CHAPTER FIFTEEN – DENBRIGHT
ILLUMINATED DISILLUSION
In the few weeks since my speech, my Chief Panel of Advisors and I have spent days upon days holed up in my office blueprinting a complete overhaul of CANARY policy. I have had to switch back and forth between tracking new Beehive leads, monitoring the Charlevoix mission, and crafting new on-campus regulation. Sleep has been non-existent. Meetings have been non-stop. A sea of empty coffee cups and a mountain of briefings have cluttered my desk.
Dark circles under my eyes, I stroll across the Quad toward the Infinity Court and enter the office of Senior Discussant Jeremiah Aurellio. The Senate Majority Leader, President Pro Tempore, Senate Minority Leader, Speaker of the House, and House Minority Leader sit as holograms, all facing me in a semi-circle around Aurellio's desk. I try to catch my breath as we exchange pleasantries.
And as I sit in front of some of the most powerful leaders in the world, calling the meeting to order myself, I realize my lack of confidence and comfort in such a position was only borne out of people viewing me as a threat, not a liability. Maybe they should have done more to earn the top spot, almost as much as I must do to continuously earn my place now. In a firm, workmanlike tone that finally demands respect, I begin, "In light of the Colosseum bombing, I'd like to start by discussing my cabinet's policy proposals specific to the main CANARY campus out here in Puerto Rico..." The Senior Discussant and congressional leaders nod. I eye the briefing in my hand and read, "First, to address government transparency, we want to mandate a specific number of town halls public officials must hold per calendar year. We must also include expanded options for face-to-face appointments for citizens to express grievances to CANARY officials, along with civilian oversight liaisons for all bureaucratic departments... mandated bi-annual inefficiency reviews... independent arbitration and fact-checking panels for government press releases... and an on-campus data bank to document all administrative activities with limited confidentiality exemptions." Fiona's press staff will have to recalibrate their entire approach if this legislation hits the Infinity Court floor. The days of glossing over the truth are done.
Even as the congressional leadership exchanges looks, taken aback with wide eyes and furrowed brows at my proposals, I press on, "Second, to address government efficiency, my advisors and I want to establish a performance management system that includes shared performance dashboards and peer-manager networks for all CANARY employees. We've also discussed work standards being linked to salary." The chaotic Beehive workers will finally stop buzzing so loud, instead guided by a queen bee's firm stinger.
As some of the leadership begins to nod, I continue, "And, finally, the Beehive uncovered text messages on the closed-circuit Z-Pulse network concerning bombing rumors the morning before the memorial. So, to address refugee violence, we need steeper fines and legal liability for violent messages sent on our servers. However, my cabinet and I also want to require refugees attend counseling so we can dissect the underlying motives for their advocating violence or sympathizing with the Red Doves. Psychiatric evaluations and rehab first, dungeons only as a last resort...." The image of the construction workers, twisted with fury as they fired at our guards, when I was shuttled out of the Colosseum sends a shudder down my spine. "With careful consideration of public polling data and from our on-campus policy experts, these are our proposals, and we need them if this organization—and country, for that matter—is going to have a fighting chance against the Red Doves' operations." My blunt, non-negotiable delivery sweeps a layer of silence over the office.
After a long pause Senior Discussant Aurellio grins. "Seems like we should've had these regulations a long time ago... But Director Page never had any idea how to run this place."
"Do you think they could pass in the Infinity Court?" I ask. "I'm willing to sign an executive order if not, but I think we need to show consensus to gain public support."
"After the bombing, any constructive action would be welcome by the House of Discussants. I'll give this list to my legislative research team, and we'll see what we can put to the floor for a vote," Aurellio assures with a nod.
The Senate Majority Leader grins. "Well, I must say... I'm impressed. You'll still need the CANARY Congressional Oversight Committee on board. But... I mean... President Bessemer will want to look productive after all this mess, so the odds of passage in the House and Senate look decent."
