#circus!tom

My parents had made the mistake of taking me to the Barnum show in New York the year before. We had seats at the top of the tent all the way near the back. Not wonderful for seeing the center ring show, but glorious for the trapeze and the tightropes. It was more than I could ever have dreamed of! There were dancers and jugglers and tightrope walkers and trapeze artists who swung and flipped through the air, dancing bears and elephants that stood on their hind legs and wore feathered caps. And in the center of it all—Barnum himself leading the spectacle in a bright red jacket and top hat. It was… breathtaking. Brilliant.

It became all I ever wanted.

When the notices went up in town, I tore one from the boards and hid it away in my dresser. I opened it each day, looked at the lettering and wondering if I could make it. My parents had sent me to ballet since I was a young girl. And walking the tightrope didn’t look so different than ballet.

“And ‘hoo are you, miss?” came a gruff voice.

Drawn from my reverie, I looked up to see a man in a worn bowler cap and a brown jacket that had clearly seen better days. “Yes, um…” I held out the notice as if that solved everything. “I’ve come to inquire about the circus.”

The man flicked his fingers at me, shooing me away. “Show’s no’ til phree,” he said.

I gave a nervous chuckle. “No, sir. I think you misunderstand. I’ve come to inquire about joining the circus.”

It was his turn to laugh. “A li’l fing like you? In the circus?” His laughter devolved into a rotund guffaw that made my face rush with heat.

Though I am not proud to admit it, I stamped my foot and quite certainly pouted. “Yes, sir. A little thing like me! In the circus!”

He shook his head. “We go’ no use for somefing like you, love,” he struggled through chuckles. “Go on.”

Tears welled in my eyes. I thought of the dazzle and the music of the Barnum show, of how much I wanted to be in something like that. It was like I could still hear the sound of the drums swelling as Anne Wheeler swung through the air, her pink hair and costume shining in the lights. My ears filled with the whoop of Phillip Carlyle as he called her accolades to the crowds. Performed for Queen Victoria! Dazzled the royalty of Europe!

I crumpled the notice between my fingers, fighting the urge to turn and run. Just as I’d always been taught, I tugged my shoulders back, straightened my spine as if someone pulled me upright. This man would not see me cry. Even if my hopes had been dashed to the floor.

Dirt and gravel crunched beneath my boots as I walked away from the only thing I’d ever wanted. I couldn’t image what would happen when I went back home. How could I go back to that life when I so desperately wanted more?

“Wait!”

I stopped, feeling as if all the inertia in the world had settled into my bones. The sound of footsteps drew closer.

“Wait, please!” Someone skidded to a stop in front of me, their feet kicking up a cloud of dust.

I fought to keep my head up, my eyes free of tears. As the dust settled, I caught sight of the person who’d come after me. He was just a little older than me—perhaps twenty-three or so—with curling blonde hair and a set of bright blue eyes. There was something handsome and wholesome about him, but something roguish as well. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, worn black suspenders attached to his threadbare pants.

“You said you were interested in joining the circus?” He smiled, and, for a moment, I didn’t know where I was. There was something dazzling about his smile.

Unable to trust my voice, I nodded.

“What’s your act?”

I wanted to tell him the truth, I should have. The truth was that I didn’t actually have an act. What I did have was a lifetime of classic training in ballet and a burning desire to be in front of an audience. But that wasn’t enough. Even I knew that. My thoughts raced through my head, trying to catch hold of something… anything that I could claim.

“Contortion,” I blurted. In truth, I was flexibile thanks to my ballet master. “I’m a contortionist.”

The young man nodded, looking me over in a way that one appraises livestock. He walked around me in a circle, his fingertips drumming his chin. More than once, he looked from me to the circus building and back again. At last, he gave himself a nod.

“I think we have a costume that might fit you. And I’m sure Nina can make adjustments. You won’t be a feature, for sure. You understand—bigger acts and more draw in the oddities. We haven’t quite figured out how Barnum draws so many.”

My heart skipped a beat at the mention of P. T. Barnum. I knew it was shining all over my face. “Music acts. Dancing and music and songs and fire dancers and bearded ladies and a trapeze artist with pink hair and a dozen animals that can all do tricks.”

           A look of incredulity passed over the older man’s face. He looked me over almost as if he were sizing up a horse for purchase. I tried not to shrink under his inspection.

           “What’s her act?” He asked Tom, not me.

