Finally, they were able to be a couple. Whatever kind of couple it was when you were ducking pyrotechnical explosions, trying not to trip on hundreds of miles of cables, and watching your significant other take chair shots that weren't technically chair shots while you felt up without technically feeling up men who weren't wearing much more than Speedos.
But, it didn't change things. Strangely, neither did saying they loved each other. 'Well,' Meg thought, 'I said it. He said it as best he could, and that's all I need.' Whatever they were supposed to be, they were. It never dulled or staled, it aged and improved, became richer and deeper, they were almost symbiotic. Surprisingly, rather than the backlash they feared, nearly the entire company was supportive. Meg's work continued to be brilliantly on-point; Joe redoubled his efforts and was richly rewarded with bigger and bigger pushes both on-screen and off. Those who had issues with their chemistry were smart enough to keep their grumbles low and at a distance.
Late spring gave way to early summer, touring continued, the heat of the season built, attendance soared, and the charity events kicked into high gear. Meg faltered, tried her best to keep quiet and not let her sudden loneliness show; Joe tried his best not to push her into anything she wasn't ready for. Both of them were abysmal at any sort of emotional communication that didn't involve a near-crisis situation; Meg was at least aware enough to realize something had to be done, but didn't know where to start. Dave suggested asking to go with Joe to an event; Randy suggested telling Joe she was going with him to an event. Meg tugged at the edges of her confusion and waited until her mind threw forth an idea that landed in the middle ground. So many of the events were red carpet, photographer-heavy, late-night, and money-thick; she worried they'd be out of her comfort zone. Gala after gala passed, Joe always in his tuxedo, Meg always in one of Joe's old t-shirts, borrowed as pajamas.
That night, in their hotel suite, Joe stood patiently while Meg adjusted his tie and smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. It was no different than the dozens of other gala-nights that had preceded it. The air conditioner droned in the background; the fridge in the wetbar hummed along an octave lower, dropping ice cubes into its reservoir as it went. Meg smiled and tried to make it look genuine while she fussed over him, tucking each lock of his hair neatly into a tight chignon, making sure his shoes were free of scuffs, his cufflinks were turned correctly – that he was photo-ready.
"I think you're set, handsome." Meg pressed a light kiss to the palm of Joe's hand. "Keep that with you tonight, okay?"
"I couldn't forget you if I tried, babygirl. No worries."
"I never worry. Just come back to me. And if I'm not here, I'm out on a triage call. Now, scoot. You're going to miss your limo." Meg walked with Joe to the door, holding his hand til the last possible second, hesitating before letting him go and closing the door slowly behind him.
"Well," she whispered to herself as she rested her head against the door, "You signed up for it. And you love him. Just roll with it, Meg. Stop being such a baby. If you're that lonely, say something. Otherwise, get your book and be quiet." Shaking her head firmly, she walked to the wetbar, poured an obscene amount of Joe's whiskey into a glass, and headed to their bed.
Preparing to exit the limousine, Joe took a second to shake his head and brace himself for the photographers. He never minded going alone; it was simple enough for him to stand as a statue, smile blankly, think of what was waiting for him when he returned to his hotel room, and get on with the evening, stale canapes and all. 'We just need to go home for a bit. Be with each other.'
Then, suddenly, the realization that he was standing in the middle of Pointless Gala Number Twelve thinking about "home" in the context of "we" hit Joe, and he turned to leave, knowing full well where he should be – and it wasn't under a chandelier with a cocktail napkin in his hand. 'When did I turn into my ex-fiance? What the fuck am I doing? And she's by herself, hoping I actually care.' Flash bulbs popped as he strode off the carpet toward an aide, asking for a car to be called, his departure prompt and pointed, but something was demanding he go. Whatever it was, he knew it meant now.
Meg, folding the hem of one of Joe's t-shirts back and forth over her fingers as she curled in bed, reached feverishly for sleep and found none coming. Nights like this were always long; she could count on him being out til at least three in the morning. She could predict his routine once he came back – kissing her before quietly showering, and promptly falling asleep afterward with an arm over her. He never smelled like sex or perfume, never came back drunk, just always with a vague hint of cigarette and stale ballroom air. Meg was glad for him to be rid of it before he came to bed; it was proof that at times their employer had a greater claim to him than she did, and her heart was bitter for it.