"Speaking of..." I say. "My Chief Panel of Advisors and I also discussed nationwide equivalents to these CANARY campus policies. Our efforts to build trust in government and limit violence in the population on this campus mean nothing if the entire country's still up in flames."
"What do you propose?" the Speaker of the House asks, narrowing his eyes in slight hesitation.
I flip to the next section of the briefing and continue in an even, matter-of-fact voice, "We need to take a long hard look at poverty in an American economy becoming increasingly more globalized and automated, especially in urban areas like Chicago. Government officials can't just condemn extremist or populist rhetoric like Bessemer's Rose Garden speech after Sedona. We need to offer a more appealing alternative to blowing up a stadium.... This alternative includes negative income taxes as subsidies for low-revenue families, contingent on whether they're employed or currently seeking employment... tax incentives for Fortune 500 companies to give charitable donations, especially in declining rural areas... welfare reform designed to provide a path to self-sufficiency and not just an endless cash stream.... These and other economic stimulus policies give people a sense of freedom, purpose, self-esteem, all of which curb the need for violence...." I picture the Rhodes household with food in the cupboards, a recovered Michael Sr. in his armchair, charitable goods dropped at the front door, and Michael leaving for a job he had the time and means to land.
The Speaker of the House nods, appearing convinced. But the President Pro Tempore rebukes, "Putting a few extra bucks in people's pockets isn't going to stop terrorism in its tracks."
"I also want to implement the CANARY transparency and efficiency measures throughout the entire federal government," I challenge, unwavering. "This campus is just a microcosm of people coming in from around the country. If the policies end up working here, why not across America?"
The congressional leadership officials shift in their seats as another unchallenged silence fills the office. I adjust my hijab and continue, "The online messaging regulation and counseling could also be applied to Red Dove sympathizers across the country, either people caught committing acts of terror like the Soldier Field attack or people spreading violent propaganda online like after the Sedona mission failure. Instead of just beating down their ideology directly, we could rehabilitate their feelings of... I don't know... isolation... disenfranchisement... other sources of anger.... Of course they're still terrorists, so we must require the treatment program if they want to avoid a lengthy prison term." As I peer up at the Speaker of the House's hologram, his green eyes fade to gray, and within the innocence of those gray eyes lies a tortured, deprived soul in need of rehabilitation.
Then I turn to my final points, but as I read the briefing, I decide to close the packet instead. "We'd also be blind if we pretended race wasn't a factor in these Red Dove-type movements. White resentment toward minorities..." Suddenly, the door behind me creaks. I whip around, half expecting Stripe General Maddox to burst through into the office. But then I continue, "If people can't learn to socially integrate within shifting demographics, we'll only have more racial tensions. We need a national education campaign about how this country will inevitably change and how the policies we've discussed today ensure no one will be left behind as a result." The supercut in my mind flips back to Michael tossing Dick into the street as I sat, my covered head bowed submissively, at the dinner table.
The Senate and House members sit in silence, skimming through their copies of the briefing. After a tense pause, the House Minority Leader says, "This is an ambitious agenda, Director, and I appreciate you and your staff for pushing this, but I don't know if all—"
"This needs to happen," I interject. "Look... if we can't adopt meaningful reform in moments of crisis, then we shouldn't be in power at all."
The House Minority Leader looks appalled. "All I'm saying is—"
"She's right," interrupts the Speaker of the House. The Minority Leader backs down. "Enough of these endless deliberations. I'll call a joint session and try to make progress on these policies in Congress, but the bill won't be signed by Bessemer overnight."
"As will I in the Infinity Court," Aurellio adds. "Thank you, Director. And thank you, Congressmen, for being here today."
After the congressional leadership's holograms dissolve, I shake hands with Senior Discussant Aurellio and exit his office. A marble hallway bordered by black stone pillars runs perpendicular outside his door. CANARY lawyers hurry down the hall toward the Infinity Court entrance at the far-left end. Through an open archway, the Infinity Court is a vast circular space with two crossed gavels painted in the center of the floor. The House of Discussants, wearing black robes with yellow sleeve patches resembling wings in flight, sits in rising tiers of benches under the infinitely high ceiling.
