Meg snatched the medallion off her neck as soon as she got to the front desk, asking for an envelope and getting a thousand assurances from the concierge it would be immediately delivered to Joe's room. Tearing a thick piece of hotel stationery from the pads positioned around the checkout counter, Meg began to write:

'Always remember I love you. Not past, but present, and this is for us, even if there is no more 'us' because of this. I know – it makes no sense. Please, just have faith. You have my heart. Always. I won't expect you to wait, I won't expect you to understand. My only hope is that you know, always know, how much I love you – and that I always will. I promise.'

Folding the paper into a packet around the medallion, kissing the outside of the packet, and stuffing it into the envelope, Meg paused to inhale shakily. 'This is either going to work, spectacularly, or this is going to get me killed. Jackson, babe, it's all up to you. Here's hoping you're as stupid a fuck as I remember. I just have to keep you away from here.' She licked the flap of the envelope, pressed it shut, rubbed the paper across her throat to pick up as much rose perfume as possible, and then gave it to the concierge behind the desk. "Please?" Meg began. She was surprised at how throaty her voice had become, but was determined to make clear that the envelope had to make it back upstairs. Perhaps shocked by her tone, perhaps nudged by something at work in the universe, the concierge extended his hand and took the envelope. Without missing a step, he spun on his heels, exited the desk, and headed directly to the elevators.

Meg didn't realize she was still holding her breath until she nearly collapsed against the desk.

Sliding into the cab, flipping her phone end-for-end between her fingers, Meg's tears came slowly and silently through a fake and syrup-thick smile. While she knew what she was doing was dangerous – could result in her having nothing to come back to, could cost her every real friendship she had, had definitely cost her a job, could even be lethal – it was the only exit she saw. She had to keep Jackson from coming to find her; instead, she would go to him. Lost in thought, she continued to twirl her phone. 'Baby, you know me. I love you, and this is not as crazy as you think. I promise. I have never lied to you on a promise. And Randy, you better pick up when I call you on a burner.' Rolling down the window as far as she could, she hurled her phone out into traffic, watching it explode under the wheels of an extremely unforgiving semi. The taxi driver merely chuckled – in his mind, it was all the drama of a pissy hotel breakup. All he had to do was go to the airport and collect a tip, problem solved.

Anticipating that one of her trio of men would be intelligent enough to call the front desk and demand the name of the cab company in order to follow her in her perceived foolishness, Meg simply picked another cab company at random from the airport. She had long ago memorized one of Jackson's credit card numbers, dialed it into an ATM, demanded a ridiculously large cash advance, and then prayed he would be expecting her.

'You'll come back to me, you stupid slut. When you need dick, or money, or both. I give it two weeks before I see you on your knees in front of me. Go fuck yourself.'

Jackson's words ricocheted around Meg's mind – at least she could pride herself on the fact that it had been months and not weeks since her last encounter with him.

'Sweet dreams, whore. I'm not done with you yet.'

Involuntarily, Meg shuddered before getting into her next cab. She was headed away from the airport and back into the city, towards a train depot on the shabby end of town. The train would go west and then from there, south. Then, back towards the center of almost all of her stories to Joe – a chancy move, she knew – but it was also where Jackson would be most likely to look for her. Using his card to take out a huge cash advance would at least tell him she had gotten his message and was on the move – it didn't tell him her precise destination. She had to hope Jackson would look for her, and Joe wouldn't.

Jackson's smile was positively sadistic. The second his phone announced a card usage alert, he seized upon it and flipped through the screens.

"Come home, kitten. You have a lot of things to explain to me. If you make me work to find you, I'm not going to be happy." Checking his watch, guessing at the hours he had left to wait if she came directly to him, he stretched and watched the rain slide down the windows.

Meg wasn't going to be so kind as to make a direct stop. She wanted him angry. She wanted him unraveling, just as she was. The more violent the better, in fact, if she could hold herself together long enough to make the rest of the pieces come together.

Meg settled into a stiff seat on the train, opting for dry and sleep-deprived eyes rather than chance the nightmares a sleeper cabin could bring to her. Plus, buying the more expensive option meant potentially using Jackson's card again, in order to keep up appearances while in the sleeper cabin, and she didn't want to do that. He had one clue; that was enough. As it was, she was heading directly west; Topeka was her next stop. Then, south to anything in Texas via bus, then a rental car back east to Louisiana. Her nurse's license was valid and current there; she could find a job, save her money, and bide her time. Or at least, she could pray the universe would let her be ready for Jackson when he came.

It took her six days to make her way to New Orleans; another two before she was able to find lodging over a dive bar, exchanging serving and drink mixing for a room with a creaking mattress and small window that let in the hum of cicadas at night. As to getting a proper job with her LPN, that could wait. Her soul ached, and she had no urge to bring herself further out into the world than the three foot depth of an oak bar counter allowed her. Here, she was insulated from humanity behind a seltzer gun and row after row of alcohol bottles. To say she fell back into her habits of smoking and drinking would be an understatement; Meg dove back into them as though they would sustain her like food and water. Here, in a city that knew no limits, there was always a reason to beget an excuse, and Meg needed neither. She was making Jackson's job easier, and she invited his ruin into her life. Or, so she hoped it looked.

Occasionally, Meg would venture out into daylight, purchasing a croissant here or there, a small box of caramels, even single-stem flowers to remind herself that things could live without roots, even if it was only for a short while.

