Just One Night, Part 2_ Exposed(29)

Where the hell are you?

That sent an hour ago. Then another sent after twenty minutes more had passed.

Kasie, really, where are you?

And then ten minutes after that:

I understand you’re upset. We just need to talk. Please respond.

I smile. My aim is getting better.

I hear Robert stir again but his breathing quickly falls back into the quiet pattern of slumber. I take my phone into his bathroom. I close the door and flip on the lights, blinking a few times to adjust to the illumination. The room is about the same size as my first apartment. There’s a sunken bathtub with water jets, a spacious shower with transparent glass walls, a mirror that lines the space of almost an entire wall . . . it’s decadent as hell.

And then I catch my reflection. My hair is a tumble of waves that fall over my shoulders; my eyeliner, not properly removed before bed, is now mildly smudged, giving me a careless, sultry look. I hold Dave’s text in my hand while wearing Robert’s shirt on my body. Who is this woman?

I don’t know this woman, he said.

. . . and I responded, I know who she is, I just don’t know where she went.

I stare down at the phone. The device itself is the only thing that’s familiar to me right now. It has my photos, the numbers of my contacts, old e-mails, and so on. It’s filled to the brim with reminders of the life that I destroyed. And I destroyed it for the man whose shirt is still on my back.

The devil works in mysterious ways.

But I can’t dwell on it anymore. It’ll drive me insane. So instead I type in a response to Dave.

Yes, we should talk. Let’s meet before your squash game tomorrow night. In the restaurant next door to the club.

I press Send and wait, one minute, then two and then the response comes:

You don’t need to go out of your way. We can meet by your work.

I smile. He has just shown all his cards, confirmed all my suppositions. I look back up at the mirror; there is one small thing I recognize in this woman smiling back at me: her intelligence.

No, we’ll meet by your squash game. It’s easier.

This time it takes him only seconds to respond.

Do you have your car? How will you get there?

He’s placed the target on his heart and I load my weapon.

I have someone who will give me a ride.

I giggle as I send this last message, knowing exactly what images are playing through Dave’s head. He sees me walking into a restaurant in front of all his friends. He sees Robert Dade by my side, a man stronger, more successful, better looking, a man who surpasses him in every way that matters. He sees himself as the cuckold as we sit down across from him, Robert’s hand on the leg of the woman whom Dave once boasted to have as his own.

In this vision he is the one cloaked in humiliation.

The Balance of Threat. It’s a theory of a highly esteemed Harvard professor. The idea is so simple, it’s beautiful. Independent nations’ behavior will be determined by the perceived threat of other nations. Where people miss the genius is that they focus on the wrong word, threat. But threats are finite. They can easily fall apart when a bluff is called. The word that holds the power is perceived. Perception is everything. I have no interest in threatening Dave the way he has so openly threatened me. I want my threats to be unstated but intrinsic in my messaging. I never said it would be Robert driving me to the club. I never said I would try to show him up to his friends. I want to let his imagination do my work for me because the demons within will always have more influence than the demons without.

Finally he responds with a text that reeks of fear and frustration:

I don’t want to meet by the club.

I take a deep breath. This is where I turn fear into panic.

I am going to be at the club tomorrow at 5:45 pm. If I don’t see you, I will ask your friends as they arrive where I can find you. I’m sure if I explain the situation, they’ll help me. As you said, we need to talk.

As I read his response I imagine how it would look if it were written by hand. The letters would be shaky and uneven; his sweat would stain the paper. His text says:

I’ll meet you inside the restaurant. I’ll find a table in the back. Please, let’s make this private. This is about the two of us, just us.

I don’t respond to this last message. If I did, I would have to explain his error. This isn’t about the two of us at all. It’s about something bigger. It’s about concepts and perceptions, power and grief. It’s about the line between fair retaliation and offensive vindictiveness. It’s about winning and losing.

It’s about war.

I smile to myself, flip off the lights. A small nightlight illuminates things enough for me to find my way to the door.

And when I open it, he’s standing there before me. The dark silhouette of Robert, naked and strong, his form vaguely outlined by the weak light. He looks down at my hand.