Driving Me Wild

by Mia Carter

  Hell, I don’t even know if I understand. My hands clench around the rag, wringing it out because I can’t put my hands around the throat of this conversation and just make it stop. It’s too raw, too much. The rag crumples in my hands. The kitchen smells like orange zest and regrets.

  “So help us understand,” Eleni says gently, walking around to the doorway between the kitchen and what’s supposed to be the dining area, the place where I’ve got my work desk set up instead. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t deserve someone like Logan Weiss,” I say, choking out the words and immediately regretting them, but unable to halt them now that the dam has burst. “You’re both beautiful and successful, and you’ve got these amazing lives and I’m just a mess who can’t—”

  “That’s not true,” Miranda says, and her normally decisive voice is gentle, moved. “You deserve—”

  “You left, so you could stay in control,” Eleni says.

  Her black hair is wild around her, eyes intense in the way that is usually reserved for Miranda. Or our mom. Eleni is chill. She doesn’t get upset, and I can count on one hand the number of times she’s yelled or screamed or—

  “That’s not—”

  But my half-hearted protest dies on my lips. Damn it, I think.

  “You left him,” she continues, “without even talking to him, because it was easier to stop something before you got hurt, rather than see it through and risk changing your story.”

  “My story?”

  “The story you tell yourself, about how you’re not good enough, you don’t deserve love, you aren’t successful or have the job you want or have the life you want.” Eleni’s words are direct, but her voice softens. “We all have one. We all rely on it, because it helps us shape who we are. Who we think we are.”

  Okay, Oprah’s book club, I want to say. Calm your awakened chakras down. But in my gut, I know exactly what it is she’s saying. I nod, slowly, and put the rag and spray bottle on the counter.

  “It scared me, how much I wanted him.” I sniff a little and wipe at my eyes with the backs of my hands. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  “Talk to him first,” Miranda says. “Worry about deserving him later. If what you said about him is true, stop running. If he’s exactly what you expected and everything goes to shit, you call us again, and we come over and bring more food and—”

  “And she can hold him down while I go for his kneecaps,” Eleni finishes, smiling. “Rowan’s been teaching me Krav Maga.”

  Miranda rolls her eyes at this. “And we come over, and you get past it, okay? And it’ll suck but won’t it suck more if he really is the good guy you thought he was, and you let this chance slip by?”

  She’s right. They both are.

  I sigh, and nod. “I need to charge my phone, then.”

  “And you need to eat,” Eleni says, sweeping into the kitchen and tugging open my oven. The smell of their gift of food perfumes the air, and I smile. Nothing like the smell of moussaka to make anything, however insane, seem possible.

  Chapter Twenty

  Logan

  I spend the flight back home in helpless frustration, trying to contact Chloe and failing at every turn. The airline wouldn’t give me any details. Not the flight she’d taken or when she’d left, only that her final destination had been this one. Home, for both of us.

  So that’s where I’m heading.

  I’m sick with worry about her. Worst-case scenarios stream through my thoughts, each one more farfetched and impossible and wrenching than the last. It makes me physically sick to think of Chloe in danger.

  It makes me feel even worse to think that the reason she’d fled had been because of me.

  By all accounts, I have no claim on her and I know it. A few days ago, she was a stranger to me. Just a driver, someone who’d found my keys and tried to do the right thing. I’d paid for her ticket, hoping against hope that she’d bring me what I so desperately needed.

  What I’d thought had been the most important thing in the world.

  But the meeting had gone to shit, and I can’t even think about work, and in the end the drive hadn’t even mattered. Burke had played his game, and I’d beaten him at it, and inside I’d felt strangely hollow.

  I feel that emptiness now, yawning and aching.

  The last two hours of my direct flight smear by like slow-motion bugs on a windshield. I have to find out if Chloe is okay. And maybe my thoughts tend toward the morbid, because the alternative is believing that she left because she didn’t want me.

