Chapter 9 #2
But Gwen wasn’t there. She’d been halfway across the world at a conference in Lisbon and hadn’t answered her phone for two hours.
Izzy had been on the first flight to Austin. Izzy was there, and then Kiera. Gwen hadn’t gotten home until the next day.
Deep down, she knew that expecting Gwen to somehow bend the laws of time and space to get home faster was impossible. She knew that her mother’s unexpected heart attack wasn’t something that Gwen had purposefully planned on missing.
And yet. Maggie’s resentment burned hot and familiar. They just had different priorities. Maggie would never come first to Gwen. They just didn’t mesh. Not anymore.
Still, when Gwen shifted in her sleep and murmured something soft — something Maggie couldn’t quite catch — Maggie felt the tether snap taut again, no matter how she tried to sever it.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. It didn’t.
She told herself to close her eyes, to just sleep. But of course her body had other ideas, keyed up and restless, hyperaware of the slow rhythm of Gwen’s breathing a foot away.
Longing was a stupid word, but that’s what it was — coiled low in her belly, hot and insistent, demanding attention. The kind of ache she’d once mistaken for inevitability.
She studied Gwen the way you study something you’re trying to memorize: the curve of her cheek, the faint frown line even in sleep, the hand curled loosely on the pillow like she was holding on to something unseen.
It was ridiculous how badly Maggie wanted to reach out, to smooth Gwen’s hair back, to trace the line of her shoulder with a fingertip.
How badly she just wanted their marriage to be something it wasn’t.
And then came the counterweight, heavy and deliberate.
She remembered Gwen’s laptop open on the kitchen counter, glowing at midnight while Maggie sat in the dark, aching and raw.
Remembered how Gwen’s phone would buzz during dinners, during movies, during everything, and she’d always answer, always prioritize.
Remembered sitting alone in the surgery clinic waiting room after the termination, wishing for something more than Gwen’s quiet, strained smile after the fact.
Thought of the hollow, dark space that had cracked open inside of her when her mother died, and how Gwen’s comfort was well-meaning but too clinical, too careful — like she was afraid to feel it with her.
All those absences added up. Maggie reminded herself of that. Forced herself, really. Because otherwise she’d just get pulled under again, the way she always had.
She forced herself to focus, to catalog each reminder like a nail being hammered in: This is why. This is why.
They didn’t work. They hadn’t worked for a long time. The chemistry was still there, sure — but chemistry didn’t cook a meal or sit through grief or remember anniversaries. Chemistry didn’t keep you from feeling abandoned.
Gwen murmured again, shifting onto her side, her back now to Maggie. And the pang that went through her was humiliatingly sharp.
She clenched her jaw, staring at the ceiling. This is why, she repeated silently. This is why we’re divorcing. This is why.
But the ache didn’t care about logic. It just stayed, stubborn and alive, right there under her skin.
Maggie surfaced slowly, head pounding, mouth cotton-dry. The room was still dim, blackout curtains doing their best impression of midnight, but voices tugged her awake.
Whispered voices.
She cracked an eye. Gwen sat on the edge of the pullout, hair perfectly coiffed like she hadn’t been face-planted in a pillow all night. Izzy was perched beside her, both of them hunched conspiratorially, mugs of hotel coffee steaming between them.
“I’m just nervous,” Izzy was saying, voice low but too awake for this hour. “Like — what if I’m not enough for all of it? Not just Kiera, but the girls. It’s not just one person I’m marrying. It’s a whole family. And what if I mess that up?”
Maggie blinked, her stomach lurching before her brain caught up. She pushed herself upright, blanket tangling around her legs. “What?”
Both their heads whipped toward her, looking as guilty as teenagers caught smoking behind the gym.
“Izzy,” Maggie rasped. “Why are you nervous about marrying Kiera? You two are disgustingly in love. You’re like domestic lesbians with matching lunchboxes.”
Izzy laughed weakly. “I know. But I’m serious. She’s got the girls, she’s got her routines — teaching, school drop-offs, bedtime, all of it. I love them, but sometimes I feel like I’m sneaking into a life that already worked fine without me. What if I don’t fit?”
Maggie groaned. “I mean, love is chaos, right? It’s also work, and guilt, and compromise, and sometimes… sometimes it just stops working, no matter how much you want it to.”
The words came out too fast, too sharp.
Izzy frowned, glancing between her and Gwen. “Wow. Thanks for the pep talk.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Maggie said, rubbing her temples. “I just mean… love doesn’t fix everything. Sometimes it hurts more than it helps.”
“Or,” Izzy said carefully, “maybe sometimes it’s worth the risk anyway.”
Maggie looked at her and felt the heat rise in her face. “Sure. If you’re brave enough to keep believing in it.”
Gwen cleared her throat, giving Maggie a look that clearly communicated: you might want to stop talking.
Izzy reached out, squeezed Maggie’s ankle gently over the blanket. “You know we love you, right? Even when you’re a hungover asshole who goes full doom prophet before breakfast.”
