Sorry about the long, long delay on this one. I've got clinicals going on, so it took me more time than I anticipated to get this out.
Much thanks to everyone who helped me put it together, to everyone who reviewed, and to everyone who's continued to read. I can't tell you all how much I love you :)
Sarah's car was already in the driveway when Meg pulled up, Sarah's rear hanging out of the trunk as she shuffled grocery bags from arm to arm. 'She has no idea what-all is in the fridge already. There is absolutely zero room for more...oh well. Thought that counts.' "Hey, Sar!" Meg called out the driver's side window before parking and sliding out of the driver's seat, testing out her leg before committing to the movement. "Restocking the whiskey, or laying the foundation for a night of ice cream and action movies?"
"Holy shit, you fuckin' drove? Like, you drove yourself?" Her grip on the bags started to falter, and Meg had to rush to lower them to the ground, fearful that anything glass would be a lost cause if Sarah let go.
"Well...it's not like my license got revoked. Just temporarily mentally suspended." Winking, Meg tapped at her temple. "I think I'm all good on that front, though."
"Jesus Goddamn, Meg. I mean...really. Like...you're okay?" Sarah still sounded incredulous, and the grocery bags still continued to slide down her wrists toward the driveway.
"Sar, I'm fine. Having Randy here was good. The way he did it was...not good. But we needed to see each other. We needed to talk. And he needed to get a lot off his mind about Joe. I'm honestly starting to believe him, where that dickwipe is concerned." She eyed the grocery bags, condensation starting to appear on the plastic. "C'mon. Ice cream is melting, and I know you bought butter pecan."
"The fuck you figured that out?"
Meg laughed, warm and easy, kicking Sarah's car door shut as she swung past it, limping badly but not letting the pain take the smile from her face. "Easy. Because you can pour your Jack over it and call it a half-assed ice cream float. Now get in the house. We gotta talk about Joe."
Strangely, neither woman mentioned Joe once they entered the house, the atmosphere too light and pleasant for anything that heavy. Meg set about cutting into Sarah's grocery stock, making a wildly over-portioned dinner and setting up several things for future breakfasts and lunches, all while working on being drunk out of her mind and dancing around the kitchen to a radio station that was half-line-dance, half-static. Sarah was bouncing between channels, trying to decide what to DVR and what to ask Meg about actually settling in to watch. Part of her difficulty lay in her drinking directly from the bottle of Jack, spoon standing up like a flagpole in her half-gallon of butter pecan. 'Pretty soon, in goes the Jack! Meg knows me too well. My girl's doin' pretty good, all things considered. Man-ass worked some magic. And I'm not bringin' up Joe til she does. Randy already told me what's up on that front, anyway. Dumbfuck needs to stop puttin' his hands on people, though, he's gonna lose his job if he beats anyone else's ass.'
The multi-tonal ping of Skype sounded from across the room, with Meg doing her best to boot-scoot over to the laptop in order to say hello to Randy. Sarah waved her down the hall and into the first-floor bedroom, kicking her legs up onto the couch and deciding this would be a wonderful time for a call to Jon, since she surely didn't want to see the show involving Meg and Randy.
"You made it! Was the flight okay? Hotel okay? You get a good view from the suite, or did you get a smaller room? Sarah would've cracked you up when I got back here; she had about ten tons of groceries in her car and all I could think was how the hell we were gonna get all that in the fridge. I really do have to do that remodel like you want. Goddamn, I love you." Meg latched the door and dove toward Randy's pillow, alligator-rolling across the bed, coming to rest half out of view of the camera and drawing a resonant laugh from Randy before dragging herself back into frame.
"Yeah, Sarah pushed you into a bottle head-first. It's good to see you smile, Meggie. Flight sucked, hotel is lonesome without you, and you'd love the view. Here, look." From his lounge seat on the balcony, Randy slowly spun his laptop around, showing Meg the night skyline, listening to her gasp and wishing he could see the wonderment on her face. "You like it?"
"It's beautiful, Ran. Wish I was there with you. Maybe soon, Liability can't keep me out forever. I have a contract, and it's not like they found anything criminal, or there've been any more problems backstage or at home. It's not like Sarah's a security team." 'I'm not gonna tell you why there haven't been any more incidents, but fuck it. They just need to let me come back. I can handle it now. I know I can. If it's got something to do with Joe, like you say it does, I can handle it. He goes into a box in my head, right next to Jackson, and I'll learn not to let them out anymore.'
