by Ford, Hannah
“No,” I said emphatically. But then I thought about it. “Fine, maybe I am. But at least I’m willing to be honest. At least I’m willing to try to make this real.”
“This could never be real,” he said. “Not with a monster like me.” His tone was bitter but resigned as he used my own words against me, and I saw the acceptance on his face. “This is over. I’ll pay your father’s debt. I’ll release you. You’ll be free to go.”
He began to walk away.
“So what?” I called after him. “You’re just going to leave me here?” I was panicked at the thought, not just of being left with no money and no phone far from home, but that I’d pushed him enough for him to want to leave me.
“No,” he shook his head. “No. Come on. I’ll get you a room and get you your things.”
He began to walk back toward the elevator. And he didn’t look back.
5
EMERY
I followed him to the elevator and he pushed the button for the car casually, as if he had not a care in the world, as if him just announcing that he was going to let me go home was a totally mundane occurrence, like he hadn’t been holding me against my will, like he hadn’t freaked out on me that time I’d tried to get away, like he hadn’t kept me chained to a bed at night.
He stepped into the elevator, still so nonchalant that I was starting to think maybe I’d misheard him.
“This is what you want?” He stared straight ahead, his jaw set in a line.
“Yes,” I said automatically as I stepped into the car, but it wasn’t the whole truth. The truth was way more complicated than that. Of course I wanted to be able to go back to my – well, not my apartment, since that had been broken into and trashed – but my life, definitely, to be able to go to school, to a coffee shop, to have my phone and be able to browse the internet without worrying that someone was watching.
But I didn’t want to be away from him.
I wanted all those things in addition to him.
Liam nodded curtly, then pushed the button in the elevator that took us up to the hotel level of the casino. The elevator began to rise and he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“Gustav,” he said, “Please get me a room for Ms. Waters. A suite. Text me the room number and make sure it connects to my previous key card.”
We stepped out into the lobby of the hotel. A waterfall blew water down from the middle of a stone fountain. A shiny dark desk curved around the outside of the room, and an abstract statue made of blown glass was situated in the other side of the room, this one in a pond of shiny water. A few casino goers clustered around it, throwing their pennies in and making wishes.
We walked silently to another bank of elevators. Liam’s phone beeped with a text from Gustav, alerting him to the room number. We took the elevator to the second floor, and Liam slid the key card into the slot in the door of room 227.
The room was nowhere near as insane as the one we’d been in earlier, but it was still very nice. Two rooms, two beds, a huge television set, a mini bar in the corner.
I looked around.
“So what now?”
“I will book you a flight back to the East Coast tomorrow.”
I nodded, resisting the urge to twist my hands in front of me, not wanting to give away the fact that I was nervous, that I was upset, that I didn’t like this at all. “And my things?”
“I’ll have your cell phone and purse portered over, along with the suitcases you had for California. The clothes you have in New York I will have sent to your apartment.”
“Not my apartment,” I said. “To Maddie’s, please.”
He nodded again.
“Do you need the address?”
He shook his head no, but of course I already knew that. Of course he would have Maddie’s address. He was keeping tabs on my every move, and so it made sense he would keep tabs on all of hers as well.
My chest tightened. I started to thank him. But I stopped myself. Thank him for what? Letting me go? That was ridiculous.
“Okay, then. I’ll email you the flight information, and your things should be here in an hour or so, as soon as I get them from the airport.”
I nodded.
We stood there staring at each other for a moment, and my chest clenched, like a rubber band was tightening around it. I waited for him to say something, and for a moment, the sun glinted through the blinds on the window, breaking the darkness for a split second and reflecting off his chiseled features. I thought I saw indecision reflected there, but then the sun moved behind a cloud and it was gone, he was bathed in darkness again, and he turned and walked toward the door.
The regret that pulsed inside of me for bringing us to this point was almost palpable, almost living, as if I needed to do something to it. I needed to kill it, that’s how horrible it felt.
I wanted to look way, but I forced myself to watch as he walked toward the door.
He stopped when he reached it, his hand on the handle.
He turned and looked at me, and I half-expected his face to break into a smile, for him to tell me this was all a joke, that we’d been playing a game of chicken and I was the winner, that he wasn’t going anywhere, and the fact that I’d pushed him was going to make me get punished harder than I’d ever been punished before.
But all he did was stare at me, his eyes cold, his shoulders pushed back. He looked nothing like the Liam I thought I knew, nothing like the man who’d touched the scars on my legs and told me I was beautiful until I believed it. Nothing like the man who had told me he was falling in love with me.
“Take care of yourself, Emery.”
And then he was gone.
As soon as the door shut behind him, I rushed to it, peering through the peephole. But the peephole only showed what was right in front of me, not anything down the hallway in either direction. I wanted to open the door, to watch him, the back of his suit disappearing, was hungry for one last look at him, desperate for a few more seconds.
But my pride kept me rooted to the spot.
