Layover Rules

Chapter Eighteen



Alicia and I were eating dinner at a Greek place Saturday night. I’d filled her in on everything that had happened immediately after I got back to New York—from how the trip had been perfect but had quickly deteriorated there on the waterfront when I told Sam, to the three-hour cab ride from Key West to Miami and how I cried the whole time, nearly hating myself for what I’d done.

My regret wasn’t over the fact that I had lost him. It wasn’t about me. It had everything to do with what I’d done to him. And as that truth became clearer, it occurred to me that what I’d put him through just might have been worse than what Trevor had done to him.

I’d never felt lower in my life, and I knew I deserved to feel that way.

Two days had gone by and I was tired of going over the whole thing so many times, by myself and with Alicia.

As we ate, I asked her about a date she’d gone on the night before. She had offered to cancel on the guy and stay with me, but I insisted that she go.

“It wasn’t bad,” she said. “Actually, it was pretty good.”

I looked at her, stunned at what I was hearing. “So, no weirdness? No revelations that he’s into…I don’t know, having sex in a bathtub full of pudding?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad, actually. What kind of pudding?”

“Tapioca.”

“Okay, that sounds bad. But yeah, I think this could be the one for now.”

“‘The one for now.’ That’s a big change from just ‘The One.’”

She shrugged and picked up the dessert menu. “I’ve changed my mind. You can’t search for ‘The One.’ It’s not like ordering from a menu.” She realized she was holding one in her hand and held it up. “For instance, this Boston cream pie. I can say it out loud, have it delivered in a few minutes, and that’s all it takes. Relationships are more complicated than that.”

I looked at her with a straight face, waiting for the punchline. When she said nothing, I opened my eyes wider, thrust my head forward and said, “And?”

“And what?”

“Relationships are more complicated than ordering from a menu. That’s it? No punchline?”

“No punchline.” She opened the menu. “It’s not a joke.”

“That’s what you’ve learned from online dating?” I said. “Basically what I said about it from the start?”

“I know, I could have listened to you and saved a lot of time. I guess I’m the type of person that only learns by doing, rather than being told something.”

She wanted to hit a club after dinner, but I wasn’t in the mood and wouldn’t be for a while. So we settled on seeing a movie.

“Let’s watch something that has a lot of explosions,” I said.

She looked at me over the rim of her margarita glass. “Say again?”

“No chick-flicks. No rom-coms. Nothing about men and women and love and relationship strife…none of that. Let’s go see people blowing up a bunch of shit. Not that I have any frustrations to work out.”

“Oh, no,” she said, grinning. “Not at all.”



. . . . .



After a very satisfying and blissfully mindless movie, complete with the largest popcorn and soda they offered, I got off the subway at the corner of my block and started toward my building. It was a typical Saturday night on a New York City street—people walking in groups, only a few singles like myself, cabs trying to speed past each other to the next stoplight, drivers honking their horns as though that would magically clear the way for them.

I was a few steps from my building’s front door when I heard him.

“Blair,” was all he said, just loud enough to be heard over the street noise.

I turned and saw him stepping toward me.

He was dressed in a tracksuit and his hair was a mess. He closed the door and walked toward me. His hair was a little longer than usual and he had a few days’ worth of whiskers on his face.

I stood frozen in place, more than shocked to see Trevor. I was struck silent by his appearance. He’d never gone out like that when we were together.

When he got closer, he said, “Can we talk somewhere?”

I stepped away from him, backing myself up against the wall of my building. I should have gone for the door.

“Trevor, what are you doing here?”

“You look sunburned,” he said.

I didn’t acknowledge his comment. “Why are you here?” I demanded.

“You mean, what am I doing not in jail? I had a bail hearing this morning.”

Great. Just as I was beginning to stop looking for news updates on him.

“I can’t…” I started to say, then stopped myself. “I don’t want to talk.”

He sighed and stepped closer to me.

“Leave, Trevor.”

“Not yet. You owe it to me to hear me out.”

My mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? I owe it to you? After what you’ve done to me?”

“I saved you.”

“Saved me?”

“The night I told you to leave. If you had stayed, you would have been too close to it all and there’s no telling what would have happened.”

“I’ve already been tracked down and questioned by the FBI. Oh, and so have my parents. And you want credit for saving me?”

“It could have been a lot worse.”

“Really? How so?”

He stepped closer to me and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to go into it. Just be glad I protected you.”

Before I could detect what he was doing, his hand was up to my face, and he ran the back of his fingers down my cheek.

“You’ve been gone so long,” he said.

I moved away from him. “You are the least self-aware person I’ve ever known. You’re a criminal, Trevor, and you almost made me into one.”

“I saved y—”

“Stop saying that. Just stop. It’s ridiculous. You’re trying to take credit for saving me from a situation that you created. And, oh, by the way, I had no idea what you were up to. You know why? Because you never told me anything. I had no idea what your business was really all about. And even though you’ve gotten us both into this nightmare, you know what’s worse?”

He stood facing me, but not trying to come closer. He didn’t say anything.

“Do you?” I repeated.

Still no response.

“Why am I not surprised that you can’t answer? I’ll tell you what’s worse. You never opened up to me on a personal level. Not once. You think sex is intimacy, because you read those books? Wrong.”

I saw something in his eyes. A flash of anger? No, embarrassment.

I let that sink in as we stood there facing each other, maybe five feet apart. I guess it was out body language and my increasingly loud voice that kept people from walking between us.