But all my eyes focus on is the quote above the archway: "The river is eternal and always changing."
* * *
I step into the glass elevator, which glows as sunlight floods the space. The shimmering box descends, but soon enough, miles of rock coat the glass tiles in darkness. Then the elevator stops, and its doors open on a dim dungeon hallway. I march through the web of passages until I reach the Sedona detainee's cell.
Inside, the Stripe General is pummeling the kid with questions. The Red Dove appears on the verge of tears. "What are the Red Doves planning next?" Maddox growls. He slams his fist on the table.
"You're dismissed, Maddox," I order, my curt voice bouncing off the walls.
Maddox peers over his shoulder at me as if I were an annoying fly he wanted to swat. "Aaliyah, I'm in the middle of a line of questioning."
"Yeah, that seems to be going great." I gesture to the tears streaming down the Red Doves' splotchy face.
"Look..." Maddox rises from his feet until his bulging neck cranes down at me. "I don't care how emboldened you might feel after that little speech you gave a couple weeks ago, but our approach here stays the same."
"Actually, I'm changing our strategy." I hand him a signed Infinity Court bill. "The House of Discussants passed this yesterday evening. From now on, we actually have a strict chain of command for intelligence-related decisions, not the chaotic free-for-all from Page's days."
"What a load of—" Maddox takes the bill and glares at me with his signature scowl.
"I'll be taking over this Red Dove's questioning, so please..." I clear a path for him to exit. After a moment, Maddox shoves the bill back in my face and stomps out.
"W-w-what was t-that all about?" the Red Dove mutters.
I pause and smile at the trembling boy in front of me. "Nothing you need to worry about. Anyway... how was your tour around campus after my speech?"
"Uh..." He takes a second to collect himself, an edge of suspicion in his eyes. "Fine, actually... Fiona took me to the Aviary and the orchards. We went for a ride on the Monorail to Callum's Cascade and Cave."
"Good, I'm glad we could arrange for you to be out of solitary. But today... I want to take you somewhere else." I summon the guards inside, and they begin uncuffing the Red Dove at my command.
He furrows his eyebrows. "Um... I'm still not sure I want to—"
"Trust me," I say, a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm not Maddox. You can trust me. I knew your leader Tourtombee, after all...." The detainee lets out a breath and rises.
I lead the Red Dove, trailed by a single guard, out of the interrogation room and through the dungeons until we reach the elevator. The cage soars upward through the dark until the sun can flood the glass tower again. Atticus's tan skin shimmers in the midday rays. Then the doors slide open on the second floor of the CANARY Building.
"Come on... just down here..." I take the prisoner's hand and guide him down the winding staircase into the Commons. His wide eyes still flit around erratically, but I can hear him try to even his breathing.
Families and children mill about the Commons, resting by fireplaces and lounging on couches. Tiki's screeches evoke fits of laughter across the crowd. But when I descend the staircase, some refugees murmur and toss me glares, while others nod with optimistic cheers. Hopefully, my approach with this Red Dove is another step in the right direction.
We exit the tunnel branched off the CANARY Building and stroll across the sunlit Quad. As we walk side by side, the Red Dove stares up at Brandmand Tower and sighs. "Is everything you said true? In your speech?" He bites his lip.
We make eye contact, and I reply, "Every word... C'mon, right over here..."
We enter the library. At the sight of the ground floor, the Red Dove's mouth falls open, his tense jaw loosening as the anger programmed into his mind softens. He glides his fingers across the oak tables beneath the grassland mural. His eyes wander to the scenes depicted on the stained-glass windows. On the right wall, sunlight streams through the windows depicting the Declaration of Independence, the Confederate surrender at Appomattox, the marches led by MLK, and the moon landing. On the left wall, shadows coat the windows showing 9/11, the Trail of Tears, the Battle of Antietam, the Nat Turner slave revolt executions, and the 1929 stock market crash. With my security guard trailing us, I lead the Red Dove between two sides of the American coin, up to the second level, and through the rows of bookshelves waiting for him.
