Page 86 of Open for Negotiation
“You can’t help me,” she says plainly, coming to a stop directly in front of me with only the coffee table between us. “He’s left me with nothing. I have nothing. I have no one. No one ever stays. He said he would, and he didn’t.”
“I’m sorry you’re hurting,”
“NO YOU AREN’T!!! YOU CAN’T BE SORRY WHEN YOU’RE THE ONE TAKING HIM AWAY FROM ME, YOU WHORE!”
I jump out of my skin, pushing myself back in my seat, instinctively trying to put more distance between us.
“I don’t know what you think I’ve done to cause the pain you’re feeling, but I’m sorry that you’re feeling this way,” I say as calmly as I can, given the circumstances, as I slip my hand down by my leg, letting my fingertips slide against the edges of my cell phone. I need help.
“Everything was going fine. We were still married; I was working my way back into his life until you.” She jabs the tip of the knife into my wooden table and begins to spin it between her fingers very, very slowly. “You stepped in and suddenly, he’s done with me completely. Seems like you are more involved than you’d like to admit.”
“Why are you doing this? Why do you have a knife?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” She shrugs. “I wanted to hurt you. I still do, I think. If you’re out of the picture then maybe he will realize I need him.”
“I don’t want you to hurt me, Miranda, I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m moving back to Tennessee. I’m leaving.”
To that, she scoffs. “That’s not enough. He’s done with me completely now.” She stands again, then without warning, she bolts around toward me.
I try to scramble away but she grabs me by the face in both of her hands. The handle of the knife in her left is pressed painfully into my cheek.
I scream but it’s muffled quickly by the force of her hands pushing my cheeks inward, causing my lips to pucker out. I feel for my phone again in the cushions next to me, unable to see or feel what my fingers are touching on the screen.
Tears are burning my eyes when she gets so close to me with her own face that I can smell the booze on her breath. Her nose touches mine and her voice seethes in anger.
“I hate the way that his love for you makes me feel.” Her bottom lip trembles for a moment before she shoves me away, finally releasing her hold on me and disappearing around the corner and into my hallway.
I have to move fast because I don’t know if she’s leaving or if she’s coming back. I scramble back up to a sitting position on the sofa and yank my phone from the cushions, pulling up my call log and hitting the first and only name I can think of.
Max.
I put the phone to my ear, each ring feels like it takes forever to complete.
“Come on,” I plead with whichever god controls the phone lines and then… I hear his voice.
“Scarlett?”
“Max, I—”
The phone is quickly ripped from my hands and tossed across the room, shattering into a million pieces. “No!” she shouts, now in a full-on rage. “Why would you call him?! Why would you do that to me!?” She is crying now. Full, fat tears are flooding her face and with every passing moment I feel she is more and more out of control.
“Miranda, please don’t do anything you’ll regret. You can still stop this. You can just leave. I won’t tell anyone anything,” I plead, desperate to get her to at least put the knife down.
“You already have. You’ve already ruined everything!” She picks up a framed picture on my side table of my parents and throws it at the floor with every ounce of strength in her body.
I look around for something, anything, that I can use to protect myself. She has a knife, not a gun, thankfully, so if I can stay far enough away from her, she’s less of a threat.
My hair is still wet, still dripping onto my skin, and the cool air of the AC kicks on, causing my lips to quiver, coldness in addition to fear.
She looks around the room wildly, like an animal that is beginning to panic then turns her back to me, like she’s embarrassed. “I just wanted him to stay. I just wanted him to stay and he abandoned me like everyone else.”
This is it. This is the moment.
“Miranda, Max told me about your parents. I’m really sorry that happened to you.” I rise from the couch slowly while she’s facing away from me. I need to get to the door. If I can get to the door, my neighbors will help me. Someone has to help me.
“Of course he’d tell you,” she says, her shoulders beginning to shake. “He’d rather tell you all of my bullshit than stick around and actually be there for me. He’d rather leave me. He’d rather spend all of his time fucking you.”
One foot in front of the other, I move as stealthily as possible across the living room and toward the hallway. I make the decision to break into a run when I make it far enough away from her that I feel comfortable that I can make it.
