The phone’s line beeped a couple times, sounded with a few seconds of static, and then it rang.
For a moment, the two of us stare at each other—taking in the last frames of what I’m sure will be the end of us.
A buzzing sound cuts through the silence, and Michael lifts a couch pillow and picks up a different cell phone. Holding it up to his ear, he keeps his eyes on mine as the ringing on my line finally ends.
“9-1-1, emergency response,” he says, his lips curve into a smirk. “How may I help you?”
I drop the phone to the floor, instantly shattering the glass screen against the marble. I stare at him in utter disbelief, complete and utter horror.
“I figured I’d pretend like I didn’t notice when one of my cell phones was missing,” he says. “Like I didn’t know you had it and would probably call Gillian, so…” He shrugs. “I made it so that’s the only number you could reach, especially since I called a few times to make sure she wouldn’t believe it was you.”
I blink.
“You have to anticipate your opponent’s every move, Meredith,” he says. “Be ten steps ahead of him—or her, at all times. That’s why all of our chess games end the same. Your pattern is too damn predictable, and it translates into everything you do. You’re so deeply steeped in your fucking feelings, that you can’t consider any reasons why someone would risk everything for you. But now that we’re on the same page about who will always—”
“Checkmate.” I cut him off in the middle of his spiel, moving my bishop piece in front of his queen—cementing the block on all sides. She has nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
The game is fucking over.
Michael’s gaze falls to the board and he analyzes all the pieces, looking beyond stunned.
“I could’ve beat you the last eight times,” I say. “But I wanted to make sure I memorized your pattern first. It’s the same every time. Risky-ass moves here or there for shock value—to make me think you’re not afraid to lose, because you think it’s beneath you. For the record, you’re one of the most predictable fucking players I’ve ever shared the board with.”
His lips turn up into a small smile as he looks up at me, but he didn’t let it stay.
“Well done, Meredith.” He pushes the table to the side and closes the gap between us. “I’m impressed.”
“I’m a lot smarter than I look. Ten times smarter than you.”
“A little too far-fetched with the last claim,” he says, then he lets out a sigh. “Do you still trust me?”
“Hell no.”
He smiles. “Well, you’re going to have to, if you want me to tell you the truth about why you’re here.”
“Anything short of you saying, I’m having a psychotic break and will check into an asylum, won’t suffice.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he says, looking deeply into my eyes—forcing my heart to react against my will. The look in his eyes is genuine, and for a split second, he looks like the Michael who I fell for. The Michael who swore he would do anything to protect me.
“You can start talking at any time,” I whisper.
“Not here,” he says, running his fingers through my hair. “We can have this conversation on the way there.”
“Where is there?”
“The next place we have to be,” he says. “It’s going to be a long drive and it’s going to take a few days. Would you like to come with me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you want answers,” he says. “Pack whatever you need by midnight.” He steps back and walks away.
Meredith
Now
I should’ve known better…
The moment we got into Michael’s car, he turned into a mute. He didn’t offer up any answers, didn’t address any of my questions. Instead, he drove me to a small airport hangar near the river, where a salt and pepper haired pilot flew us “closer to the west.”
He didn’t speak to me on the plane at all—save for a “Try not to move so much,” upon landing near an abandoned football field.
From there, he took our bags and ushered me into where we are now—sitting side by side in silence, in an unmarked car that’s speeding down an empty highway.
“I really do love you,” he says, finally breaking the ice. “I fucked up by doing so, but I want you to know that. No matter what, that’s the truth.”
“It’s going to take me a lot more time to say those words to you again.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because husbands who love their wives, typically don’t treat them like pets and keep them like protected hostages.”
“No, they just protect them from anyone who tries to hurt them,” he says. “I’ve done that.”
“Why do you keep saying this shit?” I snap. “The only thing you’ve done is hurt and manipulate me time and time again. One minute you love me, the next you leave me wondering when’s the next time I’ll see you again—all while saying how grateful I should be that you took me away from my life.”