           “Contortion,” I spat quickly. I didn’t quite like the fact that Mr. Bailey wasn’t asking me these questions. It was my interview, after all.

           Mr. Bailey chuckled. “I’ve got two of you already. Not much draw, contortionists. Even if they are pretty.”

           Before I could say anything else, Tom stepped forward. He shuffled toward Mr. Bailey’s desk and leaned over, his knuckles pressed against a stack of ledgers.

           “You want to get the draw that Barnum has in New York?”

           Mr. Bailey sneered. “That’s a very stupid question, boy. Of course, I do. Why else would I have sunk all my money into this mess?”

           Tom glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyes dancing with assurance. His blond curls fell over his forehead. “Then she’s your ticket. She’s seen Barnum’s show. And she knows how he gets the draw.”

           For a moment, the office was in silence. The noise of neighing animals and sloshing water drifted on the breeze from outside. I watched the two of them, sharing some message without words.

           Finally, Mr. Bailey leaned back in his chair again. The wood creaked and groaned beneath his weight. “Fine,” he said slowly. “Get her in a costume and get her with George. She can tell him everything.”

           “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Bailey,” I said quietly. “Part of Barnum’s draw is that he is in the ring. Every show. He and his partner, Carlyle.”

           Mr. Bailey’s brows lifted slightly. He locked his gaze with mine, as if he were trying to intimidate me into silence. When I refused to look away, he gave a slow chuckle. He sat forward, his arms resting on the desk, fingers threaded together.

           “All right, then.” He shared another quick glance with Tom before he turned his attention to me again. “Take a seat and tell me all about Barnum’s show, Miss…”

           I step forward and held out my hand. “Mullins. Eva Mullins.”

           He shrugged as he took my hand. “Going to have to do something about that name. But welcome to the show, Eva.”

           Tom quickly cleaned off a crate and carried it over for me to sit on as I told Mr. Bailey everything I knew about the Barnum show. I took special care to tell him about the costumes, the musical numbers and the dancing. I know I spent a little too much time talking about Barnum and Carlyle. But I knew they were the ones who made the magic happen.

             It was late that evening when I emerged from the office of the Bailey Circus and Side Show. I didn’t need to look at the sky to know that it was later than it should have been. My parents would start to get worried if I didn’t return home soon. I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile as I thought of how it would be the last night I would have to be beneath their roof. Tomorrow morning, I would move into the pavilions of the circus.

           Tom had fallen asleep just outside the office door, a worn top hat over his eyes. When the door shut behind me, he jumped awake. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stood, straightening the top hat on his blond curls.

           “How far do you have to go, Miss Mullins? To get home, I mean?”

           I gave him a wide smile. “I’m home here. But I have to gather my things from my parent’s house down on Fordham Street. Not far.”

           Tom looked around, a worried furrow to his brow. He held out his arm for me to take. “No offense, but this isn’t the nicest part of town. Land’s cheap, sure, but that means people ‘round here are too. If you don’t mind…” A blush ran across his cheeks. “Let me see you home safe?”

           I looked up at him, his arm still offered out for me. He had an easy, open face. I thought we might do well to be friends. I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm and smiled.

           “Of course.”

           Tom and I walked down the street, passing warehouses and other buildings whose purpose I didn’t want to know. Workers moved up and down the streets lighting the gaslamps. I could imagine all kinds of unsavory business taking place around the Bailey circus grounds. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to want to be anywhere else.

           “What do your parents think of you joining the circus?” Tom asked in a conversational tone.

I spent the first week of our separation furious, at her, at myself.  I did not speak to her in performance, backstage before or after.  I played my part as light in utter darkness, swirling over aerial silk, twining with her…and then ran as soon as I could, back to the safety of our apartment and our bed.  To sleep.  She wasn’t in the mood anyway to talk—all she would spare me were flat smiles and quick, appraising glances when she didn’t think I was looking.  Who is she to judge me, she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know—

But as often as I tell myself the lies, they don’t transform into truth.

The first few days I drank.  Not enough to get drunk again, not enough to put her in danger on the silks—god, no, never, never again—but to show myself and her that I could handle it.  That I could live in moderation.  The first Sunday of our separation I woke with a plan--I would go running in the cool dryness of the desert’s autumn air, exorcise the growing, carnal need in my flesh.  I would go and get that novel I had been hearing about and read the damn thing.  And have one scotch.  Just to show her. 

