Persuasion

The red hand lurches forward, trekking across the face of the clock. He taps his finger on the rim of his coffee cup, precisely in time with the torturous beat. Despite the bustling cafe around him, he swears he can hear it.

Tick, tick, tick.

He wishes it would pause. If only to stop her from walking through the door behind him and sitting across from him.

He glances at the small table before him, dark rings staining its wooden surface. Too small. It's too small to stop her from reaching across and slapping him or perhaps to move before she threw the napkin holder at his head.

Not that he didn't deserve it.

She had requested to meet here, but it was his friend who made him go. He hadn't been inclined to do so at all and had been about to send the message saying so when Ben had snatched his phone out of his hands, typed 'yes, of course,' and offered him a hard pat on the back.

Ben had looked at him and said, "You need to tell her."

Ben had looked at him and said, "We all make mistakes; just own up to them."

He didn't miss the faint glimmer of amusement in Ben's eyes. Ben wanted to see him flustered and wanted to see what he would do. He silently cursed Ben, but he had spent the night tangled up in another girl's sheets. He was not a religious man, but he guessed that fact would deem him insufficient to praise or curse anyone. He could still taste her lip gloss. Still smell her floral perfume.

Hastily, he sips at his lukewarm coffee, silently praying that the scent of coffee beans and overpriced pastries would take care of the rest.

Tick, tick, tick.

There were two choices.

1.Do the good thing. Be the good guy who owns up to his mistakes.

He snorts into his coffee cup. He, of all people, knew Ben wasn't a saint, which made his plea for honestly downright comical.

2.Keep it to himself. After all, omission isn't quite a lie. Though, he had ignored her twenty missed calls. Had told her that he would be out with friends-which he was at one point in the night.

Tick, tick, tick.

The bell above the door rings. His back is turned towards it, but he knows it's her. He can feel her gaze from behind, already discerning his rumpled clothes that had been on the ground for the better half of the night and his tousled hair.

He didn't quite decide which option to chose when she sat across from him. Too close. Close enough to see her red-rimmed eyes and puffy face. A bitter taste fills his mouth. He doesn't know if it's from the crappy coffee or shame.

He makes his choice.

"How's it going?" His question seems to startle her out of a stupor. He knew her well enough to know that she had been in her thoughts for far too long. She had probably tossed and turned all night in her small bed in her small apartment where they spent many nights. So different from the penthouse in the Upper West side he found himself in last night.

But his response-casual and calm-was not what she had expected. It certainly wasn't what he had expected, but instincts have a funny way of acting on behalf of self-preservation. If Ben were here, he'd laugh.

"How's it going?" She seethes. A group of kids at the table next to them stall in conversation, making no effort to look like they aren't eavesdropping. One of the girls loudly slurps her iced coffee as she watches. This could have been a theater, and they the show. "That's what you have to say?"

"I told you I was going out with my friends, didn't I?" He keeps eye contact. Not too much as to cause suspicion, but just enough. He wouldn't look up and to the left. He read somewhere that it signaled a lie-or was it the right? But a flicker to the lips and an occasional glimpse to the forehead would suffice. She looks away first. Perfect. "I told you I probably wouldn't answer my phone, babe. You knew this."

He wouldn't say more than he needed to. Too much and too fast would make her question. Too little, and she would fill the blanks with the assumptions she had made as she tried to sleep.

"I know, but-"

"I'm struggling to see the issue, then." He clutches his coffee cup as the words come out of his mouth. Too forward. He needed to let her speak. Let her feel like she was being heard and listened to. As if she read his thoughts, she looks at him, more confident than before. Yes, he had made an error. His eyes strained, begging him to find refuge in the clock. Or perhaps glare at the girl next to them, now chewing a croissant with her mouth open. He hates bad manners.

He gestures his hand for her to continue-a silent apology and submission.

She sighs and runs a hand through her greasy hair. "This was for hours, Jace. You usually text me at the end of the night to at least let me know where you are." He nods and makes more eye contact. She looks slightly pleased. She loves being heard. She loves being listened to.

He would risk it. He reaches out for her hand. She eyes it warily, but the tug of his genuine demeanor and the familiarity of two years with each other lifts hers and places it into his. He squeezes it. Reassurance goes a long way with women who overthink. That's what Ben said. "And well...Anne saw you at the bar. She said you were on your phone."

Busted. Think, think, think.

