Elle Iverson

“Fifteen for two.”

Meredith stares, slack jawed, as he lays down the six of spades and moves his peg two holes on the board. 

She thought leading with a nine would be safe. 

She was wrong.

She is only thirteen points away from winning the most important game of her life.

She stares at the wooden Cribbage board. The smooth parallel lines that wrap up and around the middle had brought her such joy as a child but now fill her with unimaginable angst.

It’s just a game. It’s just a game.

She uses the words as a mantra to calm her rapidly beating heart.

She’s holding fourteen points in her hand.

Enough to go out. Enough to win.

Her luck has finally turned around. 

She is holding all clubs and the cut was the eight she needed to complete her run.

She could win today. She can smell her potential prize wafting from the grease-soaked bag on the floor beside him. 

She just can’t allow him to peg out.

She has lost the last two days… she doesn’t think she can survive losing three in a row. 

And she knows Tabitha won’t.

When she wins, she eats. They both eat.

When she loses…. She’s not sure exactly what happens; but it sounds worse than death.

He is only sevens spaces away from the finishing hole; and it’s his crib. 

But she counts first.

It’s just a game. It’s just a game.

Had it only been a week since she had been at WhiskeyRun? A week ago that she and Tabby were celebrating their twenty-second birthday. It was tradition. Before a friends and family party, the twin sisters always did something just the two of them. Last year Tabby had picked an unconventional way to celebrate their twenty-first birthday; Disney World. Wearing matching Mickey Mouse ears and ‘I heart Goofy’ T-shirts. They had ridden all the rides and giggled until their stomachs hurt.

This year Meredith had chosen a low-key night at the bar. Dancing, laughing, and enjoying shots. They had spotted the good looking guy shooting darts by himself. They thought it would be fun to flirt with him, to get him excited, to lead him on, to play with him a bit. 

He had warned them that he was competitive and that they shouldn’t mess with him.

The girls thought it was funny. They carried on. They pressed against him, teasing him about darts, then his choice in NFL teams, then cards… 

Meredith’s hand moves unsteadily across her cards. The chain (one end attached to the cement block beside her, the other attached to her wrist) catches on the side of her chair and yanks her arm back down. She slowly unhooks it and lays down her six of clubs.

“A pair for two…. Twenty one. ” And as the words come out of her mouth she hurriedly tries to pick up the card.

“Na-ah-ah. A card laid is a card played,” he quips as he pulls the ten of hearts from his hand. “Thirty-one for two,” he coos. 

She knew better. Her grandpa had taught her to never ever make twenty-one. The chances of your opponent having a ten-point card were the highest of the game. She thinks about how Grandpa’s brown eyes would crease around the corners and sparkle as she sat across from him, counting the points on her fingers. “Mer-Bear, never lead with a five and never lob up a twenty one. Remember that and you’ll save yourself a lot of getting-pegged-on points.” Her grandpa’s buttery voice playing through her mind help to calm her nerves, but it also leaves a void in her stomach.

It’s just a game. It’s just a game.

It was a rookie mistake. 

Shake it off, Meredith. 

They both flip over the small stacks of discarded cards in front of them as he leads the next round with a seven of diamonds.

She weighs her options. 

She has never felt so much pressure in a game. 

So much anxiety over a card.

She lays down her seven.

“Fourteen for two.”

His eyes crease. 

The smile that had been so sexy, so intriguing at the bar, now makes her skin crawl.

An ace will give him fifteen. Two more points. 

But he needs five to go out.

But she counts first.

She raises her eyes to meet his and the sparkling joy bounding from his face causes her whole body to quake. She knows what’s coming before he moves.

He lays down the seven of spades and places his piece to the last hole. 

The 121sthole. 

The game-winning hole. 

“No! Please! No!” She screams, trying to bring her hands up to her face, but the handcuffs stop them short just after the table top.

She lowers her head. The tears cascading down her cheeks as her chest heaves with sobs.

“Good game.” He says as he stands, pushes back his chair, and pats her shoulder on his way out of the small, cramped room.

She hears the door open and Tabitha screams. The blood-curdling, I-know-what’s-coming, please-save-me-Meredith screams.

Meredith allows her whole body to cry. She allows the wails to rock her from the inside-out.

She allows the noise from her throat, the gut-wrenching lament from the depths of her belly, to drown out the shrieks, cries, and scraping from behind the wall.

Even though he hadn’t touched her, Meredith felt every twinge of pain Tabitha endured.

Every noise her sister made sent shockwaves through her, too. 

When she finally goes limp from exhaustion, when her head is pounding, and her lungs collapse, she shifts her focus to the game. She replays each hand in her mind. 

How could she have done better? 

What should she do differently.?

How can she play better tomorrow?

Because she has to win tomorrow.

It’s not just a game.

It’s never just game