That earned a weak laugh out of her. “I’m a delight in the mornings.”
Gwen huffed a small sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Sure you are.”
Before Maggie could say anything back, the suite door swung open so hard it hit the stopper. Pete burst in like a storm, wearing sunglasses the size of serving platters and clutching a Liquor Barn bag like it contained the cure for hangovers.
“Rise and shine, sweethearts,” she rasped, voice shredded. “I come bearing vodka and Gatorade. Don’t say I never loved you.”
She froze mid-stride, surveying the crime scene: Maggie, bedheaded and blanket-tangled, caught mid-rant; Izzy, guilty as hell with her mug clutched tight; Gwen, the picture of calm composure, which only made her look more suspicious.
Pete tilted her head, wolfish. “Okay… what the hell are you whisper-goblins conspiring about?”
“Nothing,” Izzy said instantly, all smooth and glassy, like she’d been practicing.
Gwen crumbled under pressure. “Murder?”
Every head swiveled toward her. Gwen coughed, cheeks pink.
“Murderously hungry. For breakfast,” Maggie added. They were doomed.
Pete peeled off her sunglasses slowly, like a detective about to close the case. “You’re all acting shady as hell. What’s going on?”
Maggie inhaled wrong and choked on her own spit.
“Nothing,” Gwen said firmly. “Maggie’s hungover and we were trying to whisper for her sake.”
Pete squinted at them, then finally tossed the bag onto the coffee table with a sigh so dramatic it belonged on Broadway. “Yeah, I feel you.”
Maggie could practically hear her pulse in her ears. Izzy kept her eyes glued to her mug, draining it. Gwen’s lips pressed together in that maddeningly calm way of hers, but Maggie swore she caught the tiniest twitch at the corner — amusement, maybe.
Pete dug out a bottle and lobbed it at her. “Catch, Bedhead.”
Maggie fumbled but held on, hugging it to her chest. She cracked the seal on the Gatorade and gulped half of it like a woman who’d just crossed a desert, but the sour churn in her stomach had nothing to do with dehydration.
Izzy. Proposing.
At Danica and Pete’s bachelorette.
It was insane. Worse than insane. It was a nuclear-level friendship violation, and somehow Maggie had been the only one willing to say it out loud.
She glanced sideways — Izzy still sulking as she made another cup of coffee, Gwen smoothing down the corner of the pullout blanket like tidiness could erase the tension.
Neither of them looked panicked enough for Maggie’s taste.
And Pete. Jesus. Pete had bought their cover story for now, but Maggie knew her. Pete was basically a truffle pig for drama. She’d sniff out the truth before the weekend was over if Izzy didn’t keep her shit together.
Maggie set the bottle down a little too hard.
The thought of Izzy dropping to one knee tomorrow, champagne glasses clinking, picnic at the edge of the Grand Canyon, while Danica — sweet, type-A, sparkle-eyed Danica — watched her bachelorette thunder get stolen?
No. Absolutely not. Maggie refused to let that train wreck happen on her watch.
She wasn’t sure if it was loyalty, control issues, or the hangover talking, but a fierce, protective heat rose in her chest.
Of course, the fact that she was trying to police anyone else’s relationship while hers lay in tatters only added a neat little layer of irony. She could practically hear Gwen’s voice in her head: Mags, maybe focus on your own mess first.
Still, she couldn’t shake the image of Pete and Danica’s faces if Izzy actually went through with it. Disaster. Utter disaster.
Maggie dragged a hand through her hair, wild with bedhead, and muttered under her breath, “Over my dead body.”
Gwen gave her a look, one brow arched. Maggie just shook her head, refusing to elaborate.
Better to let Gwen think she was being dramatic than admit she’d just mentally volunteered herself as the Proposal Police.
The silence had just started to settle — Izzy pretending to study her empty mug, Gwen arranging the blanket like it was a diplomatic task, Maggie clutching her Gatorade like a flotation device — when the bedroom door opened again.
Kiera swept out in a giant straw sun hat, bikini straps visible beneath a gauzy cover-up. “Who’s ready for pool day?” she asked brightly, hands on her hips like a camp counselor about to blow a whistle.
Maggie blinked at her through bloodshot eyes. “Define ready.”
Kiera rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “You look like you need it more than anyone. Cold plunge, sunshine, hair of the dog…” She clapped her hands once. “Trust me, you’ll feel better.”
Maggie wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss Kiera for her optimism or strangle her with her sun hat.
Izzy, predictably, perked right up at her girlfriend’s entrance, setting down her mug and sitting taller. “See? That’s the spirit.”
Maggie caught the dopey little grin spreading across Izzy’s face and fought the urge to groan again. Proposal Girl over there, already glowing like she hadn’t been plotting social catastrophe ten minutes ago.
Beside her, Gwen’s hand smoothed down the sheet one last time before she stood, composed and unruffled as ever. “Pool day it is,” she said softly.
Maggie flopped back against the pillow, glaring up at the ceiling.