The Red Dove starts trembling beside me. "Have these books been approved for viewing?" Then he raises his voice, "I can't be here! If He sees me..."
"Look... knowledge is free on this campus. We don't police what our people can and can't see. You can trust us here." I place a tentative hand on his shoulder, and his body stiffens before pulling away.
"How can I trust the information? You could be brainwashing me. Tourtombee said to never let the enemy manipulate us."
Over the Red Dove's shoulder, I signal for Reggie to head downstairs. Then I turn to the shelves and begin pulling books down. "If Tourtombee was so certain of his ideology, wouldn't he want it challenged so he can be proven correct?" I plop the volumes in the detainee's hands. "I'm not forcing you to believe anything in here. Pick up a book and form your own opinion."
"I can't form an opinion on fake facts." He shoves the book back into my arms.
"These books are fact-checked and sourced from all over the world. Read however much you're comfortable with. Or none at all if you're not ready today. We can head back if you want."
The Red Dove risks a look at the shelves on either side of us. His pupils dilate, then his body shifts absentmindedly toward the books. He bites his lip and says, "Fine. I'll see what warped version of reality you've manufactured in here." He forces a cold look back onto his face.
We spend the next few minutes combing through bookshelves. With a stack in his arms, I lead the Red Dove over to a desk by the window overlooking the Aviary's glass dome in the west. At first, the Red Dove is hesitant to even turn the page for fear it might burst into flames. But over time, his muscles relax, and he starts reading faster. His golden brown eyes settle into an unbreaking stare as a natural curiosity overcomes him. Every now and again, the Red Dove tries to stop himself. He closes his eyes to fend off the voices forced into his head before I have to encourage him to continue.
But at one point, the Red Dove shakes his head before slamming an American history book shut. "Wow... you almost had me fooled that America was the greatest country in the world. This talk of military victories, technological advances, moon landings..." He analyzes the ceiling as if imagining those wonders. A dejected smile ripples across his lips, quickly consumed by a bitter frown. "All to cover up the hellscape this country has become..."
"You really believe that?" I challenge. The Red Dove stares me down without a word. "We have had our fair share of accomplishments."
The Red Dove clenches his jaw. "And North Korea claims some of their leaders had supernatural births. Just myths..."
"You think we're falsifying our history? Cleaning out all the rot?"
"I know you're falsifying history. This ship's wood rotted long ago."
I give a knowing grin before turning to pluck another book from the shelves. "Read this, then..." I hand him a volume of first-hand accounts from the Japanese internship camps under FDR.
The Red Dove narrows his eyes at the book before flipping it open to read the introduction. After a couple minutes, he chuckles. "This just proves Tourtombee right. The American government is evil."
"Our government has committed undeniable sins when working against its people. But, for example, FDR also created the New Deal programs, which generated jobs for millions of low-income Americans just like Michael Rhodes. Look... I feel guilty about not saving Michael the first time around, and I understand what led him to start the Red Doves. But the current system should be reformed with genuine leaders in place to address people's concerns, not torn to the ground."
"The Red Doves are the solution," he insists.
"You call a civil war a solution?" Our eyes find each other, and for a moment, the Red Dove's wings stop flapping as he bows his head.
But then he takes flight again. "No, no, no. This is all a trick. Stop trying to brainwash me away from my family!" He tosses the book to the floor with a loud thud.
I lean in closer. "Let me ask you... has Michael ever admitted to any rot in the Red Doves? You're aware of how he's abducting people, correct? Meanwhile, these books are open to the public and acknowledge our country's mistakes. So who's really trying to brainwash you?"