But as the sun set, my body and mind exhausted from trying to fight the burning, incessant naggings for the liquor, one scotch turned to half a bottle.  I fell asleep in a tear-stained heap on the couch, wanting her.  Needing her. 

But you can’t have her. 

The next day at call I couldn’t hide the bloodshot of my eyes—makeup won’t disguise that. She said nothing, but her cheeks puckered as she bit the insides of her lips.  She passed me another wan, detached smile as she pretended she couldn’t see my hangover, and I tried to ignore that asinine trapeze-twat Garret’s blatant, hungry staring at her arse as she walked past him in full golden costume.  My fingers itched to smash his face into the floor, leaving as much blood as I could.

You’re going to lose her.

Then lose her.  Let her go.  She doesn’t want you. 

But that isn’t true either…I know that much. She still loves me, still cares even though the days pass without her laugh to brighten them—she will text to make sure I’m up, she calls sometimes to remind me about bills.  Sometimes she ends the texts with a smiley face, sometimes a quick ‘x’ at the end of a sentence in place of a period, as though it was hasty and she half-hopes I won’t notice it.

Those tiny ‘x’s are what are keeping me alive, what are preventing me from not buying the store out of scotch and drinking until I can’t see anymore, until my breath slows and stops and my heart does the same.

The next week, and despite Amy still wearing my ring, Garret’s glances had grown both more frequent and more lascivious, thinking I didn’t notice, thinking I wouldn’t see.  I decided to go back to AA.  I sat through ten meetings a week for a fortnight, speaking their language, making their day at a time promises with my mouth and, I thought, my heart.  I even got a new sponsor—Donna, a forty-year-old mother of five who had managed to pull herself enough out of her hole to keep her kids.  She is calm. She is happy and sober. 

But after the two weeks I don’t call her—she has to call me.  I lie to her. I lie to her as the bottles build a gleaming wall around my chair, glinting around my volumes of poetry dog-eared with underlined passages for Amy and wrinkled from fucking tear-stains. I lie to Donna as the musk of the scotch colours the air of the apartment and what’s left drips to stain the carpet.  I’m fine, I tell Donna.  I’ve had a good day. One day at a time.  I’m good.  Don’t worry, okay? Yep, fifteen days sober.  Sixteen. Twenty.

And the deceit piles up around me with the dust and the days that pass that Amy isn’t with me.  Days we should be spending choosing flowers and wedding dates.

God, who are you fooling?  Do you believe this shit?  It’s been thirty-seven days.  She’s not coming back.

I am back in the lonely morning, and her side of the bed is cold.  Cold. 

And I am angry still as my hand finds another need I can’t quench with my own flesh.  I finger the heat of my hardness, stroking lightly as I stretch. 

She said she loved me.

And I want her.  I want the warm, wet need for me between her thighs, I want her mouth.  I want her arching sigh as she speaks my name in prayer-voice as I subdue her in pleasure, as I take her and she gives everything to me.  All of her. Body. Soul.  What little of one she has. 

God, shut up, you fucked-up arsehole. Shut up.  She should go out with Garret, at least he’s honest with his lust, not like you, you are nothing, you fuck. You don’t deserve her.

I drive my palms into my eyes until I am blinded by light, and hurl myself from my bed, almost missing the toilet bowl as I throw up yet another night’s hangover.

Two days later I am once more covered in gold paint, stealing sideways glances from my chair at my fiancée as her hair, her shining hair is gilt and set with sparkling headbands.  I attempt to squelch the infernos of jealousy towards the hands allowed to touch her, to the makeup artist’s gentle brush over her sweet skin, kissing it as I sit here in misery.  She throws her head back in laughter at something he says and I send yet another scattered, desperate prayer spinning to a god in whom I don’t believe for her to laugh like that again for me someday…god, please, give me another chance…

But the burn in my stomach from the half-ounce I threw back before coming in tells me it won’t be today.

I get up abruptly, knocking my chair over and needing air, seeing but ignoring the flash of gold in the mirror as she whips her head in my direction. 

We perform, we make the audience sigh and gasp and applaud as we whirl around each other.  I am careful in my grips, my grasps—I watch her like a hawk and feel her watching me, and I am surprised: her touch is different tonight—where she was cold, this evening she is gentler…loving?  I can sense a concern in her performing smile, and it is the first time in a month I feel her.  I am suddenly sparked with a tiny ember of hope, a flame that grows brighter as she squeezes my hand as we walk off stage—she hasn’t done that since before she left... 

