The Chase

This place is crawling with clubbers, and the music is making it almost impossible to talk. And God knows I need to talk. I take another swig of my girly cocktail and glare at Bertie.

"What?" she yells over the music. "Refill?"

"No!" I grab her empty glass and set it on the bar. "Bathroom!"

Bertie and I cut a serpentine path through the sweaty press of people. A couple of guys try to get Bertie's attention, but she doesn't even spare them a glance. It's one of the things I love about her; she still takes girls' night out as seriously as she did in college. When any of the girls were in post-breakup mode, we could always count on her not to ditch us the moment some cute guy cornered her.

I'm not exactly in post-breakup mode, though, as Bertie keeps reminding me. It doesn't count as a breakup when he's hunting you down.

"Did you see him?" she asks as we enter the bathroom. The door closes, muting the deafening bass of the club music a little.

"No," I answer in a panic. "Oh, God, you didn't see him, did you?"

"No, of course not. I would have told you."

I nod and take a deep breath.

"Are you okay?"

"I—I don't know." I look over and notice that a couple of women standing in line for the bathroom have started listening in. I lean closer to Bertie and lower my voice.

"Do you think I'm just being paranoid?"

"Well, there's one way to find out." A smile quirks her lips. "Flirt with some dude and see how long it takes."

I roll my eyes. "That one hits too close to home."

"Sorry," she says, patting my shoulder. "I still remember the shiner he gave Mark."

I wince at the memory. Bertie's parents had renewed their vows in a lavish ceremony. I had worn a floor-length satin dress that dipped low in the back. Bertie's brother Mark had drunk too much and forgotten himself on the dance floor. I'd felt his hand slide down my back—dangerously close to my ass—and then I'd seen a fist fly across Mark's face.

"Can we just hide out here all night?" I whimper.

"I'm sorry," Bertie says again. "This was a dumb idea. Maybe we should just get you home." She waits for my response, but I bite my lip, reluctant to disappoint her.

"No, it's fine. I think this is good for me." I muster a smile.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll just sit around and feel like shit if I go home now."

We freshen up in the bad fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. Somehow, I don't look as tired as I feel. My concealer must be pulling a double shift today. I watch Bertie reapply lip gloss and smile. She has that all-American beauty that never goes out of style—the megawatt smile and blond hair that you might see in a soda commercial. The day she decides to get serious about dating, she'll have her pick of men.

By the time we return to the dancefloor, it has somehow become even more crowded. I look up at the DJ booth, which is partially shrouded in smoke.

"Oh my God, is he wearing a zoot suit?" I point to the DJ, but Bertie can't hear me. This club is just too chaotic. It's a good kind of chaos, in a way; it keeps me from thinking too much about him, but it's also sensory overload. I can't keep looking over my shoulder in this crushing crowd of gyrating people. I have my hands full just keeping track of my phone and Bertie.

I can see Bertie just ahead of me; she's heading directly for the bar. We weave through the dancers, and she somehow buys us a round of shots in record time. I'm sure she had no trouble getting the bartender's attention. She holds the shot glasses up triumphantly. I can't help but laugh. It goes down smoothly and then kicks in with a burn. I scrunch up my nose and wait for it to cool.

Bertie signals that we're going somewhere. I'm guessing it's back to the restroom, but we head directly for the exit.

"Oh, thank God!" says Bertie as we step onto the sidewalk. The music thumps behind us; my ears are still ringing with it. "Okay, let's actually talk before shit gets real in there."

"That shot felt pretty real." I laugh.

"Okay, seriously. Are you okay?"

I take a deep breath. "Yeah. I mean, I think so. I know he's going to find me. It's not so much if; it's more when." I lower my voice. "I've loved being here, but I figure I'm going to have to move on soon. I'll be too easy to track."

"No! Don't leave yet," Bertie pleads. "I still don't even understand how things got to this point."

I shake my head, uncertain how to begin. How does one tell a story of being loved too much? "You remember how...invested he always was in our relationship."

"He's obsessed with you," Bertie whispers.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I'm sure the drinks are making me more of a mess than usual, but something about this conversation is putting my marriage in a new and particularly ugly light.

"Honey, I'm sorry," she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. "I'm going to shut my mouth now and just listen." She digs a tissue out of her tiny clutch and hands it to me. "What is his problem?"

