perimeter, keeping an eye on things for no good reason. Maybe that's just my nature, to keep watch.

I could move closer. I could look for more real estate located around the sorority house. I'm definitely going to be looking into their bandwidth footprints. That's been the easiest way to target and identify misbehavior so far. Maybe even reach out to some of my contacts and see if there's more information on the street.

I have to do something. The void that she has left inside me seems so wide I can practically hear wind rushing through it.

The chime of the doorbell almost makes me jump, jolting me out of my daydream. Normally, deliveries come to the side door, and Freddie just signs for them. Someone at the front door is probably wanting to sell me something or trying to save my soul, perhaps.

When I open the front door, she stares up at me, blinking, her expression impossible to read. Hopeful? Brave? Stubborn?

She is standing there in a cotton dress, something she obviously feels a lot more comfortable in than my shirt. It scoops just under her collarbones with short sleeves and a pretty print of blue flowers. Still, I can see her toes working inside her flat shoes, belying her nervousness.

She clears her throat.

Her fingers push her hair behind her ears.

Her lips open and close, but nothing comes out.

“Kita,” I finally say, “do you want to come in?”

I see her swallow several times, and she nods, eyes downcast. She walks in the front door. She shifts from foot to foot as her eyes flicker around the dimly lit foyer area. I close the door behind her, aware of what a solid sound it makes.

“Are you all right? Is everything okay?”

She nods quickly, but won't meet my eye as she bites her lips together and looks away. I realize her hands are trembling.

“Kita? What is it?”

Startled, she turns to me. She takes a step forward, and before I know it she has wrapped her arms around me. Automatically I hold her to me as she quakes, quietly crying, shaking and unable to speak.