  Which is ridiculous, I know. The last thing I would want is for her to be hurt, but if she left because she simply doesn’t want to be with me, that’s her decision. I know it is. I know it.

  And yet.

  My mind races.

  Sitting in the first-class seat, once again pressurized and hurtling through the stratosphere, I can’t help but think back to when this all began.

  When I found out the driver was a young woman, I told myself that I would keep things safe, for her as well as for me. Part of that had been for the optics. In this day and age, the last thing I need as a high-profile business owner in an industry that tends to be riddled with misogyny is to even have the faintest suggestion of inappropriate behavior. I had it all arranged, vowed to keep her safe, and had thoroughly intended to do so, before we’d ended up sharing the same bed.

  Then the next night had happened. And the next, and the next. And somewhere between seeing her first airport selfie and finally getting my head between her legs I’d realized that this had become something entirely different.

  That much was obvious, as per the “head between her legs” portion of the trip, but it hadn’t just been physical, at least for me. It had been something more.

  What, exactly?

  I don’t know.

  I had hoped to have the chance to find out. But then she’d left.

  Frustrated, and torn between the fear of losing her and the agony of her not wanting to pursue it, I check my phone. Work. Status report emails. High-priority messages from HR, who are currently handling dismissing the employee who’d been in contact with Burke. Dozens of confused team-lead messages, asking me what’s going on with the code lockdown. Correspondence from my legal department.

  It’s too much.

  And I just don’t care anymore.

  Before this trip, I’d had it all figured out. Work had been my top priority, practically my only priority. I’d pushed myself to the edge and ignored all of the obvious signs. I had believed that nailing this presentation would bring me what I wanted, and the contentment would follow. I’d bet everything I had on that one chance, but I’d been wrong. Even finding the mole hadn’t brought me that satisfaction. Because I knew that it would be one more thing, then another, then another. And it had taken Chloe to show me how peaceful things truly could be.

  I ignore it all and switch over to messaging. Still no word from Chloe. The last message I received had been from Melissa, telling me that she and her wife finally decided on a name for their daughter.

  Scrolling back up, I smile, a little sadly, at how cute her daughter is. I had never imagined myself as a father, especially not given the monumental failure of a father I’d had, but there had been a brief, heady moment where the possibility had been something wonderful, not terrifying. Imagining Chloe, round with my child, had made me feel—

  Something in my gut clenches, and I take a drink of the plain soda water in my little plastic cup.

  I don’t give a shit about work anymore. I don’t care about my code or my projects or trying to make Spectrum into something that will change the world. I’m tired of being alone and being walked out on. It hurts. I didn’t realize it, but simply being with Chloe had shown me that there was something more, something wonderful.

  Something that could’ve all just been wishful thinking.

  But I don’t think it had been. At least, not all of it. The whole time, I had felt something pulling me t
o her. Something that had drawn me close, made me hope in a way that I’d never hoped before. It had been fragile and new and something I had hoped she’d felt, too.

  Had I been wrong?

  Had I seen something that hadn’t been there?

  I don’t think so.

  Hell, even now I can remember the way she’d looked up at me, wide-eyed and breathless, asking me to touch her. She’d asked, I hadn’t forced her, I hadn’t…

  I am not my father, I think, shutting off my phone abruptly. That’s not who I am.

  I close my eyes.

  Either way, I just need to know.

  The plane flies on. The world keeps turning. People in the rows and seats, the pilot, the flight attendants. Their lives go on, too. I am not the center of the universe. This is not the only problem in the world. Not even the biggest one, not by a long shot. But I need to know. Because I need Chloe more than I’ve needed anyone before. If she doesn’t want me, I’ll accept it. But if this is all some kind of awful misunderstanding, then I need to know why. Why didn’t she talk to me? Why did she run?

  I need something to take my mind off of these unanswerable questions.