The Red Dove's golden brown eyes shine in the dim of the library as he swivels around the room with a newfound consideration. "I... I d-d-don't... Just stop, okay?!"
I rise from my chair. "Reggie will stay with you. I'll be back after my afternoon briefing, but you're free to leave whenever you want."
But when I return hours later, I find the Red Dove at the same desk with a pile of books at his side. His pointed nose nearly scratches the page as his eyes comb over the abundance of information. A slight smirk tugs at his lips.
I clear my throat to announce my return. "You like reading, don't you?"
The Red Dove snaps out of his daze and shoots me a narrow-eyed look. He shuffles away from me in his chair. "I don't know. I... I haven't had much time to read in the past."
"Not given the opportunity?" I ask, advancing with caution.
"Sometimes I was allowed to."
"Your sometimes here is always. What do you like reading about?"
The Red Dove eases into a slouch as I sit beside him. "Law, weirdly enough. Mostly because I was told all my life laws didn't apply to us."
"You know... Michael wanted to be a lawyer once. At one point, he was the one who wanted to change the system," I reveal.
The Red Dove scrunches his eyebrows and peers over at a stack of legal encyclopedias. The resources Michael Rhodes never had the good fortune to access. Then the Red Dove begins gnawing at his fingernails. "I still can't betray him. Y-y-you know that, right?"
My Z-Pulse buzzes: Charlevoix update meeting in ten minutes. I hope my sitting here today was enough of a sign of goodwill. I turn to the Red Dove. "Just keep reading... I can contact someone in the Infinity Court and get you some apprenticeship manuals if you're interested in learning about law. But I have to go."
And as I make to head back downstairs, the Red Dove's next words stop me in my tracks. "Um... Director..." I turn around to see his terrified eyes again. After a long, tortured pause, he whispers, "Uh... m-m-my n-name is Atticus...." More words try to escape his lips, but then he shuts down again.
I have more questions for another day, even as the possible answers terrify me. But for now, I just offer him a warm smile. "Thank you for trusting me with that information, Atticus."
Maybe I can still bring someone back into the light, despite my past failures....
* * *
With our admission of love finally in the air, for the next few months, Michael and I blossomed alongside the spring flowers. Art shows. Boat rides. Lazy dinners on the couch with bland food other people would have found boring. Whenever I returned from rough days of ridicule at work, he was always there to comfort me. Michael would rant about these strangers, and I would just laugh. He even bought me four different pins each showing a fist boasting a middle finger, which I refused to wear. The Michael from Emporia would never waste money on a practical joke, but I had recently given him his own credit card, which he felt obliged to run through like a freight train.
At a restaurant one morning, Michael barked at our waiter, "And when you bring out the bacon, make sure you crisp it up real good! Or else I'm sending the food back." Even when Michael grew overbearing, he had a charisma so infectious even the targeted waiter laughed as he jotted down his oh-so-specific order.
"Sorry about him..." I say to the waiter before turning to Michael, "What did we say about 'common courtesy'?"
"Look, if you want something, you say it. Point blank." Despite his newfound bravado, I could still see Michael's fractured soul simmering beneath the surface of his storm-cloud eyes.
"Well, where I'm from... we're taught to be a little more obedient and modest." I adjusted my sky-blue hijab before signing the check. When we exited the restaurant, a customer narrowed his eyes at me in suspicion as we crossed paths. Michael rested his hand on my back and escorted me away, and my lingering eyes were glued to him all the way home.
Later that night, we snuggled in bed and talked for hours about nothing and everything. One minute Michael was boasting about how amazing his new custom trench coat was; the next he was discussing the mysteries of the universe. Then the conversation would immediately grow personal without skipping a beat.
"How's Eleanor doing?" I asked.
"Sometimes even I don't know." He sighed. "Eleanor's a distant person. I'm the only one she's ever opened up to."
"Why is that?" I asked, almost too eagerly.
