Emma
My heart races when I see nine missed calls from Bastain. I check the time. 11:05. He knows I have yoga from 9:30 ‘til 11:00. I’ve been coming to class with Kylee and Santana for almost seven months now. In that time, nothing about my routine has changed. I call him when I get home, which is always around 11:30. Something had to have happened. My mind hurriedly sorts through the card catalog of its memory, searching for something I may have overlooked, an appointment or an event. Nothing. I can’t think of a single reason he’d be so impatient to get in touch with me on a Thursday morning. I call back. No answer. I call his office. He isn’t in. Something is wrong. Bastain is a creature of habit, and this is coloring outside the lines for him. I use the white hand towel to wipe the sweat from my neck and shoulders, but it’s just for show. I’m not hot at all. On the inside, I’m chilled to the bone.
“Hey Gatsby, mommy’s home,” I call out into the empty house as I punch the four-digit code into the security system on the wall. I slide my toes over the back of my heels, slipping my shoes off while I wait for tiny paws to pad across tiled floors. I check my phone again to see if Bastain has text me back yet. Nothing. This is completely out of character. I have missed calls from him in the past, and every time I call him back he answers right away. I blame it on his overbearing need to know where I am and what I’m doing at all times. I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right.
“Gatsby,” I say, raising my voice an octave this time. Well, that’s weird. He normally comes running right out to greet me. I scour the kitchen from floor to ceiling, making sure my eyes touch every inch of tile and sheetrock, then do the same to the remaining rooms in the house. Every time I call his name and he doesn’t answer it gets harder to breathe. My chest tightens as I look under the bed and find nothing there. “Gatsby.” My voice is frantic now while I run from room to room. I fight back tears and whisper a prayer when I open the sliding glass doors leading to the back patio. There’s no way he could have gotten out. And if he did he’d surely be lost. He’s never left our yard. We live at the last house on the last street in a secluded neighborhood, nearly a half mile from anyone else and surrounded by trees. I don’t know if he’d find his way back. What if he wandered off and someone took him? No. “Please. Help me find him,” I plead to the sky above.
From inside the house, the sound of my ringtone bounces off the walls. I rush in, hoping I don’t miss another one of Bastain’s calls. “Hello,” I answer, trying to stay calm. He already makes me feel as though I am incapable of doing anything without his supervision. The last thing I want is for him to think I can’t even take care of a dog.
“You didn’t answer my calls.”
I take a deep breath. I knew this was coming. Still I am never fully prepared for his anger, no matter how many times I’ve witnessed it. He never raises his voice. His jaw doesn’t twitch. He doesn’t have that vein that some men have that throbs in their foreheads. Bastain has the uncanny ability to remain perfectly calm through anger. His voice never wavers, and he never breaks eye contact. He controls it, completely, and I don’t know if that should impress me or scare me to death.
I compose myself, planting my feet firmly on the ground, and squaring my shoulders as if this will help me present my case. “I’m sorry. My phone was in my locker at the studio. Is everything okay?” One thing I have come to know is that less is more. If I give too much information or offer too detailed an explanation he finds ways to twist my words or question me further.
“Everything’s just fine. You should have answered, Em.” It sounds like a warning, a threat. My voice catches in my throat and I have to clear it to be able to reply. I never know what to say when he’s like this. Mostly because I am always fearful of his response. I’ve heard this tone before- when I forget to pick up a suit from the dry cleaners or spend unnecessary money on a cup of coffee, things I am sometimes careless about. It’s a carefully camouflaged form of chastisement. This time there’s something different laced within his warning, as if he’s drawn a line and I’ve crossed it, so now I have to pay. What is he threatening? What is trying to say? No. If he did something to my dog… If he opened the back door and let him free as a sort of punishment… Bastain knows what Gatsby means to me. He would never do that. Would he? Anger and disbelief boils within me, rising in my belly and up to my chest, threatening to spill from my lips. I want to ask him what he means. I want to tell him he’s being unfair. I remember my counseling sessions and keep it at bay, envisioning him as a child unaware of his actions. He may be an asshole at times, but he’s not evil. He wouldn’t have left an innocent dog outside on purpose. No way. Gatsby’s around here somewhere. He’s just hiding. That’s all. I hope.
