I have to thank all of my wonderful readers, reviewers, followers, favorite-ers, and everyone who's stopped by. I appreciate the love and motivation! Any questions, comments, concerns, "I don't get it's" - feel free to PM me. I do respond :)
As much as the silence was welcome for the first few days, it became oppressive as it stretched on. Joe didn't miss his ex's demands for sex, money, or 'time with the girls' - which, he had come to learn, translated into 'time with whatever men at the bar were offering invitations to their hotel rooms.' He did, however, miss having company that extended beyond his lawyer. Generally, the roster was polite but distant. Dave talked to Joe only as much as was necessary to keep him functional in the ring, and never mentioned Meg. His one ally, Randy, had shut him out completely. And worst, Meg. Still floating through his periphery, roses and caramel, skin and bones, sleep and shadows, and completely unavailable to him.
Once again, something had to give. And once again, that thing would be Joe. This time, it would be in much less dramatic fashion. He read Randy's text immediately after their taping - 'She's out with Jackson. I wanted you to hear it from me, not walk into it.' In response, he ordered a bottle of Clase Azul Anejo for Randy and yet another bottle of the Van Winkle for himself. 'Because you enjoy torture? Caramel? Joe, you're an idiot.' A few hours later, he texted Randy, hoping for the best.
'At the risk of sounding like a little bitch, can we talk?'
'About?' Randy was terse, even though text.
'Deep emotional issues. Unburdening of the soul. Therapy.'
'You better be drunk.'
'Not yet, but I'm bringing you tequila.' Joe crossed his fingers after sending that message; hopefully Randy would be amenable to the sentiment, even in liquid form.
'Apology accepted. Room 1247.'
Thirty minutes later, Joe padded toward Randy's room, sweatpants billowing, bottles in hand, hoping Randy wasn't going to be gauche enough to ask for ice. 'Honestly, I'm in the mood that I hope he doesn't even bother with the plastic cups in the bathroom. I just want to drink. And talk. If I can't talk to her, I can talk about her. Or anything. Just talk.'
He almost made it to a knock on the door, but Randy swung it open and snagged the bottle of Clase as it came up to eye level.
"Splurge. You must be feeling guilty." He cradled the glazed clay cask lovingly.
"Lonely." Joe walked in, shutting the door behind him.
"If this is a come-on, you're in the wrong suite."
"Oh, shut the fuck up, Randy. Honestly, I didn't like how we left shit. I know you're her friend; I didn't know you were that close. I feel like I owe you something for..." Joe paused, setting his bottle down on the edge of the nearest dresser and sighing heavily. "I owe you for putting up with me."
It was Randy's turn to sigh. "Look...Meg and I always give each other a ton of shit. I know how it looks."
Joe offered a low, throaty chuckle. "It looks like it's about three seconds away from a war."
Randy nodded. "But...she's always taken really good care of me." He walked to the sliding glass door, opened it, and motioned Joe to follow him out into the warm air of the balcony, settling into a low chair. 'Why am I telling you this, Joe? To talk you out of it, or me into it?' "She started work with Dave right when my divorce was finalized; I was an asshole to everyone and she took it in stride. One of the few people who didn't snap at me when I snapped at them." Randy opened the tequila, shrugged at the bottle, and drank straight. "Meg was...patient. Never came on to me, never asked anything of me, always listened, cleaned up after me, put me back together, all of it. Even Dave got sick of my bullshit after a while, but Meg just took it all on. Don't get me wrong, she was always honest with me when I fucked up." Randy took a second, longer drink, and laughed, "Sometimes, too honest. But I needed it. So...I go a little overboard when I see her hurting."
Joe opened the Van Winkle before moving to the balcony and stood, looking down at the amber liquid, thinking, breathing in what he remembered of Meg's scent. "And I hurt her."
"You did. And this is really good tequila. I almost don't want to punch you anymore."
"You're welcome."
Randy rolled his eyes. "So what was in your head, anyway? If you weren't lying or confused and you really knew what you were doing...then what the fuck were you doing?"
Joe's face registered nothing for a few seconds, and then the smallest of smiles crossed his lips before he sat. "I think you really did fuck me up that night." Randy snapped his head toward Joe, a warning glare on his face, and Joe winced. "Not as an excuse! Not like that! What I mean is," Joe paused for a drink of his own, "I think I knew for a while the engagement was…"
"Fucked?"