"We were best friends growing up. And then on-and-off again dating when we were teenagers. I guess she just trusts me. The Edensheers would always let me spend the night when Dad was on another drunken rampage. Eleanor helped me with school. She always said I was too idealistic and needed to hit the books to make anything of myself. Ironic, huh?"
"What do you mean?" I shifted the covers and wrapped my arms around his torso, trying to claim him in Eleanor's absence.
"Ironic that the person with all the dreams never found something worthwhile to do with his life."
"Well..." I smiled mischievously before kissing him. "I know someone who'll always be here when you find that passion, which you will... because you can't seem to shut up about things you're even slightly enthusiastic about." We both exploded into laughter.
Michael's phone began buzzing on his bedside table. He left my arms and checked the screen. "Speaking of..." he said, picking up the call. "Hey, Eleanor. What's up?" As Michael listened with rapt attention, I shifted my gaze to the opposite wall. "Uh huh... uh huh... yeah... When? Are you serious? What'll happen to them?" He paused again, biting his lip. "Okay... yeah... thanks for letting me know...." Michael hung up the phone.
"What happened?" I asked.
Michael shook his head in disbelief and locked his jaw. "The Kalkaskas... you met them at dinner... they're being evicted next week." He slammed his phone down on his night stand, and his diamond-encrusted watch fell to the floor.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Michael. Is there anything I can do?" I rubbed his shoulder to comfort him.
But Michael shifted away. "I'm the one who should be doing something. I guess for the first time, I have no path. No purpose. No immediate responsibilities with Dad gone. I mean... the luxuries of the city... the luxuries you've given me.... make me feel like I should be doing something to help folks back home." Michael sighed before looking at me. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand. I'm going to sleep. Good night. I love you." Michael turned his back to me for the first time even as he declared his feelings. I reached out to touch him, but he was reaching for his last sip of booze on the nightstand.
"I love you, too..." I whispered into the dark. But Michael was no longer listening to me, but the snuffed-out cries from millions of others....
The next morning, I woke up early to pack our bags for a museum tour that Michael and I had been planning for months. But when Michael descended from the bedroom, he said, "I'm going to stay here today. Should probably call the Kalkaskas..."
"Uh... are you sure? Michael... we've had this on the books for weeks. The tour was thousands of dollars."
"Like that makes a difference to you?" Michael scoffed.
"Um... well... all right... I guess I'll go myself. Want anything before I take off?"
"No, I'm fine," Michael said, averting my eyes as he sank into the couch.
Over the next couple weeks, Michael stopped wandering around the city to try every coffee shop and compare its quality to the online reviews. Or going to every home Yankees game. Even though my money ran deep, this Manhattan luxury all became too shallow for him. But a part of Michael must have still loved me because he never followed through with plans to return home. Despite his staying at the penthouse, my repeated attempts for his attention were futile: he ignored my calls to meet for lunch on my break, he refused to shop with me after work, and he barely spent time in the living room at night. He began holing himself up in our bedroom all day, talking to Eleanor and others from home. Perhaps he was simply homesick, and our relationship could someday return to what it once was. Michael needed a newfound purpose to stay with me in Manhattan.
One day, a thought struck me. "Michael..." I said. The 2020 presidential primary debates were playing on the television. Liquor bottles littered the coffee table. "You could go back to school!"
"Huh?" he mumbled.
"Claim your GI Bill benefits to go to college. You deserve something for your service."
Michael rolled his hazy eyes. His breath wreaked of spirits. "Yeah... now that Dad's gone, I have all the time in the world, huh? Please... I'd never take that scholarship."
I knelt down in front of the couch and put my hands on his knees. "Michael... what's wrong? You haven't been yourself lately."
He glared at me and took another sip from one of his bottles on the table. "Actually, I've been feeling more like myself lately."
"What d'you mean? You don't even leave the penthouse anymore. School could give you something to do while you're staying in Manhattan."
Michael scoffed. "That scholarship is just putting a bandage on a bullet wound." He grabbed the remote and flipped off the presidential debates. "All useless..."
