Welcome to all of my new readers, welcome back to my loyal readers, and all the thanks in the world to AliceJericho and Nattiebroskette - without their help and patience, there would be no Analeptic and no Malum. And no proper comma usage!
EyeLiner, this one's for you!
"Tequila through a swirly straw? You are desperate."
"Yeah, but tequila's our thing. And you can't laugh; I can't feel half my face...and why the fuck do we have a swirly straw, anyway?" Randy, after one of her oxycontin, was well past amusing, far into numb, and entirely unconcerned with what the wellness board might find a week later. His smile was lopsided and easy, his hands searched for Meg and whatever part of her was closest to him, and he relaxed into the sofa, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and – everywhere around him – roses.
All Meg could do was laugh and spin herself around his shoulders, falling over the back of the couch, eager to be held by him, kiss him – anything that would convince her he was really there and not just a trick of her mind. 'I'm going to wake up. I'm going to wake up and all this time will have been in that fucked-up ICU at that fucked-up hospital in Louisiana. Or I'll still be with Jackson. Whatever this is, Meg, just enjoy it. You'll fall asleep later and when you wake up it'll all be gone.' "Blame Sarah. I think you're going to find all sorts of random shit around here. No pigeons, though. And you're cute when you drool."
Convincing Randy to hold still for the disinfectant, the EMLA, and the clear sutures necessary to piece his lips back together was no small task; Meg nearly had to pin him to the couch to work on him, and even then he kept trying to lean up to kiss her and talk to her. She'd swat him down, protesting that they both didn't need a face full of numbing gel, and if he didn't hold still she'd miss with her stitch and he wouldn't be able to use his mouth to explain himself and why on earth he was in their den instead of in a hotel several states away. Finally, planting a knee in the middle of his chest, Meg reminded him – he said was home for a week, and if he couldn't wait five minutes to talk to her, she wasn't going to believe him about the rest of his promised time. 'You wouldn't lie to me, Randy. Give me five minutes now, and then you can have whatever you need. I promise.'
Content with that, Randy finally held still, Meg's thin, cold fingers floating over and around his lips, her tiny stitches bringing everything back to place. Her face was a study in focus and concentration; she worked with surgical precision, occasionally bemoaning the fact she didn't have dermal glue and would rather have used that, but promised him he wouldn't have a single mark to show for whatever idiocy he'd gotten into that night. She tilted his chin first up, then down, and he watched her pupils constrict as she studied her work, trying to decide if she was ultimately happy with the repair she'd made – or with the decision he'd made to acquire the injury in the first place. 'You look so tired, Meg. Worn out. But the light's coming back in you. This...well, this was dumb, on my part, but you doing this – your work – this makes you look like yourself. What can we do in a week, to keep it there? Everything was so close to normal – to right. You were fine, for so long...you need to tell me what happened.'
"Gonna tell me what happened?"
Randy was jarred from his reverie by Meg's gentle voice, and forty-five minutes later due to his slurred and tangled speech from numb lips, pills, and tequila, she was still splayed across his lap, pouring him the occasional refill of Gran Patron and looking up at him expectantly, his ramblings about his trip through the airports, baggage claims, and taxi stands not being at all what she meant about what happened – and he knew it.
Sighing, shifting uncomfortably more due to emotion than position, Randy brushed his hand down the length of her arm, stopping to squeeze her hand. "Gotta promise not to get mad, Meggie. That's the deal."
"Of course, Ran. I kinda already figured it wasn't...the best decision. You came home looking like this," Meg gestured at his face, "So...something went wrong. Or right. But probably not smart."
Pulling her in close and pulling up the quilt, Randy tried to carefully, delicately, recount the events of the past weeks she'd been gone. Working with Joe, the ruse he'd pulled him into, and the shitstorm it'd set off with their friends came first in his explanation. He was cautious as he sorted through Jon, Renee, and Nell's reactions, knowing she'd be calling them individually to offer apologies and explanations of her own, but not sugar-coating things either – he knew full well they'd felt betrayed and hurt, and he had nobody to blame but himself for that. He'd kept them all in the dark about his plan and its eventual conclusion.
Meandering, slowly, Randy came to the fight his plan had culminated in, both in and out of the ring. Meg listened, not saying a word, occasionally reaching up to trace the line of his jaw or follow the line of a bruise, but with a look of complete patience and tolerance on her face. She was still and quiet for several minutes after Randy finished, to the point he became uncomfortable in their silence. 'She's gonna get up and walk out like I did when she took those Vicodin after the airport. I came home, and she's gonna leave. I know she looks calm, but that doesn't mean she won't-'
"You think Joe really...I mean..."