  Tugging my laptop out of my bag, I’m struck by a sense of déjà vu when I open it. Once I close out of my work-related things, I’m left staring at Chloe’s portfolio site from the last time I’d searched for it, the last time I’d been on a plane. Then, panic had gripped me. It feels that way now but subtler, simmering with worry, and for an entirely different reason.

  Her artwork is beautiful.

  I click away from the logos and traditional design work, and look at the page of her original work. I want to ask her about the pieces, what made her choose the colors, what the titles, or lack thereof, mean. And as I scroll down, something catches my eye.

  “I do this comic, this fantasy thing.”

  A comic. I click on the last portfolio piece, expanding it. It’s a beautifully drawn comic panel, a woman with long, flowing hair sitting at a window in what looks to be a castle or tower. She’s staring off into the distance, a dragon skimming along the clouds on the peach-and-yellow horizon.

  Character Study: Knights in White Satin, the caption reads.

  I google it.

  And there it all is. Chloe’s comic. Panel after panel after panel, a story of yearning, dissatisfaction, desire, mistrust, all wrapped up in the trappings of swords-and-sorcery. But I know her now. And I feel like I can read between the frames, see the loneliness and weariness. I read page after page after page. This, I think. This is where her heart lies. This is her passion.

  I’m so impressed. It’s not just a comic for me. It’s her. All of those secret, inner thoughts, the things that she guards with the utmost care.

  I want to know her more. I want to ask her about them, the meaning behind this panel, or that one. I want to tell her that not every knight that comes to her door is just looking for the glory of conquest. It’s evident from the semi-autobiographical content of her comic, that must’ve been what she thought of me.

  Am I reading too much into her comic? I have to ask myself that question, wondering if the Chloe I miss is the one I created in my mind or the one who was there, gasping and writhing beneath me, showing me how she liked to be touched, pleasured. The one who had stood beside me and volunteered to help me when I was overwhelmed.

  The most recent comic had been posted a few days before our fateful first encounter. I scroll down and find that there’s over two thousand comments beneath it. People empathizing, encouraging, asking questions.

  And the realization overwhelms me: not only is this where her passion lies, it’s clear that this isn’t some little sketch she does for herself. Maybe she doesn’t publicize it as much as it deserves, but she’s good. She has fans, followers, people eager for an update. She hadn’t posted the whole time during our trip. My trip. Whatever. I’d been so focused on myself, I’d missed what was right in front of me.

  These thoughts tumble in my brain, despite prodding at the screen on the seat back in front of me, despite bringing up some drama and putting on my airline-provided headphones. Westworld, season one, episode one. Immersive already, although nothing could distract me completely from my worries. Chloe would approve, I think.

  If I ever see her again, I’ll tell her.

  This, and a thousand other things.

  I hope I get that chance.

  …

  Jonathan Falk, my assistant, greets me at the airport arrivals area, all but waving me down in my tired, jet-lagged stupor. I’m not entirely sure I ever fully adjusted to the first time change, and coming back home has just compounded it rather than negating it. But I see him and his familiar aqua hair, shirt-and-vest-and-bow-tie combo, and I am instantly grateful not only for his assistance but for the ride home I now know I won’t have to arrange.

  “Marguerite told me everything,” Jonathan says, referencing our head of legal as he steps into place beside me. “You’ve got a three o’clock with her and the team, and then a four fifteen with—”

  “Cancel them,” I say.

  Jonathan looks up at me, surprised. “What?”

  “No meetings today. Billie and Arjun can handle it all. I’m exhausted.”

  “Um,” Jonathan says, pulling out his own cell phone and typing rapidly with his thumbs as he matches my pace as best he can, for someone a foot shorter than me. “Okay. I can let them know, but—”

  “I trust them,” I say. “There’s something else that takes priority.”

  “All right.” Jonathan sounds, and looks, skeptical. This is unlike me, I know. “What do you need?”