I flick away a tear and smile at her. "That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" What is wrong with him? He would never agree to talk to a marriage counselor; he never even talked about his childhood or anything like that with me. I could never figure out why he had latched on to me the way he did. The one time I had broached the subject, he'd fucked me until I didn't have the energy to push for an answer. People have all kinds of strategies to avoid uncomfortable conversations; his strategy was to fuck me mindless.

"I guess I'd say it's like living with a stranger, and it doesn't matter how much time you spend with him. And it's suffocating because you know that his happiness depends so much on you." The words are spilling out of me now. I'd blame the alcohol, but I've needed to say this for a long time. "And then he touches you, and it's so good—it's so fucking good that you almost don't care about the rest of the relationship. But you start to lose yourself after a while, you know?" I blow my nose into the tissue Bertie just handed me. "You start to worry about craving him too much. You worry that it's all you have. God, is this making any sense at all?"

"I think so," Bertie says quietly.

I look around at the clusters of young people smoking outside. There's a couple making out in line. She's in a sparkly miniskirt that he pulls up a bit as he gropes her ass. Even under the neon lights, I can see him shove his tongue into her mouth. She presses her ample cleavage up against his chest. As he lowers his mouth to her neck, her moans become audible amid the chatter and traffic noise. Even the bouncer is watching with mild interest.

Bertie follows my gaze. "At this rate, they're going to be fucking before they can get inside."

"Oh, I'd say he's real close to getting inside."

We laugh so loudly that a few people in line clearly find it obnoxious. I sigh and wad up the tissues.

"Can we change the subject?" Bertie asks.

"Oh God, please! Talk about work or something."

She immediately launches into a story about an editor who just got hired at the magazine. He's an asshole, she says. He never listens and stands too close to her in the elevator. If he finds one more dumbass excuse for barging into her office, she says, she'll have him fired before the month is out.

"You want him. Don't lie, Bertie."

"Shut up. He dresses like Justin Timberlake or some shit."

"Wait. What does that even mean, and why are you acting like you wouldn't do Justin Timberlake?" I smirk.

Bertie looks so indignant that I can't help but laugh. "Okay, Mrs. Timberlake, let's go back in." She signals to the bouncer, who nods his assent. He ignores the complaints of the people in line as we mosey past them. This is another thing I love about Bertie: she's connected.

"Okay!" yells Bertie as we reenter the chaos, "Now we dance and get ridiculous!"

The music is monotonous and so loud that I feel the vibrations through the soles of my shoes. It's perfect. I can drown myself in the pleasure of moving freely and pretending that I'm as carefree as all these beautiful young strangers dancing around me.

The next hour is over in a blink. Bertie buys us another round of shots, and as we step back out to dance, my feet feel as if they're not quite connected to my body. I'm officially drunk. It's a sensation I haven't felt in a long while. I reach up and gaze dizzily at the strobe lights. Ordinarily I'd get a little queasy at all these convulsions of colored lights, but tonight the light is just washing over me, blending with the music.

My head is fuzzy, but I'm still able to recall every step of my journey here.

It's been five weeks since I left him. My escape was straight out of a fucking Lifetime movie. I paid for bus tickets with cash. I stayed at sketchy motels where the staff didn't ask questions. I called Bertie from a burner phone and had her pick me up. God, she was so resourceful. Before picking me up, she had arranged for me to stay at her coworker's sublet and had even offered me a fake ID and prepaid Visa cards. I jokingly asked her how many times she'd done this before. "Just you," she'd said with a smile. "And you know I'd help you hide the body, right?"

Five weeks. The days pass slowly, but each of them feels like a milestone. Staying on the run from a persistent man with endless resources is no small accomplishment. Plus, I know so little about going incognito. I had to Google basic escape strategies—though I at least knew to do it on a public library computer, thank God. I don't know any magic tricks for staying off the radar, but I'm careful not to settle into a routine. Mostly I just stay in the sublet.

Before I can grasp what's happening, I feel a strong hand clutch mine. My heart stops, and I feel the color drain from my face. The world moves in slow motion as I turn to see who has grabbed me.

It's not him.

This guy looks like he's fresh from filming a toothpaste commercial: clean-cut, clean-shaven, and confident in the way good-looking men generally are. He spins me toward him as if we've already been dancing awhile. It's a gutsy move. Probably something he learned on a pickup artist website or something.