I tried to caress his shoulders, but he pulled away. "Michael, I know the government system hasn't been perfect for you, but at least these benefits are something."
"You should know. You're part of it..." Michael fired back another pull of liquor. His eyes wandered to my CIA badge.
"So this is suddenly all about me now?"
"Yes, actually..." Michael slammed the bottle on the table and stood up. "Because if you would've just left me alone like I asked, I wouldn't be here."
"What? All I've ever done is help you."
"You tore me away from my life... from my friends... seduced me into some fantasy... made me forget who I was... convinced me all our problems were finally solved...." He chewed the inside of his cheek again as he overlooked the crystal Manhattan skyline from the couch. The sunlight streaming through the windows of the glass tower reflected in his innocent gray eyes.
"Where's this temper coming from?"
"Because why do I deserve this 'pass' more than everyone else?" Michael brushed past me and stumbled across the living room, into the kitchen, and toward the coat rack by the front door. Michael grabbed his new trench coat and began tearing it apart.
I surged after him. "Michael, you're only saying this because you're drunk." I pulled the trench coat from his grasp.
Michael jostled past me again and headed toward the cabinet under the sink, where he began rifling through his toolbox. He plucked his bloodred hammer from the pile of tools and rose to his feet. "I always hated that stupid chandelier!" Before I could stop him, Michael hopped onto the kitchen island and bashed the crystal chandelier.
"Michael... get down...." I scurried from the coat rock and hopped onto the island to try to restrain him.
And that was the first time he hit me.
I slipped off the island and landed on the floor with a thud, bruising my tailbone on impact. A purple welt throbbed on my face almost immediately. Michael stared down at me, his guiltless gray eyes foggy again. "Where do you think my neighbors are now?"
"What do you mean?" I shrieked.
Michael jumped off the island and grabbed me by the shirt collar, forcing me to my feet. Our faces were inches from each other. He looked deranged, savage, mad. "Where are they?!" Michael forced his hands around my throat.
"I... I don't... have... an answer..." I wheezed.
Michael ripped my CIA badge off my chest. "Maybe I finally understand where Dick was coming from at dinner. Maybe people like you should leave and stop taking away all our opportunities."
White hot rage suddenly blinded my vision. "Shut up! You don't mean that..."
"Excuse me?!" Michael slammed my body against the refrigerator.
"You don't mean that. You're the one always telling me to stand up to the assholes at work," I rebuffed.
He smashed my body against the fridge again. A glass bottle of whiskey fell off the top and crashed on my head. "Michael!" I shrieked. "You're hurting me..." Relentless, he continued slamming my body against the fridge. "Michael! Get out of my house!" Suddenly, fear sparked in Michael's widening eyes, and his fingers loosened. I slipped away from him, darted upstairs, and locked my bedroom door.
But the next day, instead of drawing blood, Michael Rhodes was bleeding tears. He laid in my arms on the couch, apologizing over and over again for his drunken meltdown. "I didn't mean anything I said. I was just drunk and homesick. I can't go back home. I don't have any work lined up. Aaliyah, I need you. I need to stay here. I love you. I'm so sorry..." Michael began chewing on the inside of his cheek again. He leaned in to kiss me, and at the time, I could not find the courage to resist.
"You're okay, Michael. I understand. I love you, too." Even as I forgave him, I knew his rant stemmed from a kernel of truth. Michael was tethered to the plights of his adult life, and no amount of blinding luxury could keep him away from that cause for long. But a part of me foolishly clung to the hope that Michael could remain fulfilled in my glass tower. I caressed his flowing chestnut hair and imagined being all alone again, with only the jerks at work for company. "I'll set you up with an office and computer here in the penthouse. You can network and find a non-profit job at an anti-poverty organization or something. You can still stay here and give back at the same time."
"I'd like that," Michael said, even as he continued to gnaw on the inside of his cheek....