"I know, Meggie. I know. I'll work on it while I'm here. Nobody wants you back more than me." Randy paused, then chuckled, slowly sipping at his tequila. "Well, no. Maybe one person."
"Oh? Who's that? Captain UFO-Briefs? You guys still trying to share dressing-room tips?"
Randy sputtered, coughing into his drink. "No, smartass. We agreed, no aluminum foil, remember? I mean Dave. He said he was going to try to get a hold of you on Skype, if he could figure it out. I'll try to walk him through it, but...it's Dave. I don't get why he can't just use his phone, but I think he wants to see you. You know, see that you're actually okay."
"Ha. Yeah, I know." Meg stretched, rolling her ankle. "Y'know, I didn't have to stop once the whole way back. Made the whole drive home in one trip."
"Impressive." Meg watched him take another slow sip of tequila, his tongue barely touching the rim of the glass before it met his lips. "Were you thinking you earned a merit badge, intern?" 'Soon enough. Like you said – you won't be out forever. And maybe, if you work it right, you'll get some help from Dave.'
"Sir, I think I earned two. How about you impress me?" Meg winked, and settled back against the pillows at the top of the bed, waiting to see what Randy's next move would be, given the relative privacy of the balcony. True to form, he did not disappoint – though she wished desperately that she was with him to trace her fingers along the backs of his thighs as he moved.
"Yeah?"
"Well fuck you too. Am I interrupting something?" Sarah's tone was wry; unless Jon called her first she could never tell if it was a good time to talk or not, and he'd clearly answered without looking.
"Sarah? Hey! No, here, wait, it's fine. Hang on." She could hear the distinct sound of a barstool being pushed back, but no sign of Renee or Nell, vocal or otherwise.
"Boy's night out, minus any other boys?" Sarah couldn't resist teasing him; it was moments like this that she wished she was putting her office skills to better use by PA'ing for someone within the company – or at least keeping her friends company while they toured. She found herself getting lonely while they were all gone, and that was virtually always their status.
"Pretty much. Renee and Nell are upstairs, Colby is doing whatever Crossfit bullshit you can do in the middle of the night, and Randy's up in his room – so I don't even want to know."
Sarah had to laugh outright and raise her bottle in a salute to the end of the hallway as she listened to Jon. Cars passed occasionally, sometimes a bus or loud truck, and Sarah could tell Jon had holed up in some side-alley around the hotel to talk to her, trying to keep a low profile while not losing reception. The occasional cough or sputter told her the bartender had been kind enough to let him take a bottle of something with him – probably the same whiskey she was enjoying. Renee was a topic, as was work in general, but their conversation was largely about Meg and Randy – and his general stupidity in how he got himself home to her.
"Jon, tell me honest. You had no idea he was about to pull that shit?"
"Fuck no I didn't. I never woulda let him. I reamed him out right before he went on with Joe that night, and he was tryin' to tell me I had to trust him, that everything was safe, and – well, here was the weird shit – and that because I love Renee, I would understand him. I still don't understand what he did. He coulda lost everything. If anyone who works in an office was paying five seconds' worth of attention, they'd see why he did it, and Meg would be out of a job. Randy, too."
"No shit, Sherlock. Has he talked to you about it since he got back?"
"To say he was sorry he didn't tell me sooner. That he wanted to tell me about it the night I cracked him in the head with my highball, but –"
Pulling the phone away from her head and glaring at it, Sarah momentarily debated calling Jon out on his hypocrisy, but decided to let it slide.
"Okay, so you and him are cool. More or less. Did you talk to your lady about it?"
"Nope. He actually asked me not to, something about he would ask Meg to call her and Nell, and let her explain it. I guess he figures they'll ask him if they have questions, but it's more of a chick thing."
"So if it's a chick thing," Sarah laughed, "What does it say that you're talking to me?"
"Fuck if I know, Sarah," Jon laughed, coughing into his bottle, "But I know you get it. Meg's a fuckup after our own hearts. We can let her go so far-"
"-And then we knock the shit out of her when we need to. Lord knows Randy won't do it."
It was Jon's turn to pull his phone away from his head, only he gave it a quizzical look rather than a glare. It wasn't unusual for Sarah to be blunt; it wasn't even unusual for Sarah to verge on painfully honest. But for Sarah to voice her opinion in Randy's house and potentially within earshot of Meg meant the dynamics in the house and in Meg's head had shifted dramatically.