He leans in and screams over the music. "I've been watching you all night."

I stand on tiptoes to scream back in his ear. "That's creepy."

He laughs, and the whiteness of his teeth actually dazzles me for a second. He's the kind of guy I might have chased back in college. At the very least, I would have tried to get his attention at a party. It's kind of flattering that he's the one trying to get my attention.

"You know what I mean," he says in my ear. "You're beautiful."

"That's sweet," I answer. I know better than to try to get long-winded in a dance club. No one is interested in prolonged conversation, and no one can hear it anyway.

He moves closer to me, and my heart thuds in my chest. If Cameron is here, I'm going to know it in the next 30 seconds or so. I feel his hand settle on the small of my back and I look up at him. He's staring at my mouth, and if he tries to kiss me, I can almost guarantee he'll lose a tooth or two.

The DJ has just started playing a slow jam, and it's put Mr. Clean-Cut in a romantic mood. I can feel his erection pressing against my stomach. I've got to distract him before he tries something.

"Let me buy you a drink!" I scream it so abruptly that he actually jumps a little.

"I think that's my line," he says, smiling brilliantly. I try not to wince as I guess how many of those beautiful teeth he'll lose if Cameron gets a hold of him.

"Tessa!"

Bertie is right behind me. If anyone's voice could cut through the chaos of this club, it would be hers. She starts to steer me away, but the clean-shaven guy has one hand locked around my arm.

"Tessa! Goddamn it!" She looks daggers at the clean-shaven guy. I feel his grip on my arm loosen.

As everyone whoops and cheers for the DJ who has just stepped into the booth, I watch her mouth form words that I can't hear over the din. It can't be what I think it is.

I stare blankly at her. She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks squarely at me as she again speaks the words that send my heart racing and my stomach lurching. I still can't hear her, but her mouth forms the words so precisely that there's no mistaking them.

He's here.

****

I've always had a good memory, but somehow, I can never remember when I first met him.

I do remember the party at the Wilsons' house.

The Wilsons considered me a nanny of sorts. I was there all the time—teaching their kids French, doing chores around the house, tutoring the kids in the evenings, and keeping them entertained most weekends. Mrs. Wilson even introduced me as her au pair a few times even though I was certainly not born overseas. I guess I was something between a governess and a really committed babysitter. It was how I paid my rent after college. My English degree hadn't translated to any career prospects.

This was the first time the Wilsons' had invited me to a dinner party. Well, I wasn't really a guest but more of a cater waiter. It was my job to keep the drinks flowing and put the kids to bed. I knew how to dodge the tipsy, amorous husbands. I knew how to disappear amid the party chatter while keeping the serving platters full. I knew how to keep the kids from disrupting the party.

I didn't know how to respond when I was cornered in the kitchen by a man whose handsomeness literally stole my breath for a second.

He was all I could see as I turned. It was as if my brain were taking a series of pictures: his firm jawline covered with stubble; his beautiful teeth; the movement of his Adam's apple; his dark brows. I held my breath as I took in his features.

"Um, can I get you anything?" I'd asked, blinking at him as he looked down at me expectantly. I silently chastised myself for not saying something charming. Was that seriously the best I could do?

He smiled at me. "We've met before."

"We have?" I gulped. I would never have forgotten that face. That mouth. "Here?"

"In this kitchen? No." He was still smiling.

"Oh." I was apparently incapable of speaking in complete sentences. "At another party?"

He looked at my mouth as I spoke, as if he were reading my lips. "No."

It was the most cryptic conversation I'd ever had. I searched his face for a sign that he found all this as odd as I did. He simply looked at me, his gaze moving back and forth between my lips and my eyes. If I hadn't met him a minute before, I'd have assumed he was about to kiss me.

But according to him, we had met before. Why couldn't I remember?

"Tessa," he said softly.

"Yes?" The sound of my name on his lips was intoxicating. I wanted to ask him to say it again. I wanted to say his name back to him. I wanted to know why the hell he had chased me down in the kitchen and why he seemed to think we knew each other. But most of all, I wanted to go on staring at him.

The clatter of dishes on the counter made me jump.

"Mrs. Wilson!" I said more loudly than I meant to.