"Yes, Magdalena. Yes, I do."
Curling her head down, Meg thought back to Sarah saying Joe's name after the break-in, then to the more recent incident in the locker room, where the missing photograph had suddenly turned up. Randy watched her mind page through each option, each one closer to the conclusion he'd reached, so he pressed on.
"...And when I told him I knew he had something to do with it...he didn't disagree. No 'Go fuck yourself, Orton,' nothing. He looked...not guilty, just sad. Resigned? Like he knew he had to take a beating over something about this whole situation. You, me, him, that cunt he's married to, all of it."
"I still have the photo. I put the rest of that shit through the paper shredder, but I kept the photo. It's on the kitchen counter. Sarah would probably be afraid of it, and I don't know what to do with it, but throwing it out seems wrong, somehow."
"It's okay, Meggie. You handle it how you want to handle it."
Meg snorted. "So I should go punch it a few times?"
Randy threw her into a gentle, half-assed headlock, and mussed her hair thoroughly, pulling swaths of it down over her eyes. "You're a smartass, but I love you. And I missed you. I'd take that beating ten times over if it meant I could come home."
"Beating my ass. He got one lucky punch in. Maybe two. Ten bucks says you fucked him up six ways from Sunday. I know what you can do when you're...properly motivated." Rolling to her side and adjusting against him in his arms, Meg swiped her hair away from her face, leaning up to kiss his neck. "Plus, I haven't seen you in forever. Right now, let's say I'm feeling properly motivated, myself. Seeing as I can't do stairs, and you're probably dead tired, high as hell, and rocking a low-grade concussion, why don't we move this party to the bedroom down the hall?"
Smiling, nearly purring, and rolling her up into his arms, Randy stood somewhat unsteadily, but managed to lift her into the air without too much tottering. "Thought you'd never ask, Meg."
She reached low enough to lift the bottle of tequila from the coffee table, then gently kissed the one of his two cheekbones that wasn't sporting a bruise. "Deal is, though, you have to lay back and enjoy yourself."
Walking down the hall, Randy started to grouse. "Oh, c'mon Meg. It was a couple punches, like you said. It's not like I'm -"
"Shut up, or I'm calling Dave and telling him there's an emergency in the first-floor bedroom."
Visions of Dave charging into the door frame flashed through Randy's mind, and he rolled his eyes. "You win." Nudging the door shut behind him, he laid Meg on the bed, hovered over her for a second, then rolled over to his back. "But only this round."
Slowly, Meg stripped off her shirt, and threw it at Randy, a teasing smile on her face. "Well. Just this round, huh? Challenge accepted." Slowly, she guided his hands to the knotted bow of her pajama pants, and waited.
Days blended into afternoons turned seamlessly into nights, and Meg and Randy didn't know or care where one ended and the other began, as far as marks on the calendar – or each other – were concerned. Rarely more than a few feet apart from each other, Randy had groceries delivered and was shocked when Meg answered the door with him when the driver arrived. Meg, for her part, cooked meal after meal, baked desserts, composed appetizer trays, and Randy thought seriously about calling corporate and telling them his time away came with such perspective, his concussion was so serious, and his waistline was expanding so rapidly from Meg's kitchen magic, that he felt he'd simply spare the company any more dramatics and start his retirement now.
Cautiously, noting the time Sarah had penciled in on Friday, he brought up the topic of Meg's orthopedic appointment later that afternoon, but she didn't balk. Instead, she went with him gladly, held his hand as they walked to the exam room, worked through her routines with an expression of abject misery on her face, and then told him he'd have to call Sarah to find out where her pills were hidden. He arched an eyebrow at her, but she simply shrugged.
"Sarah was scared. After all the bullshit I've pulled, do you blame her? I didn't have you here, Randy. You're the one thing that puts all the boxes back on the shelves in my head, and keeps them there. I could tell her I'd be fine, but it doesn't mean she would have believed me."
He reached for his phone, but Meg's hand was over his before he could get more than a few screens into his address book. "Really...Ran, I'd rather not take anything. We don't have that many days left together...I don't want to be asleep for it." Randy couldn't decide if pills or pain were the better option, so he opted to call Sarah and see what she thought, just as a second opinion. 'She's been with Meg longer than I have, for this round of PT. Maybe she'll know.' For her part, Meg rolled her eyes, pulled a face, and leveraged herself up into Randy's SUV, smiling as she watched him finish dialing.
