Tracy Wolff - From the Beginning

“About sixteen hours.”

“Sixteen— What the hell did you give me? Ketamine? You could have killed me!”

“I called Jack when we stopped to refuel. He had me check your vitals, and they were fine. He said the sedative was probably hitting you so hard because of how run-down you are.”

“I’m overwhelmed by both of your concern.” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as she turned back around to face the window. Looking at the clouds was a lot easier than looking at Simon right now.

“Don’t do that,” he said suddenly. “Don’t pretend I’m not here—I used to hate when you did that.”

“What you like and don’t like is high on my priority list right now.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of facing him.

“I hate how you always retreat behind that stony wall of silence. I know you’re mad at me—you have the right to be. But can we talk it out like adults instead of sulking like a couple of children who’ve lost their ball on the playground?”

The words were clipped, crisp, and she realized it had been years since his accent sounded so heavy. He really was as upset by this whole thing as she was. Good. He deserved it. If that made her bitter and unfeeling, so be it. But at least she wasn’t a criminal—transporting another person from one continent to another without her permission.

“What do you want me to say, Simon?” The words were wrenched from her. “That it’s okay that you did this? It isn’t. Not at all. I’ve been making my own decisions since I was seventeen years old. I don’t appreciate one of this magnitude being taken out of my hands. And Atlanta? What the hell is in Atlanta?”

“My apartment. A little over a year ago, I took a job at a cable network based out of Atlanta.”

Despite herself, she glanced around at the very lush interior of the plane. “I think you mean you took a job at the cable network based in Atlanta, don’t you?”

He flushed a little. “Pretty much.”

She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t know what to say, not when she was so shocked at the changes in Simon. A couple of years ago, there was no way he’d have tied himself to anyone. He’d relished being one of the top freelance journalists in the world, free to follow whatever story caught his fancy.

“I still travel a lot, though. I’m one of the people they send out when all hell breaks loose somewhere in the world.”

And there it was. That sounded like the Simon she knew. An inexplicable sense of relief filled her.

When she still didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “Are we going to talk about this?” he asked. “About what happened in Africa and about…how you ended up here?” His voice trailed off lamely.

“Do you want me to wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze until your eyes bug out of your head?” she asked, sugar-sweet. “No? Then we probably shouldn’t talk quite yet. I’m still a little raw.”

He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I really am.”

“You’re not the least bit sorry. Don’t insult me by pretending that you are.”

“You were killing yourself.”

“I was working. It’s what I do.” She forced herself to lower her voice, to swallow the words and insults and pain that wanted to spill out. Wanted to spill all over him. Taking a deep breath, she said as civilly as she could, “I was leaving, anyway. I was already packed.”

“You wouldn’t have come to the States—wouldn’t have gotten the rest you need.”

“That’s not your problem. I’m not your problem.”

“I can’t stand by and watch you do that to yourself.”

“Nobody asked you to. You could have gone on your merry way. God knows, you’re good at that.”

“Damn it, Amanda. I want to help you!” His voice was raw, impassioned. “When are you going to see that? When are you going to let me in?”

“Damn it, Simon,” she mimicked him, but her voice was as devoid of feeling as his was overwrought. “I don’t want your help. When are you going to figure that out? When are you going to leave me alone?”

It was his turn to lock his jaw. His turn to face the window and the seemingly infinite sky.

She knew he was angry. Knew that, even more, he was hurt by his inability to reach her. For a brief second, she tried to care. She’d never been one to take pleasure in someone else’s pain. But when she reached down inside of herself, tried to find some remnant of the feelings she’d once had for him, there was nothing left. Only a terrible numbness.

She went back to looking out the window herself. Started counting clouds. It was going to be a long few hours until they landed in Georgia.

SIMON UNFASTENED HIS SEAT BELT with combined feelings of relief and unease. Relief because they were finally in Atlanta after what had been one of the most emotionally uncomfortable flights of his life, with the exception of the one after Amanda had called to inform him that Gabby was dead.

He was uneasy, though, because these past few hours of silence between them had been colder than the temperatures he’d endured in Antarctica covering a story on climate change. The emotional chill and Amanda’s total and complete introspection made him wonder what she had planned. Because if he knew anything, it was that Amanda Jacobs was not the type to accept her fate—especially if that fate had anything to do with him.

Crossing to the rear of the plane, Simon retrieved her backpack from where he’d stashed it. She accepted it without a word, then walked toward the front and waited patiently for the door to be opened. Simon grabbed his bag and followed her.

In only a couple of minutes, they’d collected her suitcase and then headed toward customs. More than once, he tried to start a conversation, but she shut him down every time with her absolute refusal to speak. He might have thought her voice box had suffered some terrible calamity if she hadn’t spoken clearly and politely, if a little woodenly, to the customs officer who questioned her.

After checking out her American passport and welcoming her home, he let her enter. She walked through and then it was Simon’s turn to hand his documentation to the man. After answering questions about the stories that had taken him to four continents in three weeks, he, too, was allowed in.

Amanda wasn’t waiting for him on the other side of the gate. Instead, she’d taken off, using the extra time he’d spent dealing with the customs agent to put some distance between them.

Swearing bitterly, he set off running. It was evening, so the terminal wasn’t as crowded as it could have been, but it was still busy enough that he had trouble finding her, dressed as she was in simple baggy jeans and a black tank top.

When he got to the exit doors with still no sign of her, he paused, looked around wildly. Had he overreacted, jumped to conclusions? Maybe she’d had to use the restroom? But that didn’t make sense. She would have told him if that was the case. Wouldn’t she?

Walking slowly back the way he’d come, he scanned the exiting masses carefully. If he lost Amanda here, in Atlanta, he might never find her again. No cell phone, no address to go on, nothing at all. And while he’d spent the past eighteen months without her, he’d always known where she was. The idea of never finding her again was a sucker punch to the chest. Besides, how was he supposed to put his plans into action if he didn’t know where she was?

It was on his third scan of the area that his gaze fell on a sign that read Ground Transportation, Taxis. His heart kicked up its rhythm as he took off in the direction of the arrow. Why hadn’t he thought of it right away? Of course she would try to get a taxi.

As he burst into the steamy Atlanta night, he prayed he wasn’t too late. Not that he didn’t deserve to be left behind after his total and complete stupidity. But still, he couldn’t help hoping—