I tipped my forehead against the door, feeling the cool, smooth surface against my hot skin. I pulled at my dress, which suddenly felt scratchy and too tight.
I reached behind me and pulled at it, but the fabric wouldn’t budge. I clawed at it, ripping the back, and stumbled into the bathroom, where I turned the shower on and turned the tap all the way over to cold.
I pulled the dress over my head and stepped into the water, taking long deep breaths. The water beaded off my arms, and I stayed under the spray so long that when I glanced down, my arms were covered in goose bumps.
All except my stomach, which was mottled and red. I touched it, but my fingers were numb, and so I couldn’t really feel it.
Was this was a panic attack felt like? My heart was pounding and my stomach was churning, but there was a weird disassociation I was feeling from my own body, as if I was wearing some kind of protective suit.
I sat down in the tub, letting the shower water pound down on me, still not feeling anything, letting my body get as numb as my emotions from the cold water that poured over me.
I wasn’t sure how long had passed.
Fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, sixty…?
I got out and stood in front of the mirror. My hair hung loosely around my shoulders, dripping wet, and water pooled around my feet on the floor. My haunted eyes stared back at me, and my lips had a bluish tint to them. There were red marks on my chest, and I reached up and touched them.
Hives.
I’d never had them before, but I recognized them from the time Maddie had an allergic reaction to some strawberries she hadn’t realized had been in a smoothie we’d gotten from the student union.
The look of myself shocked me out of whatever reverie I’d been in.
“Jesus,” I murmured, rubbing my wet hair violently with a fresh towel, wrapping myself in the fluffy robe that hung on the back of the door. It helped a little bit, but I was still shivering.
>
There was a knock on my hotel room door, and when I opened it, my things were sitting there on the floor. Whoever had delivered it must have beat a hasty retreat.
Had it been Gustav, I wondered, or just a random employee of the hotel? My purse was there, my cell phone peeking out of the top. Next to it was my computer and my books, and the suitcase that had been packed for me by Francine just this morning.
There was a sealed envelope taped to the top of the suitcase, with my name printed on it in hastily scrawled capital letters.
I picked it up and slid my finger under the sealed flap, my heart pounding in anticipation. But there was no note – the only thing inside was a plane ticket and five one hundred dollar bills. The bills were held together with a silver money clip bearing Liam’s initials in the same script that decorated the handkerchiefs he used.
Under the clip was a tiny rectangular piece of card stock. For food and travel was slashed across the stock in black pen. The ‘l’ at the end of ‘travel’ was slightly smudged, as if he’d been in such a hurry to get rid of the note that he’d shoved it under the money clip so fast the ink hadn’t even dried.
Traveling money, I thought. Leave it to Liam to think that someone would need five hundred dollars to get home.
I checked my purse. Everything was there – my license, my debit card, the twenty-seven dollars in cash I’d had when he’d grabbed me that night. I remembered the number because I always remembered how much cash I had on me. There were two ten dollar bills, a five dollar bill, and two ones. I always preferred small bills, ever since I was younger, since they made me feel like there was more money. It was silly, but somehow it worked.
An hour later, hair dried, wearing jeans and a fitted white t-shirt, phone charged, I headed down to the casino shops to try to find something I could buy to sleep in – my California suitcase only contained the lingerie Liam required me sleep in, and there was no way I was wearing that -- and maybe something to wear on the plane home tomorrow.
The stores were mostly high-end places, with names I’d never heard of and clothes that wouldn’t fit me since I was bigger than a size eight.
I managed to find an oversized man’s North Face t-shirt on sale for 20 bucks, and a pair of black yoga pants and a lightweight sweatshirt at a store I was pretty sure catered to the over-sixty crowd. But I wasn’t going to complain.
I used my debit card, not wanting to touch the money Liam had given me. When I got back to New York, I would send it back to him the same way it had arrived. No note, nothing spent, just the same bills wrapped up in his money clip.
I imagined him getting it, his face falling as he realized I didn’t need his stupid money. Of course, I knew the reality was that it would be opened by Francine or some other assistant – someone as important as Liam Rutherford didn’t open his own mail, I was sure, at least not packages that showed up unannounced. But still.
I walked back out onto the concourse, swinging my shopping bags, heady with my newfound freedom.
It felt strange being out in the world after being kept away from it for so long.
I didn’t want to go back to my room, didn’t want to be alone, even if the people around me were strangers.
I walked aimlessly around the casino, wondering if part of the thrill my father had found from being here was the people, the idea that even if you were here, you weren’t ever really alone.
Finally, I sat down on a bench and pulled out my phone.
I scrolled through the text messages, fifty-three of them, way more than I’d ever had all at once.
Almost all of them were from Maddie, most of them asking if I was all right, the last ones apologizing for calling the cops, at least at first, before she changed her mind and said she wasn’t sorry, that she was going to keep trying to get in touch with me, that she would show up at Liam’s office every day if she had to.