On the short drive home, Sarah told Randy to leave the decision up to Meg. He took a few minutes to chat with Sarah on the porch, hoping she was enjoying her time back at her apartment, and trying to figure out a good time for a return call in order to figure out how to handle Meg when he left. Meg, taking advantage of her few minutes alone, crept into the kitchen and quietly cut and plated ridiculously large wedges of her homemade chocolate cake, in order to bait Randy up to their bedroom. She knocked on the window next to him while he stood on the porch, her shirt and pants having somehow gone missing while he was on the phone. Randy, taking immediate notice – not of the dessert on the plates, but the dessert on two legs – abruptly ended his call with Sarah and let himself in the house, watching Meg begin to paint her stomach with swirls of butter creme frosting as she backed up the stairs toward their bedroom, trying desperately to conceal her limp and balance her plates. Randy's face, a perfect balance of predatory and pleased, watched her move, hips undulating, frosting slick, his mind having no idea where to start and forgetting entirely how to coordinate himself for walking after her.
"You are coming with me, right? Dessert for two, Ran..." Meg shot him a devilish wink, and it was all the invitation he needed.
Once inside their bedroom, door closed and bolt thrown, Meg teasingly mentioned she'd forgotten forks and said she'd have to go back downstairs.
"Meg...please...you have no idea...get on the bed."
"Oh, there's forks on the bed?" The lilt in her voice continued, and she dragged a finger across her stomach, licking the frosting suggestively. Randy felt several things in himself jump and tangle, not the least of which was an inexplicable need to tangle into her, deeply, possessively, to not just tell her but make her know that now, everything was fine and would continue to be right.
He crossed the distance between them faster than he understood, carrying her over backwards onto the bed, plates almost a lost cause, licking a trail up her midsection, pausing only long enough to start to undress. By the time he'd determined a logical order for his arms to come out of his shirt, a route for his legs to follow out of his pants, and managed to sit back on his heels at the foot of the bed wearing as little as she was, Meg held a piece of the cake between her fingers, offering it to him.
"Forks are overrated. So are clean sheets. C'mere."
Hours later, sticky, surrounded by crumbs, licking fingers, shoulders, the insides of wrists and elbows, the napes of necks, breathing heavy, tangled together, Randy marveled that yet another thing had been added to his list of 'Things That Didn't Make Sense' as far as sex was concerned.
He'd hated that Hozier song, raged against it every time he'd heard it before and after Meg had kicked him out of her apartment once the medical reports initially came back from Louisiana, but the night she sang it to him, bathed in red wine, it became different. It became their church. Small arena showers became their sanctuaries – large, luxe hotel showers were nice, of course, but the small, worn, dingy stalls were where they found each other again and again, where they washed away whatever the day had given them that simply didn't belong. S'mores and tiramisu, in hotel suites and always in view of a beach. The Hagia Sophia, New Orleans – places he'd never been; even New Orleans was on the list of never-beens, because he hadn't gone with her – but they held meaning for them both. Eye contact when he hadn't known he wanted it or needed it, the hot-cold, static-laden, explosive feeling he'd fight down until she begged him to let go, feeling the depth of a thousand things and the weight of nothing at all.
Now, chocolate cake made the list. Frosting where frosting shouldn't – or should? – be, feeding each other bits of cake as they moved, both of them knowing it was a sort of pre-Orleans promise, as close to a wedding cake as they'd ever get, a celebration of a homecoming and coming home, and a wonderful excuse to shower together. He knew there would be massage afterward with Meg's rose oil, both of them ignoring the formality of pajamas, a room of open curtains and moonlight, quilts wrapped tightly around each other, and Meg curled so completely into his side that he'd be unable to do anything other than reflexively bow himself around her.
'Don't make me go back. Please, please – whatever is listening – don't make me go back without her.' His grip around her tightened; he hadn't meant for her to hear him, and she burrowed back against him, whispering to him and to nothing in particular.
"Always. Going to gold churches forever, remember? Always, always." Sighing, smiling, they both allowed themselves the pleasure of a sugary, chocolate-scented nap before deciding a shower was called for.
Saturday dawned, and somewhere in the back of Randy's mind, he realized he only had – counting that day – Sunday and part of Monday. 'And Monday kinda doesn't count; I have to pack. And we have to drive. Er, well, I have to drive. I'm not going to make her do that. Well – maybe we can get a company car, and then she can be chauffeured back? I'm not leaving her without saying goodbye. Not again. That whole bullshit thing across the country...just...no.