"Huh. No, I guess he won't. Not if he's gonna do stupid shit like this to get home to see her. But...he did tell me he wouldn't pull this shit again. I pointed out that if he did, it might shitcan her potential to come back, because they'd get pissed at him and lay it on her."
"Smart thinking. Maybe they'll both behave, now. No more pills and booze from her, no more one-man-wrecking-crew from him."
"You see any flying pigs?" Jon took a long pull from his bottle. "Listen, dollface. I gotta go catch up to my lady before she starts thinking I'm out committing a felony."
"Nah, go ahead. I gotta get Meg through a shower and in bed, anyway. Later."
Having the sense to finally move from the balcony to the bed, Randy toted the laptop with him indoors, exhausted from his flight and missing Meg terribly. Meg practically had to reach through the screen to pry his fingers from the keyboard, but succeeded in getting him to at least try for sleep, knowing he'd be having a long day with Talent Relations and then a longer day in the ring.
She didn't expect her next call to go nearly so well, and decided to head to the kitchen for a refill before fussing with Skype for a second time that night. Dave could be unpredictable – always fatherly, though his love and concern for her could swing from a cottony warmth to an icy sandpaper at a moment's notice. 'And since I got the baby-her-love-her routine after my bullshit when Randy took off to New Orleans, odds are good I'm gonna catch hell for this. Even though I didn't know it was coming. Somehow, Dave expects me to have control over Randy. Ha.'
Sarah raised an eyebrow when Meg puttered through the kitchen but said nothing, figuring the somewhat stony look on Meg's face was related to a discussion of Randy's impromptu flight plan to get home. Settling deeper into the sofa, she watched her friend disappear back down the hallway, not having the slightest idea what was coming next, but hoping it would be the solution to the lack of transparency that seemed to be plaguing them all. 'Guess the shower's gonna wait. And she better fucking not be calling Joe.'
Back in the bedroom, Dave's Skype number in hand, Meg dialed and waited, figuring it'd take a minute or two for Dave to figure out not just the icon he needed to click, but the button he needed to click after that to actually pick up the call, and then to turn on the video portion of the call. It was shocking when he popped on the line after the second ring, arms crossed and a dour look on his face. Meg cringed; she recognized his expression as one that indicated a lecture was about to come and wouldn't be one full of patience or kindness.
"You're gonna level with me, right now. Was it real?"
Meg promptly spilled the entirety of her drink in her lap and stared into the screen, oblivious to her wet pajama pants and the ice cubes sitting on her knees. Her eyes froze on Dave, who looked back at her unflinching. She couldn't breathe, couldn't get words out, and most certainly couldn't come up with a way around his question.
"I didn't stutter, Meg. I won't say anything to Randy, or anyone else, but I need to know. Was it real, and someone was really there? Or did you find that packet of bullshit and that picture, and it set you off? Or did you just do the whole thing, paper to punches, start to finish?"
Dave, from the moment he'd patched Meg back together at the arena, had his doubts about what had happened in the locker room. For someone to make it that far into the arena, have a copy of Meg's accident reports as well as a personal photo, happen to put them in Randy's locker room, and then hang around long enough to attack her – but not have her utter a single scream that would have alerted anyone something had gone wrong – didn't make sense to him. Had she called Randy's name? Possibly – but that wouldn't necessarily be any cause for alarm. Not the way those two got along.
It shouldn't have made sense to security either, but the arena didn't want the bad publicity and Corporate didn't want hordes of terrified performers looking over their shoulders backstage. Everything had been downplayed; Meg had a run-in with someone she knew from her past, simple as that. Randy and Joe had later settled some differences, simple as that. Nobody seemed inclined to argue the points and differences. Randy paid the fines and closed his mouth, and Joe was shockingly disinclined to pursue anything against Randy despite it being the second time they'd come to blows.
Not to mention, nothing about how Meg was attacked made sense. The blow to the back of her head, sure. Someone could have thrown her to the ground; there was certainly enough blood on the floor to account for that. It was what came after that stopped being logical. The fingernail marks on her scalp were small yet deep, as though they'd been held for long periods of time, or came from small hands, and fingernails made no sense – why wouldn't an attacker simply swing her around by her hair rather than dig into her? He had the same questions about reopening the skin around her scars. A quick swipe or two to silence her or to make a point all were plausible in the heat of an attack – but what would an attacker's logic be in continuing to take the time to rip apart the same tracts of skin, over and over? It was too torturous, too personal, and too slow, given where they were in the arena. The parts of Meg's body that had been held had small hand prints. Her own hands? Dave didn't know, but had a guess. The same went for her leg. Taking off only her right boot made things too personal again, along with the damage to her scar and bones. Her jewelry wasn't taken, the assault wasn't sexual despite Meg and Randy's constant locker room indiscretions and the potential for it to be turned around on her, and it all reeked of Jackson. Only the broken fingernails were an outlier, but given how hard someone had been punching and kicking a locker, she also could have broken them there.