They, too, died.

Days stretched to weeks, months, and eventually she found herself thinking less and less of Jackson, wondering if the whole thing had been a ploy to simply drive her away from Joe, if that had truly been his goal – not to take her back for himself, but to force her to destroy the one gem in her life – all without his actually lifting a finger. The thought gutted her, so she pushed it back, along with memories of Joe, his touch, the cerulean negligee buried at the bottom of the suitcase she hadn't ever bothered to empty, and she realized she had died without ever ceasing to breathe. She didn't know what she was running from or to, and she couldn't or wouldn't remember. Holding herself together was too much, she was burnt by her cigarette-ends; her glues were actually waxes and had melted under her own heat. 'Hold together. None of this will work if you can't make it look real enough to hold together.'

Talk in the bar began to shift from complaints about late-August heat to excitement that the owner finally pulled enough cash to install a single satellite television. Much to Meg's dismay, wrestling was a perennial favorite. She couldn't make herself scarce – working made tips, tips made room rent – so she simply made herself blind, keeping her back to everything but the customers and going selectively deaf. That is, until late August, when a wail so recognizable and painful came from the miniscule, shrill speakers that Meg whipped around, dropping an entire tray's worth of beer on the floor, foam and glass exploding everywhere, just in time to see Colby's terrified eyes fill the screen as the camera jittered from him, to a panting, spittle-heaving Joe, back to a still-frozen Colby.

"What the fuck did I just miss?" Meg knew something was wrong, tremendously, terribly wrong, but hadn't seen enough to know who broke character or broke bones.

"My goddamned beer order, Meg." A regular knitted his eyebrows at her, unamused at the sudden shower of Bud Lite. "What got in to you?"

"You need to get your shit together. I know she left. We all know she left. You still have to be, you know, safe to work with. Is that going to happen, or do I need to find a mid-carder to get the job done?" Colby was pushing Joe's buttons dangerously and intentionally, and a crowd was gathering with the intent of saving the smaller man from his own mouth. Randy was feverishly pushing his way to the front, hoping to get there fast enough to make the whole scene look partially scripted and partially based on friendship.

"I'm going to be fine. The question is, are you?" Joe was snarling, daring Colby to keep going.

"That depends on whether or not you can, I don't know, carry your three lines of the segment or not." Colby's voice snapped out across the room, and Joe began to lunge forward.

Serendipity prevailed; Randy knocked Colby backwards gracefully enough to make it look like his intent was to block Joe and not to send Colby to the ground. "Save it, guys. Out there, not back here. Joe, you come with me." Randy guided Joe into the nearest chair he could find, even though it was in catering, and placed him firmly down into a seat.

"You have to stop doing this shit. She called me. She called Dave. She just keeps saying we have to trust her right now, that she's gonna make Jackson go away."

Joe's head hung nearly between his knees, feet tapping up and down in a staccato rhythm, long hair dripping water down the sides of his boots, hands clasped around his shins. Randy could see every muscle in his arms tense, clench, relax, release, repeat, again and again, and knew the worst was yet to come from Joe tonight in terms of performance interaction.

"And she won't fucking call me. Fuck, she said she doesn't want me to call, remember? You told me."

"I know, man. I know. It's not like any of us know where she is, or we'd tell you. She said she's afraid to call you because you'll be angry that it's been so long. She's a mess right now, man, and-" Randy suddenly caught himself, watching Joe's head snap upward like it was on a string.

"What do you mean a mess?" His hands clenched into the front of Randy's hoodie, dragging him in even closer, in a way that could have been romantic if it hadn't been so potentially lethal.

"Let the fuck go of me." Randy's tone was no less hostile; this wasn't the time or the place for the conversation and could destroy any hope Joe had for getting through the show.

"I will when you tell me what's wrong with her."

Randy sighed. "Same shit as before you two actually figured out what you were doing. She's drinking too much. Not sleeping. Smoking. Not eating. She'll snap out of it. She's just waiting for Jackson to come out of the woodwork so she can deal with him. And she's afraid she has nothing to come back to." Joe's eyes became completely blank, and his grip on Randy relaxed. He stayed silent, and Randy cleared his throat quietly. "Well? Does she have anything to come back to? Or is that done?"

The night continued as planned, segment after segment, with Joe and Colby walking wide circles around each other backstage, until it was time for their match, which centered around an in-character attempt by Colby to injure Joe using cinderblocks, which would – since creative's budget had been slashed in the financial cuts – be largely a repeat of the plot arc that had happened a few shows prior.

Randy's words collided with Colby's words collided with Meg's letter collided with Joe's heart as he made his way out to the ring, and he felt his temper ignite, flare, explode – he couldn't remember what he was saying, how hard he was hitting, pushing, what he even picked up – 'Throw the cinderblock at the ringpost, Joe, don't lose your job, aim at least a little high' – but the ping he heard meant the throw was at least a little hard. The scream he heard meant Colby was a little pissed off. The roar from the crowd meant they were loving it at least a little bit. The screams coming from somewhere in the pit of his stomach were the first real emotion he had allowed himself in the weeks since Meg left, and if he knew she was standing in the middle of a dive bar in New Orleans, screaming along with him, then he would have known that no, they were nowhere near done with each other.

And nowhere near done with Jackson, either.