Randy sat, stood, paced, raged – couldn't quite figure out what to do with himself or what not to do with himself. The logical part of his brain screamed that he had to stop, had to make it through just one more day, and then he could go back to Blaine and to Meg, to figure it all out. And, while he had no difficulty convincing himself of the rationality of his plan to meet obligations and then meet Meg, it was harder to force himself to believe she'd be alright overnight, or that she would still be there in the morning.
His phone rang again and again, Dave calling each time. Exasperated, he finally picked up, not expecting Dave to jump on the line before he could get a word in edgewise.
"Look! Look. I know that all of this is my fault. All I can tell you is just to get on the plane."
Randy pulled the phone away from his face and fixed it with a strained look. 'The fuck, Dave? What?' "Explain, Dave. I'm giving you ten seconds."
"I don't know what she's doing. I don't know what she's planning. I just know she needs you to get on the plane."
"Whatever you're lying about, fuck yourself." Randy's patience had evaporated; he saw each of Dave's verbal dodges as a further attempt to keep him away from Meg. "You told her I got on a plane once already, remember?"
"I know! I know. Randy, if I knew what she was doing, I would tell you. I don't. I swear to God, I don't. She didn't tell me." 'And how much do I tell you, without upsetting her? Why are we all keeping secrets? Wait, no – we're doing that because we're idiots.'
"Dave, no offense, but fuck you. Why would I believe you anymore?"
"Because I was wrong. And I'm trying to fix it now, but I can't if you don't just get on the goddamned plane." Short of pushing Randy into a seat before takeoff, he had no idea what else could be done.
"Then you need to tell me what you do know. Otherwise, I'm leaving for the hotel now. Ten more seconds."
Dave exhaled shakily, not knowing what would be over Meg's line – or even if Meg had lines, anymore. "I called her earlier because I thought she'd tell me what she was doing next. I knew your film was wrapping soon." He scrambled for plausible theories. "Sometimes, Meg just...I wanted her to let me know where she was. What she was planning...anything."
"You don't have the right, Dave. Not anymore."
"And you can stop telling me that! You're not her-"
"Watch yourself." Randy's voice could have slit a throat.
"Okay. Okay. I asked her if she was leaving." 'Half the truth. Sort of.' "She didn't say anything specific, but it sounded like she knew you were going home."
"That doesn't make any sense, Dave. I never told her that. Try again. You're a shitty liar."
'Son of a bitch. They really are...whatever they are, they're talking. Too much, seriously.' "Fuck...Randy...if I tell you what she's doing, you're just going to worry."
"Like I'm not worried now?" His voice roared through the walls of his trailer; outside, other lights came on.
"I know. And you've heard me say before, you have to trust Meg. This time...really...please just get on the plane. She didn't tell me exactly what she's doing, I swear! I just know she needs you to go home. And knowing her, it's probably not worth it to stop at the hotel."
The line hummed between them, part tension and part nerves. Dave continued pushing. "If I'm wrong, I'll fly out there myself and find her. I'll fix it."
Randy snorted. "Weren't you the one who told me you can't fix things?"
Tired of having his efforts thrown back in his face, Dave snapped back at Randy. "Okay, and what's your idea? You don't want to listen to me – and I don't blame you – but you don't have a plan, you don't know what to do, you don't know what she's doing either, so...what? What, Randy? What do you want?"
Silent again, Randy's mind was startlingly blank. "I don't...I dunno, Dave. I want it back the way it was."
Whether that meant the way it was days, weeks, or months ago, neither man knew – but both understood.
Meg didn't sleep that night; she was too busy testing the door and re-testing it, seeing if she could let herself out without being seized upon by her dead ex, flying apparitions, or non-existent writing utensils. It took several tries before she made it to the elevator; even then, seeing Jackson inside caused her to give serious consideration to taking the stairs down to the parking garage. Instead, she got into the boxcar, suitcase banging into the raw spot on her thigh, twisting her hair roughly around her fingers as she dropped toward the lobby. 'This is the worst idea. No. This is the answer to the worst idea.' Following a hurried checkout, she threw her suitcase in the back of her car and checked her watch.
