Page 5 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Well then.” I let out a breath, tugging my tie looser, letting out the top button of this stuffy shirt as I slide to the floor. “Might as well get comfy.”
I can hear her sighing from across the expanse of inky darkness.
Silence. I’m not sure what to say.
The minutes stretch on. Somewhere above us, a storm is burying Minneapolis, which explains the power outage.
The cold creeps in through the floor, through my dress shoes and my pants. The elevator car smells like old carpet and chilled metal. I hear her shift again.
“Are you cold?” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re making the elevator rattle.”
“That’s…not me.”
“Hokay.” I’m already shrugging off my jacket. I hold it out in the dark, aiming for approximately where she is. My hand finds her shoulder. “Here.”
She jerks back. “I’m not taking your jacket.”
“Don’t worry about it. I run hot. Hockey player metabolism. I’m basically a furnace.”
More silence, then, quietly, “Thanks.” Her small voice fills the dark. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“My mom raised me right.” My head thumps back against the wall. “That’s about the only thing I’ve got going for me these days.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Bad night?”
“Bad six months.” The words come out before I can stop them. I blame the darkness. It does something to your defenses, you know?
Or it could be her voice. Or maybe I’m just tired. “I’m at this dinner because I have to be, not because anyone wants me here. I’m smiling and shaking hands with people who think I’m—” I stop. “Sorry. You didn’t sign up for a therapy session.”
“Nah, I didn’t. But I’m here anyway, and it’s not like there’s someone better to talk to.”
I let out a hollow chuckle. “Wow, very encouraging. Really makes me want to pour my heart out.”
She laughs, and somehow her shoulder brushes mine.
Like she’s moved closer. Probably for warmth (let’s not get carried away). But still, the gesture seems almost like camaraderie. That time we survived a broken elevator in the middle of a perilous winter night. Now I sound like someone who’s been trapped in the dark too long.
“Maybe this is all part of God’s plan,” she says. “Maybe He thought to Himself today, Hey, this guy needs someone to talk to. Let’s just lock these two in an elevator.”
“You believe in that? That God intervenes like that?”
She pauses. It’s a heavy silence, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve touched a sensitive topic. “I believe in good stories. And a good story always puts two people exactly where they need to be.”
Something about the way she says it—I believe in good stories—makes my throat tight. I believe in good stories too. In fact, so much that I did something colossally stupid.
Or at least it felt stupid at the time. But we’re not here to talk about that.
“Okay…well,” I hear myself say. “If we’re entertaining the idea that God locked us up in here so I could talk out my problems…”
“I’m listening.”
“I made a mistake when I was a kid. A big one. And I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to prove I’m not that person anymore. And I thought I was doing okay. But then someone accused me of the same thing—even though I didn’t do it this time—and suddenly, none of the years matter. Everyone just sees the version of me they want to see.”
Silence again. Long enough that I know I’ve said too much. Good grief, Beckett. Give a guy a cold, dark elevator and he pours out his soul.