My throat closed.
Maddie.
My only family.
And the way I’d treated her… it had been completely unacceptable.
I would call her now.
I would try to explain.
But I was going to need all my courage.
I was going to need wine.
* * *
The wine bar I found was tucked into the corner of the casino, part of a larger steakhouse that had a separate restaurant. It said it was Tyler Morgan’s Blackwood Steakhouse and Wine Bar. I wasn’t sure who Tyler Morgan was, but I was pretty sure he must have been important if the restaurant was using his name to attract customers.
I found at seat at the end of the bar and ordered a glass of red and a plate of fruit. My eyes had lingered on the desserts, and the bartender had noticed, recommending a decadent looking chocolate lava cake that that came warm and was served with vanilla bean ice cream and caramel sauce.
I almost ordered it, then thought of Liam constantly telling me to order sugar, to not deprive myself, that my body was fine.
Liar.
So I ordered the fruit as a little fuck you to him.
“Here you go,” the bartender said, setting a glass of wine down next to me in a long-stemmed glass. “Your fruit plate will be right out.”
“Thanks,” I said and took a sip.
The alcohol burned my throat and warmed my insides, and I instantly wished it was something stronger. I wasn’t a big drinker, had never even let myself get drunk, at least not to the point of losing control.
My forays had always consisted of a few sips of a spritzer or nursing one beer over the course of the night, just so I’d have something in my hand to make it seem like I was drinking. I didn’t like the woozy feeling drinking gave me, because it reminded me of my past, and the sense of control I was giving up by doing it.
But now the thought of that kind of obliteration, the kind of darkness that came from drinking -- or, in my experience, from anesthesia – seemed almost welcome.
I took another sip and picked at my cheese plate.
But I wasn’t hungry.
I pulled out my cell phone.
I entered my pass code, scrolled through my contacts until I got to Maddie, then pressed the call button.
I held my breath as it began to ring.
Once…twice… three times…
It went to voicemail, and I started to hang up. I was worried that maybe she’d sent it to voicemail on purpose because she didn’t want to talk to me. I deserved it, though, so I swallowed my pride and decided to leave a message.
“Hey,” I said. “It’s me. I’m, um… I wanted to let you know that I’m sorry. For everything. I’m not sure if you’re not answering because you don’t want to talk to me, or if you’re just not near your phone. But either way, please, call me, I want to talk to you.” I paused. I thought about adding something else, maybe an “I love ya” or something like that, but even though it was true, it seemed somehow out of place.
Maddie and I had never been the types to get mushy like that, which I appreciated about us. We were the type of friends who didn’t need to do that, because our connection and feelings about each other were obvious through our actions.
Well.
At least until recently.
I ended the call, then took another sip of my wine. I was thinking that maybe I should send her a text too – if she was mad at me, she might not have listened to my voicemail, while a text would be something she wouldn’t be able to ignore as easily – when a guy across the bar spoke to me.
“Fight with your boyfriend?” he asked.
“What?” I asked, startled.
“Your voicemail.” He indicated the phone sitting on the bar in front of me. “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhearing.”
“Oh.” I thought maybe he’d been talking about the fight I’d had with Liam, but of course there was no way he could have known about that. “No, it was just a friend.”
“Ahh,” he said. “So you’re not in a fight with your boyfriend.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Sorry, that was my not-so-suave way of asking if you have a boyfriend.”
“No, I… I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“She said with hesitation.” He gave me that easy smile again, and his tone was light. I took another sip of my wine, giving myself a chance to regard him over the top of my glass. He was a few years older than me, maybe twenty-five, and he had the kind of good looks that came from having good genes – dark blonde hair, green eyes, his tan the kind that came from the golf course. He was wearing a navy polo shirt, and it stretched across his body. His shoulders were pushed back and he sat on the bar stool with a bottle of a dark beer on the bar in front of him.
He exuded money, but not in the way Liam did. Liam had an air of confidence about him that came from knowing he’d worked for everything he had. This guy’s confidence came from being born into it. You could just tell.
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend. I just broke up with someone.” I wasn’t sure why I said it.
“Oh, I’m sorry. He sounds like an idiot.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“He broke up with you. So he’s an idiot.”
“How do you know I didn’t break up with him?”
“Did you?”
“No,” I admitted, and he grinned.
I smiled back, enjoying the easy banter we were having. The bartender reappeared and set the chocolate dessert I’d been eyeing in front of the guy.
He caught me looking at it. “Feel free to have some,” he said. “There’s no way I’m going to eat this whole thing myself.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I said quickly. I wasn’t sure if he was flirting with me or not. I wasn’t used to being flirted with, and my first instinct was to get up and walk away. Not because he was weird or creepy or anything, but just because I wasn’t used to it.
“Come on,” he said, wrinkling his nose up as he looked at my plate of fruit. “You’re in this amazing restaurant and you order fruit? Waste.”