All those things explained her rationale for hurling both her book and her glass at Joe's face as he banged through their hotel room door four hours earlier than expected; she was scared witless and half-falling from the bed, tangled in his shirt and most of the sheets. Joe lost no momentum in his charge toward the bed, slapping the book harmlessly to the side from midair, ducking the glass as it shattered behind him, pushing Meg back and up onto the bed, kicking off his shoes and shedding his jacket as he went, graceful and graceless, full of regret and hungry at the same time.
Arms still flying, Meg hadn't slowed her attempts at escape. Nothing had registered other than full-body terror, and she could still taste the metallic tang of adrenaline, convinced it was Jackson come to remind her who she belonged to. Slowing just long enough to be sure his presence had been fully understood, Joe brushed his hand along the side of her face, down her neck, drawing a firm line along the edge of her jaw, leaning to rest his forehead against hers.
"I was so wrong, Meg. So wrong to leave you for all this gallery dress-up bullshit. No more. I promise." He could feel her pulse where his hand rested against her neck, and hoped it was rapid from need and understanding, not fear.
"Baby, it was always okay," Meg breathed. Her mind had caught up to the rest of the world, and Joe's presence, while no less confusing, was at least less terrifying. Her shirt had ridden up dangerously; Joe was debating which direction to let his hand not occupied with her neck roam. "I understood – and I need you to know something."
Joe froze. He suddenly felt like he was going to throw up. Every muscle in his body tensed; his memory slammed back to that whiskey-drenched room with his ex on top of him, drowning in that sickly sweet perfume she wore, feeling her riding him while he was locked in that God-awful dream, beating Meg til the words left her. Now, here, awake, he was bracing for what Meg words would leave Meg next – that she was riding someone while he was gone, sorry sweetheart, just needed you to know, better luck next time, so long and thanks for understanding.
"Joe...stop it. Please, stop thinking like that. I'm not her." Meg could see the look on his face, could feel his hand flex heavily against her neck, never tightening beyond the edge of control, but tense and ready. She had no idea if he was capable of what his palm threatened, didn't want to find out, and understood even less what his unspoken threat stemmed from. Struggling, she tried again. "I would never. Never. Don't even think that. I need you to know – what you felt, whatever that thing was that pushed you – I was never angry. I love you."
Slowly, Joe angled down to kiss her from where he had been resting against her forehead. 'Stupid, Joe. She wouldn't – couldn't – do that to you.' He kissed her knowing he had to make up for his silent accusation, for terrorizing her, for the threat of his hand, for always leaving and never staying, for not knowing where the accusation came from in the first place, then never saying he loved her – 'And have I ever said that to you? Do I even really show you?' He pressed a finger to her lips. "Tonight...let me. Just...let me." He guided her into a seated position on the bed, then took his time undressing in front of her, watching her as she watched him. Her eyes held a mix of interest and curiosity, and she looked at him as though he were baring something very different, very raw, to her for the first time.
"Just wait," he murmured, closing the distance between them and bending close to her ear, "Stay here." Joe padded through the room, turning off lights, opening curtains and windows, letting the mechanical chill in the air be replaced by the sticky summer humidity and the opalescent glow of moonlight that always seemed to complement the temperature of her skin. By the time he returned to the bed and climbed over her, she was panting. True to his word, he let her do nothing. The few times she tried to move for him, he simply stilled her in his arms, overpowering her and kissing her until she relented and gave herself over to the experience he was offering her. Some pieces were physical, others emotional, all of them carried forward on waves of a slow but unrelenting chant from Joe, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a growl, a song, a plea, and at their peak together, his simple declaration: I love you.
Distantly, a thumping registered in the back of Joe's mind the next morning. Rolling away from Meg, he considered the possibility that she might have been awake before him and ordered room service. 'No, she would have expected it and been at the door. What is this? At seven in the morning?' Fumbling for anything to cover his lower half and coming up only with boxer-briefs, the pounding became more insistent – and then suddenly, terrifying.
"Process server! Magdalena...uh...Nechayev! I need a signature!"
