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Jonathan

I was never afraid of getting hurt. I knew I deserved it; I might even like it. I was afraid of hurting someone else, of killing the person I was supposed to love—by accident or on purpose.

As I watch Eva walk away, I can see how strong she is. I realize I could never break her. It makes me love her even more.

The armed guards return me to Bruce, who is pouring himself another martini. Eva’s escort returns without her.

“You sure you don’t want that drink now?” Bruce asks me.

“I’m good.” I wait.

“Well, I’m not one for small talk either, so I will be direct.” He pulls a sword from an umbrella stand. “You know I’m not going to let you come back, right?”

“Yes.”

He indicates another sword. I do not pick it up right away. There are four guards with guns pointed at my head. There is no way I can survive, but that does not mean I cannot win.

“Ever since we fought in that class,” he says, “I have been thinking— obsessively : Did he let me win? I need to know the answer.” I do not pick up the sword. I can see his irritation. “You know I’m not going to let her walk away either, right?” he says, trying to get a rise out of me.

“Yes.”

“Come on!” he says in French. He gestures to the sword. “I am going to kill you, and then I personally am going to track her down and slaughter her. No more hiring hit men. I can do your job better than you. I am going to gut your brother and his wife, and every other reason you have for living I am going to terminate. Do you understand? Come on! ”

I do not pick up the sword. I do not take my mark. I do not salute him.

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

He charges me.

I grab the sword.

I parry his attack, he boxes me against the wall and, when we are inches apart, when I can see the bottomless pit where his soul should be, I tell him:

“Of fucking course I let you win.”