Nothing added up correctly for Dave. No matter how he rattled his mental abacus, the beads never totaled.
"I'm waiting, Meg. I'll wait as long as I need to. And if you hang up, I'm coming out there. Randy already said I can visit whenever I want, so cut the bullshit."
Slowly, the spiderwebs that wrapped themselves around Meg's brain started to waft away, and she held up her hand in a gesture to be silent and wait, turning the laptop as she slid from the bed and toward the door, ice cubes dropping from her lap, hoping Dave would watch and understand she was only trying to close the door instead of run from him. Walking awkwardly back toward the bed and drumming her fingers on the edge of it, Dave could see her breathing grow shaky.
"Now, Meg. I'm not that far from the airport."
Her entire body flinched. 'Just tell him, Meg. He said he won't tell Randy. You have to trust him. You don't have any choice but to trust him. If you piss him off and he has to come down here, he might not be so understanding. Just talk. And you kinda already did tell Randy. Start with that.'
"All in my head, Dave. Someone else, real, put the reports and the photo there, but...the rest was me. In my head. I don't know why Randy picked Joe, but he did."
While it was the answer Dave expected, he didn't expect it to fall so quickly and easily from her lips, and he'd planned no immediate response. Back in Tampa, so long ago Dave could barely remember when it had all started, he'd told Randy that Jackson would always be with Meg to some degree, but he'd underestimated the depth to which Jackson had rooted into Meg's brain and become indistinguishable from the rest of her. Unable to muster even the breath for a sigh, Dave tilted his head to the side and gently yet disapprovingly shook it.
"You understand that, had things gone worse, he could have lost his contract and job. He could be facing charges for assault. Not to mention what the company would do to you – you came back under a contract based on false pretenses. You said you were healthy, Meg. Clearly, you're not. For fuck's sake, neither one of you even knows it was Joe. He wasn't anywhere near the locker room when we found you."
Meg set her lips firmly, exasperated, and sat back on the bed, spinning the laptop again. "I slipped, Dave. You were the one who told me not to press the issue with the files and papers, and I never did. When I looked at those papers, I didn't know what they were. Once I figured it out, it was too late and I was in it. Randy never told me what he was planning – he never told me he thought Joe had a hand in putting that shit in the locker room. I'm still not sure I understand how Joe would have put them in there or even gotten hold of what he did, to be honest. But it's over now. I'm better. I can handle it now."
"Bullshit, Meg. You can't handle it. What are you gonna do if hospital reports show up next? Slit your wrists and then watch Randy murder Joe on live TV instead of just beat his ass on archival film? There is no proof Joe had shit to do with anything. Randy had a guess and acted on it. He lost it. Because you lied."
"Dave, I never meant fo-"
"Shut up, Meg. Really. Enough, now." Dave was flat, at least not angry, but oddly neutral for what had come from his mouth. "You're gonna tell him the truth."
Meg froze again, trying to keep her stomach from rolling upward. "Dave, no. He...when he was here, everything went back to normal. He's fine, now. I'm fine. It's back the way it should be, he won't do it again. I know he won't. It's done. After the night with the overdose, when I fucked up, I told him that was the last time."
"It's done til the next time he thinks Joe looks at you wrong, or his wife is too close, and then it's all going to start over! Meg, how do you not fucking see this?" Meg winced and prayed Dave would quiet down; whether or not Randy could hear him was irrelevant – she didn't want anyone else hearing him. "He's acting like Jackson. Do you see what he's turning into? A violent, angry, spiteful asshole! Is this what you want?"
It was there that Meg broke; her legs were still sticky from the tequila she'd spilled earlier, but she clutched them to her chest regardless. "No," she whispered, "No, I don't want him like Jackson." Swallowing hard, she continued, tapping at her head. "Every time Jackson comes back, he's more rotten. He's falling apart, Dave, and there's less and less of him. When I saw him...he was there, in the locker room...I could feel him, but...he's a rotting body. Randy is real. The better things get for us, the more Jackson falls apart. That was the last time." Meg repeated herself, as though she could make Dave believe her if she just said it enough, found enough ways to phrase it, Dave would suddenly see her point of view.