“Bastain,” I say, carefully, “What did you do?”
“Don’t ask silly questions, Em. I got called away. I’ll be home tomorrow.” And just like that the line goes silent, leaving me a sleepless wreck the rest of the night.
Alex
As soon as I step off the elevator, I spot Griffin Blaine, CEO of Titan Industries, sitting in the lobby outside my office. My PA shoots me an apologetic glance from behind her red mahogany and black marble desk. My name isn’t on the polished platinum logo behind her head, but nothing happens in this firm without first going through me, which would explain why Blaine has decided to torture me before I’ve had my coffee. This is not my idea of a good start to any morning. Griffin leaves the comfort of his black leather chair and follows me to my office.
"The meeting starts in 30 minutes, Mr. Blaine. You're early." I don't give him the courtesy of making eye contact as I round the corner of my desk. I have notes to go over and phone calls to make before we begin, and I don't need him standing over my shoulder telling me how he'd prefer me to run the show. I've been elbow deep in corporate law since I was a 27-year old junior associate. One year later, I became senior associate, then two years after that I took my father's place as named partner at his firm in New Orleans. Now, at 34-years old, I am managing partner for the biggest corporate firm in Miami, which is also the ninth largest in the country. I deal with M&A's in my sleep, yet every CEO that walks through our doors thinks I need an outlined tutorial on how it's supposed to work. I get it. For most of these guys, leading a multi-million-dollar merger or acquisition is the highlight of their career. They want to be right up in the thick of it, but I've done enough due diligence and contract drafting to last a lifetime. Witnessing a multi-million-dollar merger might be a once in a blue moon opportunity for these companies, but it's a monthly occurrence for a man like me. I don’t follow them to their high-rise offices dictating to them how to do their jobs. I don’t need them, their designer suits, and oversized egos following me to mine. Don’t get me wrong, my suits are custom tailored to fit and my office sucks up a lot of real estate in this building. But unlike my father, the letters behind my name don’t entitle me to shit. I wake up and put my pants on one leg at a time, just like anyone else. While I saw glimpses of a world of opulence in New Orleans, nothing could have prepared me for what I’d find in Miami. Faster, flashier, and more indulgent is the name of the game in this city. I’m not much of an attention chaser, so don’t venture far from my neighborhood. It’s where I work, play, and live, and I’m content with keeping it that way.
“I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here,” Griffin spits, tucking his cell phone back in the pocket of his navy trousers. Oh, I know exactly what’s at stake. His company has targeted another, smaller, company in order to buy them out then turn around and sell the shares. And he’s worried about what he’s losing? Greed. It’s everywhere you look these days. “The premium alone is more than two years of your salary.”
Okay, that was a bit below the belt. If there’s one thing I know, it’s when a man hits below the belt, he’s asking for a fight. I’m not intimidated in the ring and I won’t be intimidated in my own office. I could remind him I’ve seen his company’s financial records down to the last dirty detail. Then I could inform him I make more than he does, by five figures, but I don’t need to prove anything to him.
Blaine’s expensive cologne saturates the air between us, nearly making me gag. If he’d have stood any closer, I’d have nailed him in the crotch when I slung my briefcase up onto my desk. I may prefer to stay silent when most men would sling words around like weapons. I may choose to observe first, react later. But that doesn’t make me weak. I set the brown leather bag on top of the cherry wood surface then look him in the eye. “Another step forward and you’d be standing on my dick.” His mouth falls open, and his eyes grow wide in disbelief, indicating he’s not used to being spoken to that way. I open the clasp and pull out the contents of my case, laying them on the desk in front of me as evidence, of sorts. “We’ve done a proper valuation of Kingston Technologies. One of my junior associates spent two weeks at their headquarters interviewing employees and reading paperwork. We don’t sit behind a computer screen and scour files, Mr. Blaine. We aren’t afraid to get our hands dirty. This is what makes us the best. This is why your company hired us to represent them. This is why our underwriter will sit at the table across from you in twenty-five minutes and say with complete confidence, “After a thorough investigation, everything looks fine so you can’t come after us if the investors lose money.” I pull out my chair and have a seat, letting him know the conversation is over and I have work to do. “I’ll see you in twenty-five minutes in Conference Room B.” I let my eyes catch his long enough to communicate my authority.