“Leave, Trevor. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“The f*ck I don’t. Get—”

He grabbed my wrist.

“Let go of me.”

He didn’t say anything. He just held my wrist, trying to pull me closer to him as he walked forward toward….

The limo. I’d been so distracted, I hadn’t realized I was backing up toward his limo. Where was Benson? Why was he letting this happen?

I yelled his name.

“He’s not driving tonight,” Trevor said, tightening his grip on me.

A few people slowed down as they passed by on the sidewalk, but there was no Good Samaritan among them.

“Get off me!” I yelled, and within a couple of seconds, there were two cops pulling Trevor away from me.

I got free and ran for my building, opened the door and watched from behind the glass.

“Everything okay, Ms. Dyson?” asked Carlos, the doorman, who was behind the concierge desk.

I looked his way and almost lashed out at him for not seeing what was going on, but I just turned my attention back to the sidewalk, where the cops were putting handcuffs on Trevor. I couldn’t help but think back to the times he’d put them on me, and how he would never allow it to be done to him, but now had no choice.

He was standing at the back of his limo being frisked by one of the officers, as the other walked toward the building and came inside.

Carlos started to walk over. “Is there a problem?”

The officer said, “I’ve got this.” Then he turned to me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not hurt? Don’t need medical attention?”

I shook my head.

The cop got a notebook out of his shirt pocket, and clicked his pen. “Tell me what happened.”

I told him everything that had transpired on the sidewalk and then told him who Trevor was, and that he was out on bail.

“I thought I recognized him. He’s going to jail anyway, on a clear-cut bail violation for the assault on you, but I need to ask if you want to press charges.”

I watched as a patrol car pulled up behind the limo. Two more cops got out. Trevor was handcuffed, and they led him to their car. He turned and glared at me as one of the cops opened the door, then put his hand on top of Trevor’s head and guided him into the backseat.

Thoughts of testifying rushed through my mind. I would very likely already be doing that in the federal case.

“What would he be charged with?” I asked.

“Assault and battery, and attempted kidnapping.”

I looked at the offer, surprised.

He continued, “He was going to force you into his limo, ma’am.”

I watched as the patrol car pulled away. Trevor glared at me the whole time.

“Is he going to get out?”

“No, ma’am. Bail violation. I can almost guarantee they won’t grant him bail again.”

So he’d sit in jail until his federal trial. Mr. Rantham had told me during one of our phone calls that between the number of charges, combined with the federal docket backlog, Trevor would probably not go on trial for at least a year. I didn’t want to be involved in two different cases involving Trevor. It would take too much out of me, and I had to get on with my life. I’d never get out of testifying in the federal case, but I had control over whether I’d have to face Trevor in court over what happened on the sidewalk.

“If you’d like to think about it, you can have some time,” the officer said, putting away his notebook and pen.

It took me just a couple of seconds to look at this from a different perspective. Why let Trevor get away with what he’d just tried to do? Why be afraid of his stare in court when I testified? To give in to those fears was only letting him continue to have control over me.

I shook my head as I changed my mind. “I don’t need time to think about it. I want to press charges.”



. . . . .



I called Alicia when I got up to my apartment and calmed down. She offered more than ten times to come over and stay the night with me, or to come get me and we’d take the subway to her place and I could stay there for the night. I declined each time. It wasn’t as though I was in any danger. Trevor was back in jail, probably for good.

I turned on the TV, hoping to find something mindless to watch, which doesn’t seem to be much of a problem these days.

I settled on one of the so-called “reality” shows.

It wasn’t even ten minutes after I hung up with Alicia that my phone rang.

“We’re not taking no for an answer,” Ross said. “You’re coming to stay with us for the rest of the weekend, and you’re going to relax and clear your head of all this craziness. And if you need wine to help, we can definitely arrange that.”

I smiled at the kindness of my friends. “That sounds great,” I said. “But, you know, it’s already late on Saturday and I have to work Monday. I’d love to come, but I just can’t. I need to relax.”

“Well, I can’t force you to do anything,” he said. “So I guess I’ll have to take no for an answer, after all.”

“So Alicia called you, I guess?”

Ross said, “Yeah, and I’m glad she did because obviously you weren’t going to. Blair, I can’t believe what that a*shole did to you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call. I just didn’t have it in me.”

“Well, you sound okay, all things considered,” Ross said.

Steven finally spoke, saying, “You do sound surprisingly good.”

“Hi, Steven.” I thought about what they’d both said and reached a surprising conclusion despite what had happened earlier. Or maybe it was precisely because of what happened. “You know, I think I’m going to be fine.”



. . . . .



The following Monday was my first day shadowing Beth, preparing for my new job. I’d never gone into any aspects of my personal life with her, and I wasn’t about to start with something so traumatizing as being part of an alleged kidnapping.

Jesus. Was he really going to do that? I’m sure it wouldn’t have been a kidnapping in the way people usually think of it—bound and gagged, sedated, hidden away in a basement.

Trevor very well may have taken me against my will, but it would have been more along the lines of getting me alone in the limo so he could use his verbal charms to talk me into whatever it was he wanted. Or, more accurately, use the verbal charms he thought were his, but were in reality nothing more than him imitating characters from those books.

The guy was more f*cked up than I realized, and more than once during work that morning, when I was alone and my mind had time to ponder all of this, I scolded myself for not recognizing it sooner.