Meg could tell something was on his mind, and was determined to suss it out. Just not over pancakes in the breakfast nook, or panninis at the patio table on the pool deck, and it was while she was pushing her crust from one side of her plate to the other that she realized she'd lost half a day to ruminating over which part of the day was the best to ask him what was on his mind.
"Wait here for a sec, Meg? I have something I want to show you. It's probably dumb; you know more about this shit than I do, but...I wanted to try." Meg half jumped from her chair, startled from her thoughts, but managed a nod, and sipped at her iced tea while she waited, listening to Randy disappear upstairs. She knew the sound of every floorboard and door in the house and could trace his steps – first, up the stairs to the second floor, then past their room, then into the office, and a few drawers banged open and closed. Reversing the process, Randy re-emerged at their table on the pool deck with a large folder in hand.
"What's all that?" Meg gestured at the envelope, then panic started to cross her face and she backpedaled in her chair as much as the concrete would allow her. "Randy...no...I don't want to read anything else about it. Please, Randy...the one set of reports was-"
"What? Meg, no. It's not – Jesus Christ, no. It's not that. Sit down. Calm down and sit down. C'mere." He grabbed her by the arm, trying to be gentle, trying not to drop the folder, but Meg was already out of her chair and continuing to back away. He towed her around the table and over to the edge of the pool, pulling her down next to him, nearly sending them both into the water.
"It's not accident reports or hospital shit. Calm down, Meg. I wouldn't do that to you." He snugged an arm around her, feeling more than seeing her wince in response to his words. "I know you lived there, and you've been everywhere I went – more places than I went. It was just...the last thing we talked about was vacation together. That bullshit from the locker room shouldn't be a reason not to go. I promised it to you, and I want to go home with you." Carefully, Randy nudged the folder at her, waiting for her to take it from his hands and praying she wouldn't drop – or throw – it into the pool.
"This is...for Louisiana? You still want to...go?" Meg sounded incredulous.
'She didn't open the folder yet. Not good.' "Well. Yeah? Don't you?"
Meg sighed, tracing the edges of the folder slowly with her fingertips before she opened it, a dry and hissing chuckle slipping from her when she saw the piles of printouts and brochures inside – the first of which was for her church. "Before all this, I knew I did. I knew I wanted you to walk the aisle with me at Saint Anthony's and sit with me in my pew – the Father would tease that I had to be third from the front, on the left, every time – and really talk to him. Get to know him. We can't be anything real in the Church, but I was ready to let that go. He was only half the equation, anyway."
It registered with Randy that Meg wasn't really talking as much as she was on a rambling mental walk, but he settled in to go with her, cuffing first his pants, and then hers, up with one hand and nudging their shins into the pool water. 'She'll get there. Whatever she's telling me.' Gently, he pulled the church printout from the folder and waited for Meg's reaction to the next website printout.
Her smile was broad. "You kept your PA busy, huh? When'd you have time to hide all this? When I was in the shower?"
"Yeah, the whole thirty seconds I wasn't in the shower with you." Randy winked, and leaned down over her. "This is the right cafe...right? I still can't remember the name."
"Doesn't have one, Ran. You either kinda know where Mama Ruby is, or you don't. And you don't call it Mama Ruby's. She's...not really about the coffee and croissants, anyway."
Randy puzzled over that comment, watching Meg's face go from contemplative over the hidden paperwork to amused that he didn't quite follow her train of thought. "What am I missing, Meggie?"
"Remy really didn't tell you?"
"Uh...I guess not? There was a cat, but I told him the cafe had a cat. Remy said the owner was...something. Intuitive. That's the word."
"Oh Lord. Ran...yeah. That's one way of putting it. And I promise you, Remy already knew who she was and that she had a cat. You didn't go inside, or go upstairs?"
"Nope. No time. We didn't even really talk to her before we left, but she remembered you, wanted you to come back, and...kinda made fun of me." Randy grumbled the last part, kick-splashing water at Meg in mock-irritation. "Said Remy needed to keep an eye on me, something about me being a baby."
"No offense, Ran, but where New Orleans is concerned, you are most assuredly a baby." The lilt was back in Meg's voice, and her fingers trailed over the paper as though she could feel the city reaching back through it. "You met Mama Ruby, and by your account, it sounds like she liked you. Trust me, that's a good sign. And she's the part I mean about making it real. The father's one thing, but she's the...real...thing. The important thing, as far as what we can be is concerned." She nudged him with an elbow, and smiled into his arm, kissing him. "When – I mean, if you still want to – when do you want to go?"