We end.  We bow.  We exit to the showers, and as I scrub golden paint from my chest I wonder if she might, just…maybe…be willing to go get coffee with me.  Maybe.

And then I’ll take her home, to our home, and I’ll love her, and I’ll hold her and read her those scraps of words I have been saving for when she comes back and she’ll love me again.  God, please.  Please.

I raise my head, straightening my posture as I come around the corner to where I know she’ll be, waiting for Marcie.  Where she always is, leaning against the cinderblock looking every bit the lost girl I met three years ago.

And she is there.

But rage slams through my body as I see Garret leaning over her, arm casually pressed against the cinderblock, a stupid smile on his face.  She is nervous—disgusted, even—I can tell that, but I don’t see more.  I don’t see more because if I don’t leave now I will kill him, I will rip his windpipe from his body and I will let him sputter out his blood and die and I have to go, I have to go now…

“Tom!” Amy’s voice pierces my vision, my hearing gone blood-red.  “Stop!” But I don’t.  I tear past her out the stage entrance, to my car. I drive with tunneled vision to an empty parking lot and scream until my voice gives out and my muscles ache from strain, cursing a god who never loved me and who continues to prove it with each passing day, each loss, each further dagger in my soul.  Fuck you, I scream.  How dare you? How dare you give me so much and then rip it away? What did I do?

The hour-long tirade ends in streaming tears.  Tears and a base, primal need for my scotch, and so I slam the car into drive and barrel it home, running a red light and narrowly sideswiping a minivan. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

My hands shake at the lock but I finally get in, ready to go ahead and drink that whole damn bottle, drink it and end this.  End the pain. End Gemma.  End Amy.  End…everything else. Just end.  Sleep in peace.

But Amy is in our apartment, sitting on our couch, as I come in.  She rises and starts to speak, to explain, to give whatever excuse will come out of that pretty whore’s mouth, but I’m past listening. I want to hurt her.  I want her to bleed like I am. 

“Trapeze, huh?” I spit, and before she can retort I continue. “Does he hold you when you wake up screaming?”  I take a step toward her. “Are you fucking him?  Is he any good? You want to move to trapeze now?”

I ignore the sting the pain in her face shows me, ignore the tentative step she takes back.  I know she didn’t want him, I could tell from the set of her body as he leaned over her, that body I knew as well as my own.  I know her tells, know she wanted nothing to do with him.  But I have started and the pain feels jaggedly good to inflict instead of receive for once.  It is only when her eyes fill with tears that the tiniest worm of remorse begins working through me.

She stands in our living room, twisting her hands, and time turns sluggish.  She raises her eyes to me, a single, glittering tear escaping and skittering down her face, falling to the blue top I bought her after that bitch Beth beat her half to death, the top she says is her favourite—oh god she’s wearing that still oh god and she’s staring at me with pity god stop it please please forgive me Amy

My heart stills as she speaks.  Her words are almost unintelligible through the sudden cotton in my head, but I make out a “Dr. Cavanaugh” and a “was for me, not you.”  A “Needs to be for you.” And with downturned eyes, “no terrors.”

And with a biting of her lip, she slides my ring off her finger.  She places it gently on the coffee table and ignores my blistering, falling tears as she edges past me and out the door.

For ten seconds or ten eternities—I can’t tell—I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

And then all light, all color and sound and the deafening pounding of my heart rip me back to myself. I tear out the door after her.

“Amy!” I yell into the night, and see her, walking quickly away in shadow.  She doesn’t stop. “Amy!” I cry again, a beg shading my shaking voice now.  

I run, I catch up to her, and without thinking, I grab her arm and whirl her to me. 

And immediately my vision goes white as her fist impacts the side of my head.

I stagger back, cursing my idiocy in touching her like that, for forgetting what she has been put through, forgetting that the movement would frighten her…but she makes no sound.

Though I can’t quite see yet, I reach for her and sense her quick step back.  As my vision clears she is standing in a dirty white beam from a security light.  Tensed, coiled.  Eyes wide and frightened as she looks at me in horror. 

“Amy,” I begin, a sob working though my voice. 

“No.  No. No,” she says.  “No.”  Her face is bone-white and her palms are in front of her in defense.  “No.”  Her voice is dry, ragged, her lip shaking.  “I’m sorry.”  Her hands fly to her mouth and then back, building a wall between her and me.  “No.  No.”