"Yeah. That." Joe chuckled dryly. "But having Meg there, and knowing she wanted to be there, something either stopped making sense or started making sense. I don't know. She kept promising to stay and take care of me, and my fiancee never once said that. Not once that night. I know I remember that much."
"But you didn't have to-"
Joe held up his hand, unsurprised at how harsh Randy sounded. "You're right, and I shouldn't have. When you said she was worried about me..." Joe paused. "I sound like a dumbass. That night...she cared. Some part of me knew what she meant."
"Fair." Randy drank, again. "Meg doesn't know how to..." He sighed. "I'm going to sigh a lot tonight, I think. Meg is the sweetest person once you know her. She would lay down in traffic for someone she loves, and it kills her to hurt people. She's also guarded as fuck. Meg...presents herself very carefully, depending on who she's dealing with."
Joe puzzled over Randy's words, drank, puzzled, and drank again. He waited for Randy to continue, not wanting to pry, but Randy simply stared off into the humid distance. 'Apparently, if I want to know, I have to ask. Carefully.'
"Okay...I'll bite. What are you not saying?"
"Meg...man, I dunno. Anything you get from her is genuine. She tells you who she is if you just ask. There's no 'game' to Meg. When I say she's confusing, I mean...she doesn't exactly encourage you to ask. You have to earn her trust. She looks at a lot of the people she's around now and feels like she doesn't belong here."
"So it's a shitty past compared to…"
Randy waved his hands at nothing and everything. "Basically. Yeah. I mean, nothing to make a movie about, but she grew up rough and Dave helped pull her through. It's stuff she would have to tell you – just out of respect for her, you know how that is. Jackson doesn't help, either."
Joe made a non-committal noise. 'Yeah. Him. What's he like, I wonder.'
"But," Randy continued, "You wouldn't know anything about sticking with a person who's completely wrong for you, would you?"
"Asshole." Joe wasn't amused; he couldn't tell if the comment was meant to cut at him or not.
"I have to be good at something." Randy, still smug, knew he'd won that round.
"What's Jackson like?"
"He's like a case of herpes. Just doesn't go away." Joe almost choked on his drink. "No, really. This kind of shit I don't feel bad telling you. He met Meg at a bar when she was in school for her LPN. He was in business school – something to do with accounting or taxes, I forget which. They were opposite ends of the spectrum, but I guess they hit it off and he was decent to her at first. Once she got her license and started making her own money, he changed. Dave got her in here just to help her find some space, but Jackson never really let go. Meg's never really let go, either. They've had breaks, but not a break up." Randy drank bitterly and long. "Any more details than that and you'd have to ask her."
"I have permission to talk to her?" Joe sounded legitimately shocked.
"If you make her cry, I'm going to kick you in the nuts."
"I bought you tequila." Joe hoped he could chance a swipe at playful commentary; Randy was still edgy with him, but he craved a lighter mood.
"I'll only kick you once." The serious tone that Randy took told Joe it was more than an idle threat.
The ensuing silence was comfortable, and Joe finally felt as though he could exhale – if only a little. 'Finally, I can at least say hello to her. I can do that much. I don't know how to do anything else, but...I can try.' His hands worried at the neck of the bottle of bourbon. "You know I'm sorry, right? I really...I didn't mean to..." Joe trailed off.
"I know, man. I know. There were a lot of things going on. But...you want to talk to her. And?"
"And?" Joe was utterly confused.
"See, that's what I'm afraid of." Randy's shoulders sagged.
"I don't follow."
"What is talking going to turn into? Meg can't handle...anything else...right now. And you can't honestly say you're ready for anything else right now, either. Don't argue that point."
"Randy, I don't know. I want to see if I can even walk up to her and say hello. I can promise you I'll let her take the lead on things."
"Okay. Okay, I can live with that. If her lead turns into 'go away,' then that's that, right?"
Joe's heart wrenched. He was silent; hadn't considered she might really tell him to leave her alone.
"Joe...right? Then that's that?" Randy pressed the question a second time, quietly.
"Right. No, uh, right. Sorry. Yeah, then that's that. If it's 'go away,' then that's that. Done." Joe drank, and drank hard. Randy knew it wouldn't be that easy; Joe was now contemplating a completely new and as-yet untapped vein of misery.
"Hey, Joe?" Randy kicked Joe in the shin with a bit more force than he needed. "She's not going to tell you to go away. And ask her about Saint Julian."