Three years passed, and I was just beginning to recover from the ordeal of being kidnapped.
My career was in ruins and my nightly news show just a distant memory.
I swallowed my pride and took a job with a local newspaper and actually won an award for my reporting. My small success didn’t go entirely unnoticed. ATV network took a chance on me and hired me to do a series on environmental impact. Surprisingly, it won an Emmy and my career was finally re-started.
During this period, I made amends to various people I injured, but was putting off getting in touch with Marissa Ferguson. She was the last person I hurt, but I was unable to face her.
The more I thought about my reluctance to apologize, I realized it was because she reminded me a lot of Clare.
I didn’t think I could bear her just anger. But maybe it wasn’t that alone—the truth was that I’d been following her nightly newscasts and had been struggling with the fact that I was actually attracted to her.
How brutal would that be—to be soundly reprimanded and despised by someone I secretly admired and desired?
Ironically, I learned Marissa was going to be at the Emmy’s.
It dawned on me I might have to endure the embarrassment of being interviewed by her, and so to forestall that possibility I arranged to attend the pre-Awards cocktail party and swallow my pride and approach her.
I spotted her talking to a few of her girlfriends. She looked elegant in a black evening gown, her long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders.
She didn’t see me approaching behind her, but she could read the hateful looks on her friends’ faces as I drew near.
“What’s the matter—did I say something horrible?” she gasped, perplexed by her friends’ countenances.
Her one girlfriend, a beautiful redhead, patted her arm, “No, it’s not anything you said, Mar—it’s the monster behind you that’s horrible.”
She turned and looked directly into my face.
She was even more beautiful close-up, in person, and I wanted to sink into the floor, but having made my grand gesture, I felt condemned to carry it through.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Marissa, but may I have a word with you…alone?”
Her friends were staring daggers at me. My skin felt as if it was prickling.
There was panic in her eyes and her chin began trembling.
“I mean no harm,” I whisper, “Please.”
She hesitated a few seconds and then seemed to come to a decision.
She turned to her friends and whispered, “Please, excuse us for a few minutes.”
“You don’t have to do this, Mar,” the redhead reassured her, “I’ll be glad to talk to Mr. Knightly.”
“No, I want to do this. Please, give us some privacy.”
The three girls moved away, casting baleful glances back at me.
“All right, Mr. Knightly—you have two minutes. Isn’t that what they allowed in Nineteen Eighty-Four for hate?”
“I don’t hate you, Marissa. I hate myself for what I did to you. I’ve lived with this regret for the past three years.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. I could see her searching my face for any signs of subterfuge.
I didn't blame her. She was wary of me, but didn’t realize I was far more terrified of her—a sudden outburst of angry tears from her would create a scene and totally tear to tatters any shred of respectability I worked so long to recover.
But the real truth behind my anxiety was the fact she reminded me of Clare—the one good, true thing in my life that I threw away.
And I felt I was about to suffer a similar loss again.