She turns, almost running.  I can’t follow her—I will only scare her more. 

God, you fucking arsehole, you idiot, you fuck.  You stupid, stupid fuck!

“Amy,” I choke out. “I—I love you.”

She stops for one second. One tiny second.  And keeps hurrying away.

  I am numb.  Numb as I return to our apartment.  Numb as I collapse on the couch.  Numb as I sit there, staring into nothing and white drywall.  Numb as I send her text after unanswered text, call her sixty-four times to no answer. Numb as I rise to go find my haven, the one thing that has never failed to numb the utter fuck-up that is my life.  Numb as I find the bottle upended in the sink, empty, at her hand.

I don’t sleep that night.  I wait for a text that isn’t coming.  I thrash in bed.  I twist and I turn and see demons and angels and at 8 a.m., I dial the number to Amy’s therapist, making an appointment for this afternoon.  The instant I hang up I am on the phone with Donna, begging forgiveness and help.

      It is day ninety-two.  Day ninety-two since Amy left me, day fifty-three since she ended our engagement. 

My life has become a circle of finding my way out of this shithole I’m in.  This hell without her—though, as Dr. Cavanaugh continues to explain, if I seek sobriety for her, it won’t stick.  It has to be for me.  I agree, I concede, but it doesn’t dull the want to be clean for her again, my angel, my dove, my sweet Amy, who trusted me and I betrayed her, I--

Stop.  Breathe.

It is day forty-six of sobriety.  As soon as I saw Dr. Cavanaugh that afternoon, I was referred to a colleague and prescribed pills that make me absolutely, gut-wrenchingly ill if I drink—one experiment with that was enough to convince me of their efficacy. Dr. Cavanaugh is working me through treatment, and is actively collaborating with Donna, who was called in immediately and who has, without fail for the last forty-six days, shown up at the apartment at 9 am, fresh from dropping her kids off at school, to ensure I have taken and swallowed the pill.  I show her my tongue, mocking, but I am grateful for her insistence and her daily quick taps of encouragement on my arm. 

Under their suggestion, I am attending AA again, and attempting to work my way through the steps, though I haven’t gotten farther than Two—I can’t get past the idea of a god giving a fuck about me.  God, who has never paid attention to me and who continues to ignore me in the form of my dead wife and my broken engagement and all the diamond-bright, lethal shards of my shattered life.   Donna tells me it doesn’t have to be any specific deity—it can be the universe, but I remain unconvinced of the benevolence of any higher power.  I am stuck on that point, and I won’t progress until can get past it.  But the meetings do me some good—I am meeting people, “getting out of my shell some”, as Donna says, and I have started running in the mornings with Jack, a craps dealer at the Palms who has been sober for five years.

Amy. God, I miss her.

It was a week of calling in sick to performance, a week of a lonely, singular silk-dancing for me, before she resurfaced with a text.  She apologized—as if she had anything to apologize for, my sweetest love—and accepted my repeated implorings for forgiveness. It wasn’t your fault, she says, it was the scotch.

But it wasn’t the scotch.  What I said to her…god, no.  That came from somewhere else.   Somewhere of which I have to find the bottom before I can fill the hole.

“Tom, did you hear me?”

I shake my head from my sweet reverie of her dark curls sliding through my fingers, her eyes closed in bliss as my body moves in hers…but it’s just fantasy. She hasn’t come home, I still can’t touch her.  She is distant as she ever was before.  More, even.  I understand now what she meant—the terrors haven’t returned because she is once more isolated.  Safe behind her walls.

And I could destroy everything in this room—from my chart to Cavanaugh’s framed degrees to the armchair where I sit—to punish myself for it.  Bleed out my guilt on this horrible carpet, maybe then she’ll come back—

“Have you talked to her this week?” I blurt out, the quick burning of tear starting to my eyes.

He sighs lightly.  “Tom, you know I can’t tell you that.  Listen, did you hear me?”

“No, sorry…I—“

“It’s fine.  Listen, I was thinking that this week you might do some thinking.  I know AA isn’t helping you a ton because of your metaphysical…issues, shall we say.”  The light tone of comfort in his voice relaxes me slightly.  I settle once more into the depths of the chair, not realizing I had been perched on the edge.

“But here’s what I want you to think about.  Will you accept an assignment?”