"You still – I mean, the shit with the reports and the locker – no, forget I said anything. We have a few more days. Why don't we look at rooms and travel times tonight? There's your bookstore, with the room upstairs, and maybe something in the Quarter, unless you wanted something quieter...there's stuff in here on restaurants, and art galleries, and I had my PA pull a bunch of music venues, but I don't know what's good. You always surprised me with tickets to late shows and dives and I thought..." Randy shrugged, sheepish, knowing his enthusiasm was boiling over as much as Meg's was locked in a pressure cooker. "It won't be right after Mania, you know how they slam five or six major shows back to back after that. I can get a couple weeks in May, though. Is that a good time? Not too hot, not too – I mean, Meg, I don't know what I'm doing. We can go sooner, I can do whatever you need. Just tell me."
A decidedly heavy sigh escaped Meg's lips, absolutely startling to Randy in its somberness given that a minute ago she'd recommitted to their vacation. "You really don't know what I need, after you drop this in my lap?"
Every fiber in Randy tensed, and Meg knew she'd pushed him far enough into fear that the rest would be easy.
"N-no, Meg. I guess not. What do you need?"
'To give one more push, Ran.' Shoving as hard as she could, taking him into the pool with her and making sure to throw the paperwork safely across the pool deck – even though she knew every gallery and shop by heart. He was so awkwardly off-balance, bracing for whatever he'd failed at to come at him full-force. Instead, he got Meg full-force, tackling him into the shallow end, ignoring the twinge in her leg, clawing at his shirt, her pants, lunch long since forgotten, each one trying to angle the other into a better position in front of a pool jet. Neither could think of a better way to end an afternoon, and by the time they realized their clothing had either sunk to the bottom of the pool or been thrown too far back on to the deck than could be retrieved in daylight, neither much cared – but both were ready for each other again – or at least until nightfall could guarantee them a somewhat safe sprint to the house.
Sated, spent, both of them quiet for the moment, Randy spent more time watching Meg than he did sleeping. She was shockingly peaceful, as though it either hadn't occurred to her that he was about to leave, or she'd refused to acknowledge it yet. She had been exhausted; their hours-long romp in the pool had drained her, and she nearly collapsed inside the door once they'd made it from the pool to the sunroom, allowing him to catch her and carry her with him directly to a shower and from there to the couch where they'd shared tequila, take-out, movie after movie – anything to delay the inevitable. When neither of them could keep their eyes open, Randy had reluctantly shut off the television and held Meg far closer than was necessary as he again carried her – this time, up the stairs to their bedroom. She was too tired for what her eyes asked for, even more than too tired for what she promised she wanted, but he couldn't refuse her and knew he'd regret the moment if he let it pass. There wouldn't be time or emotional reserves in the morning.
Neither one of them had kept count of the number of times they'd fallen into bed together since he walked through the door. Bed...tables, chairs, floor, pool, shower, anywhere the mood struck them – there was so much time to make up for, so many times they hadn't touched but needed to – he knew this one last moment had to be enough for them both until the company came around to their point of view.
His point of view, in their moment together, was looking directly into her eyes, holding her over his lap, his arms twined around her back, hands curling over her shoulders, around her neck, bringing her forehead against his, her lips hot against his, feeling her elbows push down onto his shoulders, desperate for leverage, her hands banging wildly against the headboard, fingernails digging against the woodwork, then the walls, then down his back, constantly searching, though neither of them knew for what, until they somehow knew to hold each other still, Randy's eyes searching hers for the answers he already knew – yes, always, forever – silent, unspoken, but present on every hitched breath, every shiver, the trace of every shadow over skin.
Monday dawned somber, the gorgeously warm weather a sick foil to the way they both felt. Randy packed quickly, before Meg woke, and Meg spent much of the morning in the kitchen, working breakfast into something ridiculously above and beyond what either of them felt like eating, given how moody they were. He didn't want to leave; she didn't want him to go. His back was fine, his bruises gone or muted to the point that a bit of strategic makeup would take care of it, but his heart was bleeding. More than a few times that morning, Randy picked up his phone, pressed three or four numbers, and then dropped it down before completing the call. Each time, Meg had looked hopeful, then let her shoulders drop. She knew he was toying with the idea of calling corporate and saying enough was enough, but he hadn't planned far enough into the idea to go through with it, hadn't called any lawyers or read through his contract, and was caught in a mental quagmire over it.