"I have to go, Ran," she whispered, turning the engine over, "But I promise, this isn't like last time."
Backing out of the parking spot, she paused before shifting into drive, looking at Jackson in the rear-view mirror as he leaned over her suitcase, rolling his eyes at her, dripping down the side of it. "At least...it shouldn't be."
'Keep telling yourself that, kitten. You'll come to me, one way or another.'
Meg shivered, turned the heat up, and pulled out of the garage, headed due southeast, vowing to call the rental office in the morning and pray that she could, with less than a day's notice, still get an apartment.
The next day was a series of fits and starts for Randy. The resort called him and let him know his room reservation had been canceled, thanked him for his stay, and asked him to please call if there was anything else he needed. Once he established that no, neither the concierge nor anyone else in the building knew where Meg went, only that she had checked out at an absurdly early hour, he resigned himself to Dave's instruction: He would, after all, just get on the plane.
His call was followed by a series of takes and shoots so uninspired that the director finally threw his hands in the air and called it complete, sending Randy off to pack his things in his trailer and wait for a car to take him to the airport early. 'I'd rather sit there than here. 'There' is distracting.' Brushing off his co-star's phone number for what felt like the tenth time that day, it took every ounce of control in him not to snap at her that he was seeing someone. 'But I'm not. Why lie to myself? I don't know where my girl is, and she's not mine anyway.' Out of desperation, he tried calling Meg, and braced himself for the line to go to voicemail.
One of the few practical things he'd gotten Meg to do while at the resort was ask her to change her voicemail message from a generic inbox recording to one that was personal. She'd teased him; saying it was just a ploy for him to hear her voice when she was too lazy to pick up the phone, and he'd readily agreed. They'd been laying in bed together when she recorded it, and he could hear himself jokingly telling her to make sure to say his name, be nice, and tell him hello, all while it played out in his ear.
Hi, you've reached Meg – Ran, stop! I'm going to – you've reached Magdalena Nechayev, I can't answer your call right now, but – shh! I'm trying to say hi to you, now stop! - but please leave a message and your – Ran, I know I have your number, hush – and your number after the tone, and I'll call you back as soon as I can. Thanks! Bye!
The message ended with her giggling, and he could remember pulling her playfully down onto the bed, telling her she had to record it over again, but they'd never gotten around to it. 'That was before we went to the pool...right before dinner, I think.' The tone sounded, a dental drill's worth of noise, and Randy hoped the exhaustion wasn't too evident in his voice.
"Hey...Meggie. Kiddo, I...I don't know what to...I'm going to get on the plane, but not for a while. Dave told me I had to – fuck knows why I'm listening to him anymore, right? Whatever you're doing, Meg...why couldn't you tell me? I can't keep worrying like this, not knowing what's happening to you...last night was..." He inhaled sharply, not realizing how close he'd come to telling her the truth, that he thought he'd lost her, still wasn't convinced he hadn't, wouldn't know what to do if he did. "Meg, please, just call me. Or if you still have that text message I sent, use that. I don't know. I just...let me know you're okay? Please? Meggie, I..."
The line beeped again, telling him he'd run out of time for his recording, and unceremoniously disconnected him. He stared down at his phone before he closed his hand around it, and unconsciously reached up for her medallion, remembering too late that he'd given it back to her. His fingers felt nothing but the thin fabric of his shirt, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'Just go home, Randy. Do what she said, and go home.' Cars and buildings ticked by outside the windows as he hurtled toward the airport.
Discomfort turned to agitation, and he jumped hard enough to drop his phone in the footwell when it rang. Scrambling to pick it up, his greeting was breathless, and Remy had to ask him several times to slow down while he explained what was going on.
"Mon dieu...Randy...you have to tell her to slow down. Merde. She will be the end of you if she keeps on."
"I know, Remy, I know. I feel like there's a point to this. She said something about surprises, so I have to hope it's related, it's good, just...anything that isn't New Orleans."
"Jamais deux sans une troisieme fois. Never twice without a third time." Remy laughed bitterly. "Maybe now she will be done? Stay in one place, I am saying."
"I thought I gave her a reason, Remy. Maybe I just don't understand enough. Did my card go through for Oechsner?"