"That's just lovely, Meg. Solidly rooted in reality." Dave stared into the camera, welding Meg in place with a look that flatly said, 'You do know how stupid you sound, don't you?' "I mean, don't forget to flutter your eyes all pretty and say thank you, the next time he comes home beat to shit because of you. You need to tell Randy the truth. You really don't understand what Randy risked for you, and all over something you won't talk about, won't medicate, won't...just won't handle, Meg, and it's gonna get you killed or end up breaking him. You do understand Jackson isn't real and there's nothing there to fall apart, right? You can't guarantee a 'last time.'"
"Then...what's the plan, Dave?" Meg's eyes were dead; the glow from the computer screen making her look sickly and waxy.
'Fuck. She got me. Think...what can I get her to do?' "Help. You need to tell him the truth, and you need something that helps you."
"He helps me. I think that's why he wants to go back to New Orleans. It's gonna be the thing that gets rid of Jackson. The last place he was, but it won't be for him anymore. It's gonna be for us. Me, Randy, us."
"That's not a plan, Meg. That's not help." Dave sounded far beyond exasperation, though unaware Meg wasn't far behind him. "That's somewhere between a romance novel and Twilight. Can we come back to the real world now? Where people schedule appointments and look up doctors and do things that work?"
"What, then? You want me on pills? In therapy? Doped up just like I was in the hospital? Maybe I can find a wonderfully happy and totally understanding shrink to lay my life's woes and ills on. There's no chance that'll make Randy worry that shit's stirred up, or that he's – how did you put it – the one who wasn't enough?"
"Before I let you anywhere near Mania, yes. That's exactly what I want – some of it, anyway."
"I'm not getting anywhere near Mania, anyway, so fuck you for even saying that. That's unfair." Meg dropped one leg from her death-grip against her chest, now edging closer to hostile. "But, you know, more pills in the house is absolutely a good idea. Sarah's probably got tons of hiding places. And she needs more to worry about, because babysitting me isn't already a huge pain in the ass."
"Stop being petty, Meg. You know you need help. You need to come clean with him, and you need to get help. And then I'm going to hold up my end of the deal."
"The deal? Did I miss something? All I heard were threats and demands. And for the record, I have talked to Randy about it."
It was Dave's turn to flinch and freeze. "Uh, you did? When did this little revelation happen?"
"Remember how you got on his ass about waking me up in the hotel room, the night it happened? I never took the Lunesta. He didn't have to wake me up; I didn't want to sleep. He flat out asked me what I remembered, and I told him as much as I knew – as much as I could sort out that night."
"That's not telling him, Meg. That's not the whole truth. That's a version, that's part of it, but that's not what's really going on with you. He needs to know what he's gotten himself in to."
"Oh my God, Dave, I'm not a fucking science project!" Meg slapped the screen of the laptop back hard enough to angle the camera lens fully up at the ceiling, and then just as quickly re-angled it toward her face. "Gotten himself 'in to'? You're such an asshole. You think I asked for any of this? I want this in my head?"
"No, Meg, I don't think you want it, like it...whatever. But it's there, and you have to deal with it. Not explode every few months. You can't live like that."
"No shit, Dave. You think I don't fucking know that? I'm trying. I talked to Randy as much as I could. What do you want me to say to him? 'Hey, hon, just wanted to call to tell you that I beat my own head into the floor in the locker room, but don't stress on it. I thought about things, I've sorted shit out, I'm okay now.''
"Think about what I said, about the show. I'll call you in a couple days, that gives you time to think. But you know what answer you need to come up with. I love you, I'm tired of sweeping up the pieces. Yours and his."
He hung up abruptly, and Meg couldn't get another word in edgewise. In a rage, she threw her glass at the door, momentarily forgetting the sound would bring Sarah bolting from the couch. It took an hour for them both to work all the fragments and shards from the carpet, Meg not caring one iota that she ended up with more than a few slices in her fingertips and Sarah terrified that her friend had pocketed some of the glass in order to use it on herself later. Not knowing where to start, both women worked in silence to clean the mess before Meg finally stood and headed toward the shower, ignoring Sarah's protests to wait. When Sarah realized her words were falling on deaf ears and whatever magic Randy had worked was now falling apart in Meg's pit of dissociation, she grabbed her friend by the arm and spun her around, slamming her into the wall near the bathroom door. Meg couldn't keep her balance well enough to stop her.