I don’t like being that guy. I’m not an asshole. But there’s no way in hell I’m going to let a self-entitled bastard in a three-piece suit talk down to me. Griffin clears his throat then makes a quiet exit from my office. My curls get tangled as I rake my fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp to relieve some of the tension building. I check my watch, mentally calculating the hours until I’m back in the gym.
Emma
The wet lap of a familiar little puppy tongue against my fingertips wakes me. Gatsby. My stomach does somersaults as my heart begins pounding in my ears. “Gatsby,” I shout, as my eyes meet his, excited and hopeful. “Where have you been hiding? You had me worried to death.” I stayed up all night waiting for the sound of tiny paws scratching on the door, begging to be let back in. I’d already mentally prepared printed flyers and an offer of a reward if he didn’t turn up this morning. I had worried about him being lost or cold… or stolen and mistreated.
I sit up on the bed and pull him close to my chest. “I thought he might want to get out of the house,” Bastain’s voice startles me. I didn’t realize he was leaning in the doorway of our bedroom. “He was restless when I came home yesterday so, I took him with me.” His eyes narrow on mine and a proud smile tugs at the corner of his lips, knowing he won this round. “We tried calling.”
So, he had Gatsby this whole time. My heart sinks to my stomach. As much as I fought off the idea that he was capable of doing something so cruel, he proved me wrong. This is it. The reprimand. The consequences to my actions. The unspoken threat that he will always control me. Bastain has an impeccable talent for tying my emotions to the end of a string and knowing exactly when, where, and how to act to pull on them, inciting whatever response he craves. Fear, sadness, anger, desire- they’re all a means to an end for him, tools he uses to get what he wants. This time he wanted me to know I have to be available. At all times. At any cost.
I start to ask him why he didn’t just tell me that on the phone yesterday. I want him to know I laid awake until the early hours of the morning wondering what had happened to my baby, hoping I hadn’t been careless and left him outside, praying Bastain wasn’t heartless enough to leave him out on purpose. Hours of worry could have been avoided with a simple explanation. But I’ve danced that dance with him in the past, in the beginning of our relationship. I know how that conversation ends. It’s early. I need coffee, and I’m not in the mood for a fight. So, I skip to the part where I’m to blame for my train wreck of emotions, and he is just an innocent bystander. “I’m sorry. I should have answered.” I fluff the fur on Gatsby’s head, prompting him to lick my hand again. “I’m glad you’re both home now,” I say with a forced smile, “How ‘bout some breakfast for my guys?”
The grin on Bastain’s face widens in appreciation, and I almost feel bad for thinking horrible things about him. Almost.
Every year around this time, Bastian has a hard time controlling his emotions. Sometimes I walk into a room to find him crying or talking to himself, even though I know that’s not the case. I know exactly who he’s talking to, and I can’t say I blame him. He’s talking to a ghost, wishing for an answer he’ll never receive. He never sought counseling after the accident, but based on my own sessions, my therapist believes he could suffer from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. She would never fully conclude that without speaking with him, but she encourages me to be mindful of the possibility when he acts out the way he does. The incident with Gatsby is the first time in five years he’s ever projected his anger on another living thing, though. There are times when his words are like daggers, piercing my soul, but he has never acted out physically until last night. The idea that he might be getting worse frightens me more than I’d like to admit.
Bastain is a big guy. His 6’5, 220 pound frame towers over my petite 5’4 body. He spends hour after hour at the gym every week. My yoga wouldn’t help me stand a chance in a fight against a man like him.
I clench my eyes shut and force the thought from my mind. There’s no way he’d ever hurt me that way. He gets insecure and lashes out sometimes. And he’s a master at the art of manipulation, but those things are all done to fill an emotional void within himself, a void I created. He’d never cause me or anyone I love any physical harm. I have to believe that.
Over the past week, his normal, calm demeanor seems to be washing away like grains of sand on the ocean shore. I see flashes of anger in his eyes, where there has only ever been complete control. Hints of frustration in his raised voice, where there’s only ever been restraint. I suddenly realize he is the ocean, and I am the sand. The waves are rolling in, crashing, rising with an anger that lies beneath the surface. And I’m fighting with all my might not to get swept away in its wrath.