She turned and looked at both of us. My heart stopped as she tried to figure out what she'd just walked in on. I could feel his eyes on me.

Her face suddenly brightened. "Tessa, has Cameron shown you his famous wine collection?"

I shook my head. This conversation was only getting stranger. Not only was I supposed to know this man—Cameron—but I was supposed to have heard tales of his wine cellar.

"You'll see it for yourself," he said.

I laughed uncomfortably. He said it so matter-of-factly—as if I'd already agreed to go his house. It was all too weird. Mrs. Wilson held a cocktail out to me.

"You need one of these," she said. "It's been a long evening. These parties..." her voice trailed off.

I took the glass and hoped she didn't feel how cold my fingers were. I couldn't help being nervous; Cameron wouldn't stop staring.

"I hope I'm not wearing out my welcome," he said, still looking at me.

Mrs. Wilson and I looked at each other, unsure whom he was speaking to.

"You know we love seeing you," Mrs. Wilson laughed, apparently having decided that he was talking to her. "We'd never throw a party without you."

I took an unladylike sip of my drink and stepped away from him. "Let me take that tray out," I said, gesturing to the wine glasses.

"Thank you! I'll get the cakes ready. Cameron, get out there and drink!"

I pushed quickly through the kitchen doors and heard them swoosh to a close behind me. I didn't want him following me back out to the party. His handsomeness was too disconcerting; I didn't want to keep making a fool of myself with monosyllabic answers and awkward laughter.

I don't know what Cameron and Mrs. Wilson said after I left the kitchen. I only know that I felt his gaze follow me around the party for the rest of the night. I also know that he left with my phone number, though I never gave it to him.

****

My stomach is convinced that I'm falling from a great height, but my feet are still firmly planted on the dance floor. Cameron. He's here.

"Let's get you out of here," Bertie shouts. "I saw him for a split second. He was with that Russian mafia-looking motherfucker."

Wide-eyed, I nod and begin scanning the room for Sokolov, my husband's head of security, as Bertie pulls me through the writhing dancers. I don't know how she even spotted him, but if anyone can find a face she's not looking for, it's Bertie. I move mechanically, squeezing through tight spaces and dodging the occasional overzealous dancer. How did I blow my cover? Did I seriously fuck everything up by going out for one night of fun?

I can see the orange glow of the exit sign when I feel a hand lock around my upper arm. My heart leaps into my throat. It's fight-or-flight time, and my body is choosing flight. I want to follow Bertie out of this club and pretend I don't feel the weight of a man's hand on my arm. As I keep moving with Bertie, however, the hand grips me so hard that I have to stop.

Unable to drag me further, Bertie stops and looks back at me. I see her mouth the words "what the fuck?", and then I see her eyes widen as she looks behind me. She drops my hand immediately.

I turn and find a police officer glowering at me. I actually feel a small rush of relief. It's not Cameron. Or Sokolov.

The officer leans in. I can see the black swirls of a tattoo peeking out above his collar. "Come with me, ma'am."

"Why?" I scream over the music.

"Please, ma'am."

"I don't under-"

"Come with me."

I turn to Bertie, whose expression is a mix of confusion and anger. She steps up to him, looking as fearsome as she can at her height. "I'm calling the actual cops," she yells.

Shock courses through me, though I'm not sure whether I'm more shocked at Bertie's audacity or at the possibility that this man is impersonating an officer.

He points to his badge and shows Bertie his ID. She glares at him but stays quiet. I look helplessly back at her as the officer pulls me toward the exit. She pushes people out of the way as she follows us.

My ears feel fuzzy as we step out onto the sidewalk. The people waiting impatiently behind the velvet rope gawk at the sight of a woman being escorted out by a cop. A few of them begin taking pictures with their phones, hoping I'll make a scene.

I look up at the officer. "I haven't done anything illegal," I say quietly. At least I think it's quiet; my ears are still ringing with the noise of the club.

"Follow me, ma'am," he replies. "It's in your best interests."

"What do you mean? I'm not resisting arrest," I say as I walk beside him. But is this even an arrest? Are all arrests this weird and confusing?

I look back to find Bertie and see that she, too, has been detained by another mysterious officer. None of this feels right. I need to run. I don't know where I'll go or how far I'll get, but I need to try.