Joe spun on his heels, only to see Meg already sitting bolt-upright in bed, clutching a sheet to her chest while she groped for the t-shirt she had lost in the tangle of the bed last night. If it was possible for her to be more pale, she had somehow done so as she woke and was becoming more ghostly by the second. Her hands were shaking, and she tripped over her feet as she stutter-stepped toward the door, bumping Joe as she grabbed her wallet and opened the door.
"Uh...here. Here's my ID. Where do I...oh, here." Meg took the pen from the server, shakily signed the receipt, and opened the large envelope. The process server blatantly looked her over until Joe materialized in the doorway. Meg stuffed the paperwork back into the envelope and pressed the glue flap closed.
"And do you mind telling me what this is about?" Joe's hands landed on Meg's shoulders, warm and steadying, and she leaned back into him without hesitation as he directed a withering look at the small man who had disturbed their sleep.
The server quickly adjusted the position of his eyes and the front of his pants, and cleared his throat. "We aren't told the contents, sir. The sender is...let me see..." He flipped through several pages of a pad of carbon sheets, trying desperately to find anything that would prolong his life as well as his opportunity to ogle.
"Joe..." Meg's voice was watery, shattered, and she half-turned her face toward him. "This was too good for too long. Too quiet."
Joe draped one arm around her front while Meg dug her fingers into the envelope, scraping them across the thick manila paper. He pulled her back into their room, pushing their door shut as they went. Meg started a low, wild laugh as she moved away from the center of the room and toward the balcony. Not knowing what she thinking or doing, Joe darted ahead of her and slammed the sliding door shut, spinning to face her.
"Meg, open the goddamned envelope. Now." Torn between fear and frustration, Joe snapped at her. He was lost; apparently this sort of situation was all normal for her, but he had no idea what was going on other than that his girlfriend was walking blindly toward a very tall balcony with what appeared to be very bad news in her hands. 'Is this because of last night? I scared her, so she's scaring me?'
"You know what my last name associates with? Historically? Dissent. There's some horrid – well, I guess that depends on whose side you were on – anyway, some Russian revolutionary with the same last name who was famous for destroying the politicos he didn't agree with by doing whatever was necessary. As violent, as evil as it needed to be, he did it."
"Meg, what the fuck. Open the envelope." 'Baby, please, start making sense.'
"I should have told you sooner, because I believe in kismet." She waved the envelope in the air, ticking off each thought with a flick of her wrist, pacing as she spoke – but thankfully, away from the balcony doors. "The medallion, my name – both of them, really, first and last – constantly running from something. Maybe you don't believe in it, but I do. So I knew this was too good to last for very long."
Joe pushed her down onto the foot of the bed; she sprang back up, still waving the envelope, still pacing. "This – we, us – we weren't supposed to be, Joe. We were fighting it all the way. You stayed engaged for so long. I skated by a layoff, barely. And now I'm about to destroy us. Kismet, kismet."
"You aren't making sense, Meg. Stop. Slow down or stop, but open the envelope. Babygirl, we can fix this, but I have to know what's going on. You aren't making sense. What happened? Tell me what happened. Everything was fine last night. We were fine. I mean, I know I scared you, I'm sorry, but...this...I love you, remember?" Joe was beginning to feel a cold sweat creep over him; Meg had never just rambled like this. She was sarcastic, not manic and metaphysical. This wasn't like her, and Joe was beginning to wonder if, before he made it to the door, the process server had slipped Meg some sort of drug. 'Right. Because that's completely logical. Step one, get the fucking envelope.'
Still rambling and waving the envelope, Meg didn't realize how quickly Joe had closed the distance between them, locking one hand around her wrist to slow her gestures, and snatching the envelope from her with the other. Her eyes were confused, but she said nothing – just rubbed her wrist where he'd locked his hand around it.
"Meg, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But you're scaring me, and I don't know what else to do. Babygirl, tell me what's in here. Please."
A strange, crooked smile suddenly tore across Meg's face. "Jackson's in there, baby. In here, in there, in me. Just like he never left at all. So now it's my turn. The whore of dissent, right? And violence? Who destroys things? What's in a name? I love you so much, Joe, so much beyond anything, beyond everything...and I'm not going to let this ruin you. Me, whatever. Ruin you, no."