  I consider this as we make our way through the exit, down the escalators, and out toward the short-term parking garage structure. Jonathan leads me over to the elevators, the shelter barely guarding us from the driving rain.

  “It’s personal,” I say. “Something I have to take care of. I just can’t go straight into the office. Not yet.”

  Maybe not ever.

  Jonathan taps something in his phone, replying to a message, deflecting more requests and demands for my time. I’m so fucking tired of all of it. The elevator dings, and the doors open.

  We let a handful of people out first, dragging their suitcases behind them, and then the two of us enter. The doors close. We begin to ascend.

  “Is everything okay?” Jonathan asks. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s…” I sigh, and slump back a bit against the elevator wall. “Personal.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need my help?” he says, a little more gently. I look up at him. “Whatever it is, I mean, with this legal stuff, you must be pretty shaken.”

  I consider this, looking into Jonathan’s face, reading his open expression. No, I’m not. I’m not shaken by the issue with Burke the way I know I should be. I just don’t have the energy to care.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s just been a long trip. I’m okay. Just tell everyone that I’m taking a break. From everything.”

  Jonathan’s brows draw together. “For how long?”

  The elevator doors open. I see my car parked just two spots away from the door, my familiar sleek black BMW. Jonathan must’ve driven it here to pick me up.

  “Indefinitely.”

  Elation fills me the moment the word leaves my mouth. It feels good. I’d been so afraid of what walking away would mean for me that I hadn’t even considered I could put myself first instead of grinding myself to dust. And Jonathan doesn’t ask. He just gives me a nod and dangles the keys in his hand. I catch them when he tosses them at me with a flick of his wrist. Coming around to the passenger side of my car, Jonathan gives me a quizzical look.

  “It’s fine, really,” I say. “I’m heading home, though. Tell them whatever you need to tell them. I trust you.”

  I drop Jonathan back by work on my way home, then head out to my condo, over on the South Waterfront. The familiar sight greets me as I come in through the door, the wall of glass and light wood that d
efines the open-concept space. It’s minimalist and modern, but it still remains mostly devoid of personality even after all this time. I still haven’t unpacked half of my things.

  It felt more like home back in the hotel. It had felt warm and right, because Chloe had been there. I imagine her laughing at this place and teasing me for keeping it so bare and unwelcoming. I imagine her beside me, this whole misunderstanding resolved.

  It feels too good to be true.

  I toss my bag down on my bed and tug off my clothing. Everything in my body is screaming at me to go to sleep in my own bed and deal with this in the morning—I haven’t even stopped to see what time it is, although it’s got to be in the afternoon, maybe—but the urgency drives me. I have a call to make. Several calls, actually.

  Maybe I can fix this. I just hope I’m not too late.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chloe

  My sisters stuff me full of home-cooked Greek food and then shuffle me off to bed, tucking me in with a promise to start a load full of my travel laundry and an assurance that they’re both a phone call away if I need them. I feel so, so grateful for them, more than I can express. Their truth made me feel humbled, and more than a little ashamed.

  And I’m just so tired.

  A knock rouses me from my sleep. My bed’s so soft and warm and perfect that it takes me a solid few minutes to completely wake up. But, sure enough, there it is: another knock on the door.

  Eleni probably lost her spare key, I think, as I get slowly out of bed and shuffle through my bedroom and out to my door.

  I open the door.

  It’s not my sister.

  For several long moments, all I can do is gape at him. My brain feels as slow as molasses, even as my heart begins to race and my mouth drops open. Finally, my brain and my body and my heart all seem to catch up, and I manage to croak out, “You’re here.”

  Logan smiles at me.

  He’s standing outside my door, under the covered awning as the rain pours down in buckets just behind him. He’s wearing…jeans. He’s wearing jeans? And a sweatshirt—a soft, worn, hooded sweatshirt, with a logo for something I don’t care about on the left chest and it’s him, it’s Logan, he’s—