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I need to know what’s going on. He doesn’t say anything. He just holds my wrist, his hand like a manacle around it. His head is still down, his posture completely rigid.
“Dean, what are you doing?” I ask him, my voice cracking, overwhelmed with the weight of everything that has happened today.
His head snaps up and he looks at me, the anguish and rage in his eyes steal my breath.
“You got married, Red. Four years after you left me, you fucking married someone else.” His lips are barely moving as he continues.
“I was convinced you were out there, somewhere, trying to get back to me. But instead, you gave your virginity to someone else, you pledged your life to someone else. You had another man’s child.” He practically spits the last sentence, and I flinch.
I look away, the anger in his eyes making me feel shame I know isn’t warranted.
He drops my hand and grabs my chin. “No, Milly. You can’t look away. You can’t deny me this. Look at me,” he demands. “I saw you on that television screen in November, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since. I knew I had to find you. I have been planning this—this meeting—since then.”
“But why—”
He cuts me off asking, “Where are your rings?”
My brain gets whiplash from trying to keep up with his subject changes.
“What?” I say again, feeling like a broken record.
“Your rings. Where are they? Are you not married anymore?” he demands, grabbing my left hand and pointing to my ring finger.
I snatch my hand back.
“I’m getting a divorce,” I say curtly.
“Why?” he demands, grabbing my chin again.
This question is a fuse to the Molotov cocktail of fatigue, hurt, and alcohol.
I explode.
“It’s not any of your business!” I shout and stand up from my stool. I open my purse, grab a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and throw it down on the bar. I snatch my jacket and walk away.
I need to get away from Dean. I don’t know what’s going on or what any of this means, but I need to get home, to feel safe again.
I am almost to the door when I feel his hand close around my bicep and stop me in my tracks.
I turn around to tell him to take his hands off me. But before I can, he says, “You are not walking away from me again. Come with me, Milly.”
8
With Milly’s arm firmly in my grip, we wind our way through the restaurant and my mind has homed in on one objective. All I can think is don’t let her leave. I expected to find a married Milly. One who is indifferent to me. One who would be ashamed of how she treated me. But nothing is as I expected. All I know is that she can’t leave until I’ve been able to talk to her.
She looked equal parts scared and angry when I asked her about her marriage and then she fled. I didn’t plan to tell her my true motivations or clue her in on the why and how she ended up in my office. But, she knows anyway and now I want to have the conversation I’ve needed for months. And I want more. I want her apology, I want her contrition and I want her submission.
When we were young and I trusted her, that power she had over me never, not once, scared me. But now, the fact that my ability to maintain my composure disappeared almost as soon as I saw her, terrifies me. I pull her through the kitchen where no one blinks as we walk through, my stride is long and quick and she struggles to keep up. I hear a couple of people call out “Hey, Mr. O” as we reach the back door of the kitchen and step into the alley and into my waiting black Cadillac Escalade.
My driver, Greg, steps around from the side of the car and opens the back passenger door as we approach. Without missing a single stride, I step up into the car and reach out and pull her inside with me, placing her on the seat beside me. The door locks engage with a loud click and she pulls the handle, futilely trying to open the door.
“Dean, what are you doing? Are you completely crazy? Let me out of this car.” She looks at me and if looks could kill, I’d be stone cold dead.
“I didn’t exactly drag you kicking and screaming in here.” I shoot back at her, trying to remain calm.
“That’s because I was too shocked to even move. You tell me that you planned this . . . this job.” She spits the word job like it’s dirt in her mouth. “For what, Dean? Why would you do this?” Her voice shakes but her anger is tempered with hurt. And she stops moving, like she's suddenly exhausted.
“What should I have done? Picked up the phone and called you?” I ask her. Hearing myself say it, I realize that it would have been a perfectly reasonable thing to do. I chance a move in her direction and wait to see her reaction before I move again. She doesn’t react so I move closer until I'm touching her side with my own. She stares at me and I see a gamut of expressions battling for supremacy over her face. Sadness and wonder run rampant as she studies me.