"Oui! Oui, c'est tout. That's all. They are ready to release the files, but...we both know your Meg did not sign those forms." His voice was both conspiratorial and parental, and Randy didn't mind being called out.
"No, she didn't. I didn't have a way to get back down there, and let's be honest. Look at what she's doing. I need answers, Remy. However I get them. She told me I could look, so...I'm looking."
"Bien, bien. I would have done the same. Mais, listen to me." Remy's voice became flatly serious. "You are not used to these things. I do not mean Meg, I mean the nature of my work. The accident was...violent. The pictures are not limited to Meg. And the hospital reports are...extreme. Severe. Unpleasant. You will not..." He trailed off. "I do not want to put you off – non, non. I do not think I could put you off. But I do not want you to change your opinion of her, either."
"Remy. It would take more than this. Trust me."
"If you say so, monsieur. I will say, I understood." He cleared his throat. "You can expect them later tonight. It will take some time for me to compile her records. I must send them in several attachments."
"Is there a right way to go through it? Like...a way that makes sense?"
Remy's laugh was explosive. "Makes sense! Oh, Randy. Merde. Nothing about what happened to her makes sense. You must ask, what do you want to know."
"Okay...I want to know what happened in the accident." He paused, thinking. "Then, I want to know what they did to her at the hospital. When she first came in isn't so important. I mean...once she was awake. Why she's so afraid. Or...what she's afraid of." 'And that's not in those files. That's in Meg's head.'
"Bien. I will send the files in the order you will need to read them. Adieu, Randy."
"Talk to you – well, no. I'll write you when I get them."
Meg, after a fitful nap on the side of the road, finally called Sarah back. She had another ten hours to go in the car, and from the middle of a highway surrounded by corn fields, her radio produced only static. Desperate for any sort of human contact, tired of Jackson's hands trailing through her hair as she drove, she dialed eagerly.
"Time Centre, this is Sarah, how can I-"
"Sarah!" Meg was over-enthusiastic, thrilled to have anyone else's voice in her ear. The skulls gritted their teeth together like snake-rattles, and it was a struggle to keep the car in a straight line. "It's Meg! Please tell me I'm not too late to get that apartment?"
"Shit, girl, I was beginning to wonder if you were gonna call me at all." She smiled, clicking the TV off in the office. "When ya gonna be here?"
"Ten hours? Or so? I'm not really sure what state I'm in..."
"Oh Lord...okay, well, we're gonna be closed in ten hours. Er, the office is. I'm fine with you getting here after; the place is furnished, so all you need is key pickup, right?"
'This is too perfect; where's the catch?' "Uh...are you sure? It's not like you know me." Meg puzzled through the woman's response to her completely illogical schedule.
"Look...you wouldn't be driving out here from Washington if you didn't want it, right? And your phone reception sucks; you sound like you're in a car in the middle of nowhere."
"Fair. Where do I get my key?"
"My apartment. I'm the complex manager, and I'm three doors over from you."
'Oh, what the fuck is this...Randy would kill me.' "Okay. See you...when I see you."
Meg tried to drop her phone in the center console; feeling Jackson's breath sticky on her neck it was a good excuse for her to swing her elbow at his presence. The phone bounced out as rapidly as it dropped in, jumping into the side of her leg, directly into the raw spot on her thigh. Meg jolted, and grabbed at her leg, digging her finger into the wound as she did. The harder she clawed at it, the smaller Jackson seemed to become, so she kept working her fingers over the flesh, not caring about the deeply bloody stain she was also working into her jeans as she moved.
Randy paced the airport like a caged animal, being both an irritant and an intimidating presence in the boarding area. Drinks at the airport bar hadn't helped him, neither had the repeated phone calls to Meg – all unanswered and immediately to voicemail – so he took the next logically illogical step, and called Joe, praying that he would answer. 'I need a reason to jump. Any reason.'
"And what do you want, cocksucker?" Joe, dismissive and bored, came on the line far faster than Randy anticipated.
'And there's my jump.' "You might want to keep your mouth shut about her. I have enough reasons to face-fuck you with a block of concrete as it is."
"Still such a bitch, Orton. Pussy-whipped, now, but still a little bitch."