"Can I take at least one thing off your mind?" Meg slid her hand over his, still holding his phone, trying to still him. 'Reminds me too much of before he left at Blaine, and that...wasn't good.' "I want to...simplify shit for us today, a little. And show you that this helped. That it was worth it."
"What do you mean?"
"Throw your shit in the car. I'll drive you." Meg's smile was warm. "Besides, it frees up our morning. I was thinking maybe...we could go for a walk? Or take a drive? Just...anything. Anything that isn't sitting here thinking it's the end. And Ran, I need you to really know this...it's not the end. Of anything." Meg reached for the ever-present band of tape on his finger. "It's a vacation from our vacation, but like you said. Promises."
Randy cradled her face between his hands, his expression somewhere between warm and awestruck. "Meg, are you sure? Sarah said you weren't really...okay...with going out. Don't feel like you've gotta drag my ass around just because it's the last day I'm here."
"Nah, Ran. It's because I feel that much better, because you were here. You made this feel like home again."
The smile on Randy's face couldn't have been broader, though the pain in his heart changed into a hundred different things. 'I can't go. I have to go and I can't go. She needs to come with me, or I need to stay. What would they do if I just brought you with me, and didn't say anything to them?'
Hundreds of miles away, Joe's wife sat at an outdoor table at a cafe, checking and re-checking her lipstick, not that it mattered for who she was meeting. He was running late, she was losing patience, and all she had to do was have a five-minute conversation. 'And isn't it like that with all men?'
Finally, wandering up, he seated himself and looked nervously at a menu before she pushed it from his hands.
"You're not staying long enough to order anything with me, and I'm not staying here, so save it."
"Jesus. Fine. What do you want, exactly?"
"Go up there, get used to whatever she's doing, and get that fucking photograph back. There's a check under your placemat."
"And that's...it?"
"Do you need it fucking written out for you? Jesus! Didn't you handle this shit before?"
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever, lady. Why don't you go shoe shopping, or whatever. Plane ticket, too?"
"Yes, dumbass, plane ticket, too."
"You're the reason men hit women, you know that?"
"And you need to not fuck this up. Be a good boy, fix my little problem, and I'll triple your payout at the end. And you can do whatever you want with her. As a matter of fact, please, do something to her. Anything. Help her get the message."
It was enough to get him to shut his mouth, but not quite enough to prevent him from watching her ass as she walked away. 'Why couldn't I just deal with him on the phone? I never had to meet him. Now I've gotta meet his crazy fucking wife, or whoever this is? Fuck me running. Whatever. I just gotta get the photo. And maybe have a little fun in the process. At least neither one wanted to know my name.'
The drive to the airport was short, and the flights were all running on time – a first, as far as Meg and Randy could remember – but they weren't willing to give in to a sour mood. Meg was too proud of herself for making the drive successfully, Randy was bouncing between too amazed she'd actually gone through with her idea and too nervous about the idea of her driving back alone, and they were both, strangely, ready for him to go. Their idea was, the sooner he went, the sooner he was through the shows and back home...or at least on Skype with her, both of them enjoying each others' company as best they could. Secretly, he'd made mental notes to call his lawyers and have them pore over his contract to find him any sort of loophole that might guarantee more vacation time, more outs for injuries, anything that'd give him more time away with Meg if they wouldn't give Meg back to him – or, failing all else, a complete out that would let him walk away entirely, regardless of what it would cost. 'She won't care about the cost. It's not like that, for her. As long as she really believes I'm happy, and that we're going to be happy, she'll be okay with the decision. She would probably be happier if I let her in on it, but she always said there's nothing that will break us.'
They kissed goodbye, and then they kissed as though they might never see each other ever again. Meg held him a fraction longer than she meant, and she saw the look that crossed his face in response to her hesitation – she hadn't meant to cause him doubt, only to reassure herself that he was there, and still would be whether it was a week or a month later when she saw him again.
"Ran, no. No. Don't do that. Go get on the plane. It's fine. Everything's going to be fine. I'm gonna see you later tonight on the laptop, and you're gonna go do the tours-and-shows thing, and I'll be right here for you. I promise. When they're ready to let me back, I'll be right there. With you. New Orleans. Wherever you want. Anything you want. Okay?" Meg tried to force the uncertainty from her voice, and prayed it worked.
"Okay, Meg. Going to gold churches forever. Like you said." He was no more certain than she was, but he was willing to trust her. "Drive safe, Meggie. Love you."
"Love you too, Ran. I'll be home for you. Like always. Safe." She kissed him one last time, and turned to go.