"Meg? What happened? Was that Joe on the laptop?"
Meg, physically stunned into silence, took a moment to focus on Sarah and her question. "No. It was Dave. And he's angry with me. He should be."
"What the fuck did you do now, Meg?"
"All this shit, Sarah." She waved her hands around her face, then ribs, then gestured toward her leg and the bedroom. "Everything you see here? All me. I'm a fucking winner. In a goddamned petri dish." Without another word, Meg slipped into the bathroom and bolted the door before Sarah could process the implications of what had been said and what on earth Meg meant.
The shower was brief, and Sarah simply retreated to the couch in the den, uninterested in any sort of argument with Meg. She had a vague inkling as to what Meg meant by the statement, but if it was even remotely correct, she didn't know whether she'd be furious or heartbroken first, or who to direct her ire at. 'Shutting my fucking mouth is a good way to start. Start there. And drink.'
Meg slept surprisingly well that night, even with Dave's threats and comments looming over her.
In the morning, Sarah just looked at Meg and shook her head, not knowing where to start given the disaster the previous night had been. Meg shrugged, crunched her way through a piece of toast, and went out to buy a ridiculously expensive bottle of the Van Winkle that Joe loved so much, hoping Sarah would feel similarly lovey after that night's conversation. In the interim, she called Dave – much sooner than he expected – and told him she would talk to Randy, fully, about the locker room, and told him she'd even planned to talk to Sarah. She knew she was walking a delicate, uncertain line, but it had worked in the past. She had to trust that she could hold herself up on one more tightrope, one more time.
"She does the same shit every day. Well, check that. Today she stopped at some ritzy-ass liquor store. I didn't get close to that one, I was gonna stick out. That was new. But otherwise, same shit every day."
"Then why are you calling me? Do what I told you to do and get out! It's not like you don't know her routine!"
"Because she's not the problem. Her friend is the problem. That bitch is always around."
"Fine. Deal with her, too. I'll up the payout. Again. You're fucking high maintenance, you know that?"
"Says the bitch who never met a pair of Manolos she didn't want? Right. I'll figure something out."
She cut the line; he drew off his cigarette and thought as hard as his occasionally meth-addled brain would let him. 'I can do them both and get the photo. I can wait til the tall one leaves, do the problem one, and get the photo. I can wait til they both leave, go in, and get the photo. That's easiest. But I wanna have a little fun, too, and the crazy bitch with the money is paying me to make a point. Guess I better split the difference. Eventually, the tall one will leave, and I can get my problem-child alone.'
"Start your shit over, Meg. Randy kicked Joe's ass. Randy came home. Randy left home. You talked to Randy and he said talk to Dave. You talked to Dave and then-"
"And then Dave asked me if I kicked my own ass in that locker room, and I told him I did."
Meg had to duck so fast she nearly clipped her chin on the kitchen island. Sarah's empty bourbon glass came first, with its ensuing explosion against the wall showering Meg with pieces of crystal. A dinner plate came next, along with its contents, and then a glass of water. Meg peeked her head over the edge of the island, forgetting Sarah would have Meg's dinner in hand along with their collective silverware, and more drinks at the ready.
"I'm gonna kill you myself! Fuck the car, fuck Jackson, fuck the locker room, I'm gonna do it! You fucking did all th – and Randy coul – but when he came home you di – Meg, what the fuck?"
"Look, I know!" Meg had to shout to be heard over Sarah; she only needed a second. "And I didn't know how to tell him or anyone else. How the fuck do you admit you're crazy, Sarah? You tell me, if you know so much!"
Sarah had to stop there and admit she was caught – she had no idea how to admit you were fucked in the head other than to just say you were fucked in the head, and even then, it was a gamble – how could you guarantee that the people you admitted it to wouldn't overreact? Slowly, realizing she'd overreacted, she lowered Meg's plate to the table.
"Okay. Okay, I get it. I mean, I don't get it, because it's not my head or my problem, but I see what you're saying. And Dave is right, you need to tell Randy something. But...what else did he say? You let something fly about a petri dish, and that didn't make a goddamned lick of sense."
