‘Everyone wants to vote for someone who makes them feel something. Sometimes even sympathy…’
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I swallow. I can’t believe I never questioned him about that before. Never even asked him to prove that he was really dropping out of the campaigns.
I look through the rearview mirror and see Michael stepping out of his old car—him shutting the door as the car rolls forward and down into the lake.
He waits until the roof is completely submerged, and then he walks to our new car and cranks the engine.
“Are you cold?” he asks, pulling onto the road.
“Only on the inside.” I cross my arms. “Is my father still campaigning?”
“He is.”
“So, you were hired to kill me and you chose not to?”
“I think that’s quite obvious, Meredith,” he says, looking over at me. “Seeing as though you’re still breathing.”
“Is that what you do when you’re not running your nightclub and investing in Broadway plays? Take out people?”
“I make the world a better place.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means we still have several hours to go, and that’s the end of that conversation.”
“Did you decide not to do it because you felt sorry for me?”
“I did it because I fucking liked you, and then I made the huge mistake of fucking loving you.” He looked upset. “Happy?”
“No…What about the people you don’t fall in love with? Do you go through with it on them?”
He doesn’t answer me. He turns the music up, leaving me alone to a mess of my thoughts for longer than I can bear.
* * *
Another several hours later
The Sonoran Desert stretches ahead of us for miles, and I realize that we’re nearing the border of Mexico. The sun has yet to rise over the horizon, and the early morning clouds hang low.
We’ve been driving in silence for hours—occasionally stopping for drinks and stretches, bits of “Are you okay?” here or there.
His hand has clasped mine several times, the mere touch of his fingers making me feel a bit more secure with ease. He says the words, “It’ll all make sense in the end,” under his breath, ever so often, but I don’t ask him what that means.
“You know, if your ultimate plan was to save me from my father, and run away together to start new lives, I would’ve been fine with that. All you had to do was tell me that in advance,” I said, trying to start a conversation. “The kidnapping was a bit unnecessary.”
He doesn’t answer. He just stares straight ahead.
He pulls the car over into the parking lot of a small bed and breakfast. He steps out and he motions for me to follow suit.
“It’s time for you to check in.” He pops the trunk and grabs a bag. “Make sure to request a room with a good view.”
He doesn’t grab a bag for himself. There isn’t one for him anymore.
“Aren’t you coming?” I ask.
“Does it look like I’m coming?”
I look down at the bag he hands to me and realize that this isn’t the bag I packed.
This new bag is stuffed with hair dye—strawberry blond, sweaters and hoodies, a disposable camera (Who still uses those?), and toiletries. There are envelopes and money inside, but my journal and personal mementos—things I actually wanted, are nowhere to be found.
“Where is the bag of my real stuff?” I look at him. “The stuff you insisted that I pack?”
“I saw what was in it,” he said. “You won’t need any of that for where you’re going.”
“So, what was the point of you making me pack it?”
“To see if you were willing to trust me again.” His voice is deadpan, and the warmth that was in his eyes earlier is long gone.
I stare at him for several minutes, each moment of silence marking a realization that I’m just now getting to see.
“This is what you were planning to do the whole time, isn’t it?” my voice is hoarse. “This is your idea of saving me from ruin and being my so-called hero?”
“I never told you that I was a fucking hero.” He sounds offended. “I have eight more things to handle, and I would’ve been finished with them by now, if you weren’t in my way. I can’t afford to let you be a burden to me anymore.”
“I’m a burden?”
“I didn’t stutter.” He pulls a wad of bills from his pocket and stuffs them into my jacket. “I have more important things to do than deal with a romance that’ll never work out right now. I’ll handle the divorce and make sure you have access to an account that’ll never run dry.”
“You’re leaving me in Mexico?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“This isn’t twenty-one questions, Meredith,” he says. “You need to listen very carefully, and you need to follow every direction to the letter.”