"You gonna be saying that when I'm breaking you?"
"Threats from a broken little piece of shit like you? Right. Remind me to be afraid. By the way, how's it feel plowing something I warmed up for you?"
"Walk up to me and say that shit." Randy's tone flattened considerably; Joe had aimed for and struck the one spot he knew he could solidly score at.
"Aww, poor guy. She hasn't even given it up for you, has she? Enjoying the blue balls?"
"You're done, Joe. Leave her alone." Randy cut the line, the conversation having done nothing for his mood other than worsen it. 'And still two hours before I board. And that didn't help. Where are you, Meg? What did you do?'
Nearly twelve hours later, another nap and half a pack of cigarettes later, Meg pulled into the parking lot of the Time Centre apartment complex, trying to direct herself toward the rental office. 'I didn't ask her where I was meeting her. She didn't say. This feels off...something's wrong.' From her position in the parking lot, Meg could see a note taped over the lock on the door, and even though Jackson's hands were closed firmly around her throat, she reached for the handle of the door and let herself out, trying desperately to look more balanced and coherent than she felt. Her right leg was ready to go out from under her from the effort of driving; falling down on the sidewalk was not the impression she wanted to make on anyone watching her.
'Forgot to tell you where to go. Building 14, #C16. -Sarah'
Meg sighed in gratitude; her hands flew up to her medallion and pulled at it urgently. 'Get a key, get to the airport. You're not done yet, Meg. Dave was right, you should have left sooner. And fuck Dave for being right about anything.'
Driving the length of the property, Meg marveled at the solitude of the back lots and buildings. 'There really isn't anyone back here. Maybe this will be okay.' Once she determined the floors were organized by letter – and 'C' obviously meant top – she dragged herself up the necessary flights of stairs and limped down the hall toward door number 16. After a few knocks, Meg was beginning to give up hope. She turned to go, but heard a thumping from inside the apartment that held her at the door. A cat yowled, something glass upended, and Meg began to smile. 'That's got to be her. Minus the desk.'
The door sprang open, and clad in a bra and boxers, highball in hand, stood her apartment manager. "Shit, girly. I make an entrance, don't I?" Sarah scrubbed at her tilted ponytail, blinking in the hard hallway light. "Here's the key, now get on. We'll sign the lease tomorrow, it's late and you're prolly – hey, your leg?"
Meg's hand shot to cover her thigh. "It's nothing. Had to change a tire, and I'm a klutz."
"Ri-ight. You're a klutz like I'm an AA sponsor. Here's your key, head on down. You're in twelve. I'll drop by and get you some start-up info later." She tipped her glass up in a half-cheer, and gently shut the door. The cat yowled again, and Meg outright giggled. 'This is going to be unreal. I could stay here; she's like me.' She opened her door only enough to throw her suitcase inside, not caring what the apartment looked like. 'Time to go. One more call.'
She dialed Dave while she sped down I-70; ignoring his questions was easy. Getting any coherent information out of him proved to be a much more difficult task. He kept telling her she couldn't go to meet Randy at the gate; Meg kept telling him she understood that but still needed to know where, generally, to meet him. Dave's information from corporate was minimalist in nature, but he managed to give her enough to allow her to ballpark her destination. Parking, watching, all she could do was wait.
The turbulence was nauseating; Randy hated flying anyway – too noisy, too crowded, too many people asking for photos or trying to pass him phone numbers he didn't want – and it was a disaster at baggage claim. He hadn't brought much, but what he had brought took forever to fall from the plane to the belt. Dragging his two suitcases behind him, he sludged his way through the thin crowds, not knowing what he would do once he made it outside but knowing he needed air instead of the hollow, claustrophobic plastic of the airport.
Meg caught him in her high-beams the moment he crossed in front of her, causing him to slam to a stop in the middle of the road, drop his bags, and begin a desperate backpedal. He braced for a car to hit him – and in truth, he was ready for it to be over, was ready to stop fighting, and then he felt two frigid arms around him. The cold was enough to sear throughhis jacket, the weight of the perfume and stale cigarette that followed forced his head to bow low enough to graze her shoulders, and then he knew: this time, she had come to him.