Meg cautiously stood up, trying to convince herself that more cutlery and plates weren't about to come flying. "Dave told me Randy deserved to know what he was getting himself into. Sarah...whatever I am...Randy's already in it. He's been in it. When he said that, I just-"
"Well, that's some fucking bullshit." Sarah, having divested herself of her bourbon glass, drank directly from the bottle. "Dave may not like what you did, but he doesn't have to say it like that. And Randy...he's putting pieces together; he's at least figured out that those papers didn't just walk in there by themselves. Where it's getting fucked up dangerous for everyone is that Randy thinks Joe is involved, so he's taking it out on him."
"Sarah...do we know Joe isn't involved? Randy might not be wrong on that front; as much bullshit as he pulled, and as his wife pulled...it's not really wrong to think that he might have put that report in there, thinking I'd run out screaming and head directly into his arms, begging him to save me or some shit."
"But that doesn't make sense as far as the photo goes. How would he get that? Why beat the shit out of me back at my apartment when this all got started?"
"Maybe because Randy was actually right for once? Because I was supposed to be at your place for lunch, just like always, and I wasn't? It didn't even have to be Joe, Sarah, it could have been anyone and Joe just ended up with the photo. Who knows?"
Sarah glared at Meg, then over at the bourbon, then back up at Meg. "Then what exactly is it you need me to do? You're not telling me all this because we're girl-bonding and the pillow fight is next. I'm pissed at Dave, sure, but you're going somewhere with this."
Meg pulled half of her mouth back into a hard quirk. "Well...I need you to lie to Dave." Sarah's eyes widened, and she picked up Meg's plate again. "No, no! Listen. I'm still gonna talk to Randy. But Dave wants me to lay everything on him at once, and I can't do it like that. I started to tell him parts of it at the hotel the night it happened, but I didn't tell him everything. I couldn't put it all together the right way, and I didn't want him to overreact." Meg shook her head. "Since it looks like Dave's gonna overreact no matter what, and because Randy had this conversation with me – so did Dave – where...just, Sarah, you gotta trust me, it's gonna break Randy harder if I tell him that he wasn't enough to help me than if I just do it my way. When Dave asks if I talked to Randy, I just need you to say yes and to believe me that I'm really gonna do it, and I'm really gonna be honest with him. I already did tell him parts of it. Just not everything. Not at once."
Skepticism played over Sarah's face, and Meg had to scramble. "Sar...have I ever broken a promise to you?"
Sarah sighed, and reached for the bottle of bourbon again. "Okay. But you need to talk to Randy. I don't care what you tell him, but you need to tell him something. Coherent and sum-total."
It took time for the two of them to craft a story and timeline that they could both memorize, stick to, and then agree that Dave would agree to, but in the end, it worked. As promised, Sarah held up to her end of the lie, telling Dave that Meg had talked to her, explained everything, and planned to talk to Randy about all of it – knowing full well that Meg planned to talk to Randy about a sanitized and edited version of the truth, and had made no plans for any sort of medication or counseling. On that front, Sarah wasn't as concerned – she didn't want any mental dust stirred up for Meg, and she didn't want any more pills to hide. As for the rest of it, she knew Meg and Randy had to talk, and soon, about what was going on in Meg's head. Something was going to give way, irreparably, if Jackson wasn't dealt with and permanently put in his place. If that meant a trip to New Orleans, so be it. If it meant something more, then they needed to hurry and figure it out, before there was nothing left in Meg's head to salvage.
Dave seemed content to buy Sarah's spiel, and after trying unsuccessfully to cross the girls up on their details, managed to pin Meg down on when she'd be calling Randy to tell him what had happened. Opting to do him one better, Meg said she'd tell him in person, but not right away – it was hard enough to tell Sarah, she rationalized, and she needed time to actually find doctors and therapists and all of the things that she knew Randy would want her to have in place before they talked. Dave, much as he didn't like the idea of Meg anywhere near events, agreed it was the kind of conversation not built for Skype, and said he'd see what he could do about swapping rooms out with Randy for the night so they didn't draw attention to themselves once she was ready to see him, but warned her against stalling for too much time. 'She's listening. At least she's hearing me and listening. Maybe she really is going to try to get herself together for him.'
That settled, Meg breathed a sigh of relief. She knew Randy would worry, given what she was going to ask him, but she decided if he could ask her to trust him for weeks on end, then she could ask him to trust her for the duration of one flight and the length of time it'd take him to get to a shitty hotel via cab.