She lunged at Joe, kissed him even though he had no idea how to return a kiss to this strange thing in his Meg's body. 'Caramel and roses and cold skin and what the everloving Christ is going on in here, what did I do? I love her, who is this? What did I do? She was fine last night, what the fuck just happened to us?'
Suddenly, she was throwing things in her suitcase, yammering into her phone about taxis and tickets, pushing his hands away from her, Joe then sobbing into his phone for anyone to come to their room to help him. Meg was slapping at Randy's hands, then Dave's, all of them trying to decipher the legalese of the notice in the envelope Joe had almost forgotten to open. All of them, trying to force her to stay though every touch made her scream protests and epithets, literally shriek and scream until hotel security showed up, along with assistants and aides for the show, none of them having any idea what to do, until Dave finally cornered her by the bathroom.
"You're running." He was half-asking, half-scolding.
"I'm saving him. Why the fuck doesn't anyone see that I'm saving him?" Meg's exasperation tore through her voice, hot and ragged, and she had no idea why everyone seemed so against her.
"Because you're killing him. This whole dance you're doing is to the gallows. Why the fuck don't you see that?"
The room phone rang; Randy slammed it down after directing the front desk to send away the taxi Meg had called. Meg quickly dialed the front desk from her cell and requested the car wait for her. Randy called again; Meg countered by throwing the marble tissue holder from the bathroom at his head. Crouching, marveling at the divot in the wall, Randy backed away from the phone. Meg called the front desk again, apologized, and asked the driver to be held.
"Dave, I'm not going to live up to my name. I am not the ruiner. I love him too much."
"Meg, you dumb fucking cunt, if you do this, you are exactly what your name is!" Dave grabbed her by the shoulders, and she twisted back away from him, spinning out toward the door.
"No faith in me at all, Dave. No faith."
"I want to slap the shit out of you. I want to have you fucking committed so you can't do this to him or Randy or yourself. You're so goddamned stupid sometimes. You're walking away from a life here. Joe can't even look at you right now. He told me what happened last night. If you walk away from him right now, you're telling him he's nothing. Worthless. Meg, he loves you. This is everything to him."
He pointed to where Joe sat, holding the thick legal document in his lap, staring at it, seeing it without reading a single word on it and refusing to look at Meg. She only managed a shrug. "I have to go. He knows I love him. If he doesn't know it now, then he never knew it. Faith, Dave. Have faith."
With that, without another word, Meg lifted her small suitcase, grabbed her wallet and phone, and was out the door, narrowly escaping Dave's last attempt at grabbing her. Randy started to charge after her, but stopped a few steps before the door, throwing his hands in the air and screaming out a frustration that started a decade before he met Meg, had steeped in his ex-wife and in a thousand suddenly realized and unspoken things about Meg. Joe felt the papers fall from his hands, slide down his lap, shiver across the floor to pool in a dry, dusty expanse, and then in a sick reenactment of how they had met, he felt nothing at all.
Dave called both Randy and Joe off as ill to the house show, eventually organized the paperwork from the floor back into a packet, explained to them that it all came from Jackson, something about a civil suit against Meg for damages, slander, assault, and it was there Joe blanked out – the notion that Meg had somehow assaulted Jackson, after Joe dug enough glass out of Meg's back to build a coffee cup – until Dave came to the dollar figure Jackson was seeking, and then Joe snapped back into his tattered reality. The sum was more money than Meg would see in a lifetime, and he immediately recognized the endgame: Jackson would force Meg out, one way or another. If she stayed, in her mind it would be like bleeding Joe dry, like having their relationship purchased. She decided she would go away, which would be bleeding Joe dry of a completely different substance.
Go away where, who knew. Financially, she could only afford to get to a handful of places and live in a scattering fewer. There was no family; friends were everywhere and anywhere – all reliable, but all impossible to find. Other options, all three men refused to consider.
Later, Joe was told he stood up and began to punch hole after hole into the drywall while screaming something about telling her too late; it was only after he walked to the glass doors of the balcony – their balcony, the place Meg first gave herself to him, first came to him cerulean blue and frigid-hot in the moonlight – that Randy and Dave tackled him to the ground, Randy wrapping his arms around Joe's neck in every form of a Nelson hold he could muster until Joe finally, thankfully, lost consciousness, fists still clenched, ready for a fight that wouldn't stop but somehow also never came.