Tick, tick, tick.

Too long and he was putting together a lie. Too short meant too defensive.

Tick, tick, tick.

He wills his face into a frown. He settles on being displeased. "I wasn't aware you were having your friends keep tabs on me," he says.

Red blooms on her round cheeks, and she hastily shakes her head. "No, it's not like that. She just happened to be there." She looks at him again. Her eyes harden, a hint of defiance left in them. She was reminding herself what her argument was. Reminding herself what her friends had told her in their little group chat. "She said you also left early. Without your friends."

He tries to keep his swallow imperceptible, but her eyes flicker to his throat as it bobs. He squeezes her hand again and leans in close, willing her to look into the eyes she knew so well. He prays she won't catch a whiff of the perfume he breathed in all night. It was intoxicating and so different from the vanilla scent he smelled now. "Ben and his friends get a little too rowdy for me these days, I told you that. I went to hang out with Greg at his place afterwards."

"And you couldn't have mentioned that?"

Not too many details. "We had a few drinks and crashed. You know he and Linda have been having some issues. He wanted to talk it out. I was texting him at the bar, making sure he was okay." Pieces in a puzzle. Cogs in a clock. She looks down in submission. Moments pass.

Tick, tick, tick.

She finally nods her head and squeezes his hand in response. He raises a brow and asks, "Is there something wrong with that?"

"No...no of course not. It's just..." And there it was-the life line, the holy grail. He could almost see the future-could see the words he would say and how she would react.

He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. With his warm countenance and calm eyes, he would coax the words out of her. She sighs in pleasure at his touch. "I just can't help but think you were with someone else."

Perfect.

He stops hearing the clock. Now, he has what he needs, and despite not being a religious man, he thinks himself a prophet.

He retracts his hand. Hurt. He would look hurt and tired. It was almost too easy to do, but it was significantly harder to see her recoil and watch the regret choke her.

"We've talked about this." The words come out of his mouth stern. Sharp and cold. She needs to know she will lose him. He would use his hurt and anger like a whip taming a wild animal back into its cage. "A thousand times we have talked about this, and you still don't trust me."

She panics, reaching out for his hand. He appears hesitant, but he takes it. A drop of hope that he isn't too angry to get past her insecurities. Hope that he will stay. "No, god no, of course not Jace. It's not that."

"Then what is it?" He let his hand go slack in hers. A tether to him that would snap if she wasn't careful. She tightens her grip. Perfect. "Because it seems to me that's what we come to every time. You assume I'm up to no good and then punish me as if I actually did something." He allows his voice to raise a notch. He allows her to look embarrassed as he uses the public setting to his advantage, and eyes turn towards them.

She is fumbling for words. "I-I'm sorry. I know, I know.."

Perfect.

He leans back in his chair, the picture of a man's pride having been trampled on. Slowly, he pulls his hand from hers, and tries not to notice when she flinches. He rubs his face. He is tired, yes. He is tired, and she was the reason. She would be the reason. "I just...I just don't understand. I've never given you a reason not to trust me."

She leans forward. Eager. He feels pity for her, the pity someone feels when they see a stray dog or a homeless person. "I know. I'm sorry, okay? I'm trying to work on it, I promise." She is chewing on her lip now, the tears gathering in her eyes. "I just got a little worried, is all."

"You promise you'll work on it every time we have this conversation. And lately, it feels like we're having it more often than not."

Desperation. Panic. Regret. Those were the things she was revealing on her face and what he was feeling beneath the surface. "Look, can we just please move past this? Come back to my place."

Bingo. He would look hesitant. Would take a long sip of his now cold-coffee as he considers the offer. His hesitation will tug on the leash he has so cleverly put around her neck. "I don't know..."

"Please." God, he felt like an asshole. "Please, Jace."

Those were the magic words. He sets his cup down, picks up his keys and stands. No words, but a little nod. Just to show he still wasn't keen on the idea, but he would do it for her. By god, he would do anything for her. The relief was stark on her face.

She hastily snatches up her belongings and stands as well, rushing to his side. As he walks out the door, he doesn't bother to hold it open for her. But she won't say anything. She would accept it because she had to. And she had to, or else that tether would slip entirely, and he would be gone. And it would be her fault.

He told her he would meet her back at her place before walking to his car. As he drove off on that familiar route, he had one honest thought.

The art of persuasion was a nasty one, but one that he would perfect for her.