She sat on the floor of his bedroom, a red marker tucked behind her left ear, encircled by numerous piles of 8.5×11 sheets of paper. High ceilings, natural light. California king bed. Bocote hardwood flooring. Her tiny writing desk in the corner, the only nook in the abode where she was permitted to store the few personal belongings he allowed her to bring into his penthouse. 

Today was the day of her manuscript deadline, but he didn’t know that, even though she’d told him twice. He walked right in and exclaimed loudly, “We need to talk.”

***

His words pierced her heart. 

“It was only twice, and she called me.”

His words pierced her tongue.

“What? Nothing. You’re not going to say anything? This is hard for me too, you know.”

***

She heard his words, but she wasn’t listening. She noticed her grandmother’s cross. He hadn’t let her hang it on the wall, not into all that “mumbo-jumbo,” as he called it. She’d placed it on her desk. It rested like a cornerstone with piles of papers and unedited manuscripts atop it. His face and body were covered, but His feet and left hand jutted out from beneath the accumulation of her career aspirations. 

***

His words pierced her pride.

“This is your fault. You’ve been so focused on your silly writings.”

His words pierced her privacy. 

“While you were out of town, at that writer’s conference, she came over to our place.”

***

She remembered his proposal, towering above her while she sipped espresso and sat at a small table outside of a Parisian café. He hadn’t knelt. His black hair had been perfectly parted—not a single strand out of place. 

She hadn’t been ready, but he was him, and when he asks you that, you have to say yes. Or at least that’s what her mother had told her. 

***

His words pierced her future. 

“We’re still going to get married. This isn’t a big deal.”

His words pierced her past.

“I met her junior year. She lived in that apartment down the hall from you.”

***

She’d known him throughout all four years. Everyone on campus knew him. Dean’s List. Third baseman. Craven, Coldwell, & Logan intern. 

That night. He approached. Looking without listening. Taking without thanking. And then she was his. 

“You’re so lucky,” they all said.

***

His words pierced her innocence.

“Stop being so naïve. You knew this about me from the start.”

His words pierced her security.

“Without me, you’re nothing. You’ll be alone.”

***

Her father had died young; she barely remembered him. And her mother was a mess. Two jobs, or none, in and out and around, running every which way except towards her only child. 

“This is our chance,” her mother had said. “And his parents have a place in Vail? Don’t screw this up.”

***

She hadn’t said a word, not a single one, sitting there on the floor, a red marker tucked behind her left ear, encircled by numerous piles of 8.5×11 sheets of paper. She kept looking at her grandmother’s cross on her writing desk. 

She looked at His feet. 

She looked at His hand.

Pierced.

She stared at His feet, imagining how painful it must have been to have had that nail driven down and through. She couldn’t hear anything anymore. She’d stopped listening to all the excuses. 

I’m better than this, she thought to herself. And then she heard Someone whisper back to her from her grandmother’s cross.

Yes, you are, my child. Will you come with me?  

She wasn’t ready, but He was Him, and when He asks you That, you have to say yes. Or at least that’s what she was telling herself.

“Goodbye, Landon,” she said with a start. And what a start it truly was—out she strode, from his penthouse, from the quagmire of his control and egotism and all of his “mumbo-jumbo.” 

She walked out into the bustling city street, past the Mercedes he’d given her, and along the sidewalk until she reached the end of the block. 

Now what, she asked Him.

Follow me, He said.