I shake my head in agreement.  Anything.  Anything.  Anything to get her back to me.

“Tom, listen.  You’re young.  I know you’ve had a lot to deal with in your time.  I know that’s why you turned to alcohol to dull the pain—whatever.  It’s all that pop psych you already know.  But there is a real world application here, Tom.”

I raise my head, meeting his gaze. 

“Here’s the deal, Tom.  We can sit all day and talk about what caused this.  We can sit all day and try to figure out the whys of your continual self-punishment.  For your need to hurt yourself to the point of your own destruction.  And we need to figure out those whys, Tom, we need to get to the bottom of them.”

I nod.  That’s what I always do, I nod.  I nod and maybe if I nod enough, she’ll come back.

“But what this is going to come down to is choice, Tom.  You are an alcoholic.  You have been for over a decade.  That want will never go away.”

“Great,” I mutter, but this isn’t anything I haven’t heard before.

“Here’s the difference though.  You have two paths before you. One will lead to where you are headed now.  A destroyed liver, cancer maybe.  Death, ultimately, with how you drink.”

Doesn’t matter, she’s not here, Gemma’s not here it doesn’t matter I don’t care don’t you get it, I want to be dead

 “But there is this other fork, Tom.  It’s not an easy one.  It is going to involve finding those ghosts and facing them and choosing life, Tom.  And maybe it won’t be a life with Amy.  Maybe it won’t be a life you had wanted at all.  But, now, it’s up to you to decide if you would rather try that path with the possibility of happiness, or choose the one you know leads to death. Life or death, Tom, that’s where you’re at.  And if you’ll excuse my saying so, you’re thirty-four.  You’re too damn young to choose death, or whatever facsimile of it you would have if you keep going the way you are.” Cavanaugh sits back, eyeing me.

I didn’t choose this, you fucker, it chose me. Don’t you get—

Choose.  Choice.

“But—“ I begin.

“No, Tom.  No,” he says gently.  “You’re not that far gone.  You can be saved. Here is your assignment: I want you to go home and write down everything you’ve ever done that you’ve enjoyed or haven’t.  And then everything you want to do—stupid or hopeless or far-fetched as the list might be.”  He smiles. “Even something as silly as going grocery shopping.  Anything that could possibly constitute life.”

I nod.  Okay.

“And then I want you to decide if those things are worth living for.  If not, then end your appointments with me, get off the pills, and drink yourself to death.  If they are, though, then make one more list: what are the things holding you back from living your life?  What things have brought you to where you are now?  Figure that out, and we’ll be halfway there.  It isn’t going to be a magic bullet, and it won’t take away the addiction, but it would be a start.”

I inhale, loudly. 

Life. Death.

I speak before I can ponder it more, before I can talk myself out of it. “All right.”

Cavanaugh nods and schedules our next appointment.

    That night, after the performance and painfully alone, I sit down on our couch.  A notebook and pen, purchased this afternoon, right after the appointment, sit fresh and white in my lap, and as I trace my fingertips across the lines of the paper, a small spark—almost nonexistent but still vibrantly there—starts within me.     

And I write.

I write until four a.m.

As the sun rises I know what I must do.  I meet Jack for our run, explain to him my plan.  I tell Donna when she comes to make sure I take my pill.  She approves. 

And as soon as I know she’ll be up I beg Amy to meet me at the diner on Fourth. I tell her I have to see her, I beg as I haven’t in the fifty-three days since she took off my ring.  Though I can tell she’s scared, she agrees.

I take care shaving to the stubble I know she likes and dress in the shirt she bought me for Christmas last, the green one she says brings out my eyes.  I arrive at the diner fifteen minutes early, scared as fuck and praying to whoever might be listening that this goes well.

She slides into the booth across from me, eyes wary.  As the waitress leaves coffee in front of us, I tell her what Cavanaugh asked me to do. She nods, listening, absently stirring the blackened liquid in front of her. 

I take a deep breath. “And, darling…” I hesitate. You stupid fuck, she’s not going to, you idi—

Stop. Breathe.

I suck in another breath.  “I have to go to London. And I want you to come with me.  I need you to come with me.”

She drops the stirrer in shock.

“Tom, what—“

Please, god, whoever you are

“Please.”

The crowd in the diner chatters around us, but she looks to me, judging me.  Weighing my intentions.  She blinks.

A breath.  Hers or mine, I can no longer tell.