Chapter 19 #2
“Save it,” Maggie cut in, throwing up her hands. “She’s perfect, right? Tortoise biologist, saves the desert, doesn’t dance on bars—”
“Maggie.” Gwen’s voice was sharp now. A warning. The kind that used to stop her mid-rant, back when they still knew how to fight fair.
Maggie’s chest ached. Her throat felt tight. She held up her hands. “Relax. I get it. We’re separated, technically, so I’m not asking for explanations. You don’t owe me those anymore.”
The words landed heavy between them. For a second, Gwen just looked at her with a searching expression, and Maggie hated the way that felt, like Gwen was memorizing her, like Gwen still cared.
Danica’s voice cut through, high and gleeful: “Mags, Pete is gonna try the mechanical bull.”
The group erupted in laughter again. The ridiculousness of it all should have been enough to drag Maggie back into the frenzy, but she was still pinned by Gwen’s gaze.
“Are you okay?” Gwen asked again, quieter this time.
Maggie swallowed hard. She tried to say yes.
She wanted to say no. This feeling was freaking her out…
this pull between them. Surely it was just their history that made her jealous, made her want all of Gwen’s attention.
It was the muscle memory of love, nothing more.
She rolled her eyes and pulled her wrist free. “I’m fine. Go rescue someone else.”
She pushed past Gwen toward the rest of the group, heart hammering like she’d just sprinted.
Gwen’s fingers wrapped around her elbow again before she could vanish into the crowd. Firm. Not up for debate.
“No,” Gwen said, voice low, close to her ear. “We’re going back to the hotel.”
Maggie barked out a laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone else. “We? Since when is there a we?” She yanked, but Gwen didn’t let go. “I saw you take Lillian’s card. I know what you have planned.”
Gwen blinked, eyes narrowing just enough to register a hit. Then, maddeningly calm: “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, please,” Maggie shot back. “I’m not blind. You think you’re subtle? You think I didn’t notice her sliding that little hotel key into your hand like some… some key-card harlot?”
Around them, the group whooped. Pete had managed to half climb the bull and was already yelling, “This is for feminism!” Izzy and Danica were doubled over laughing.
Kiera was filming, muttering about liability insurance.
The whole bar was vibrating with noise, but Maggie could only feel Gwen’s hand, solid and warm, holding her in place.
Gwen’s mouth twitched — anger, not amusement this time. “What the fuck, Maggie.”
“What?” Maggie lifted her chin, defiant.
“If you want to go sleep with Saint Lillian of the Tortoises, go ahead. You don’t need my permission.
Just don’t… don’t stand here acting like you give a damn about me.
” There it was, the crack in her voice. She wanted to swallow it back down, but it was too late.
Gwen heard it. Maggie saw the flicker in her eyes, the one that said she still cared, that she still felt everything.
Gwen leaned in, close enough that Maggie caught the clean, sharp smell of her perfume over the stale beer of the bar. “You’re drunk. Let’s get you out of here.”
Maggie yanked her wrist, finally tearing free. “I know exactly what I saw.”
But she didn’t. Not really. And the uncertainty was almost worse than the jealousy.
“Yeah. She gave me her card,” Gwen said, though her tone was more fact than confession.
Maggie froze. The bar noise blurred into static. Her stomach dropped so fast she nearly laughed. Confirmation. Proof.
But Gwen kept going, sharper now. “Because she wasn’t staying there.
She has a house here, Maggie. The card was for me — for us.
Lillian thought I might want…” Gwen exhaled, frustrated, like she hated how the words sounded out loud.
“I asked her if we could have her room for the night for some time alone.”
That landed like a slap. Maggie’s head snapped back, eyes narrowing. “What?”
“It wasn’t her idea to… fuck.” Gwen raked a hand through her hair, still holding Maggie’s wrist with the other.
Her composure was slipping, the polished veneer cracking at the edges.
“It was her idea to give me the card. Because she could see that I—” She cut herself off, jaw tight.
“God, Maggie. You really thought I’d hook up with your best friend’s sister? Here? Now? Who do you think I am?”
The floor seemed to tilt under Maggie’s boots. She wanted to scoff, to double down, to toss out something sharp about Gwen’s new Vegas bestie. But Gwen’s voice — low and rough — lodged in her chest like an arrow.
Who do you think I am?
Behind them, Pete hollered something unintelligible from the bull. The crowd roared. Izzy yelled, “Stay on, cowboy,” and Danica was crying with laughter.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” Maggie said, frustrated as she tried to piece apart all that Gwen had just confessed.
She blinked hard, trying to focus. The neon lights didn’t help — they smeared Gwen’s face into something unreal, like a portrait half-wiped away. “You want to be alone with me? Why?”
Her voice cracked on the last word. Perfect.
Exactly the kind of raw, pathetic note she didn’t want to give Gwen.
And maybe she was too drunk to follow the conversation, maybe she’d invented the whole thing — except Gwen was still holding her wrist, still looking at her like Maggie was both impossible and essential.
Gwen didn’t flinch. She leaned closer, her breath warm against Maggie’s temple.
“Because I miss you,” she said, low. Almost drowned out by the whooping from Pete’s bull ride.
“Because I don’t know how to be around you when everyone else is there, and I want to spend time with you without an audience. ”
Gwen’s hand slid down, past Maggie’s wrist, and laced firmly with her fingers. Not tentative, not asking. Claiming.
“Come on,” she said, and the steel in her tone left no room for argument. “We’re going.”
Maggie’s stomach lurched. “What — no. No, I’m not—” She tried to pull back, but Gwen was already tugging her through the press of bodies, weaving toward the door like she’d mapped the exit in advance.
The air outside hit Maggie like a slap — dry desert night, cooler than the sweaty chaos inside, but her skin still buzzed, hot. “I didn’t agree to this,” she said, stumbling a little in her boots as Gwen kept hold.
“You will.” Gwen didn’t even glance back, just tightened her grip when Maggie resisted.
Maggie huffed in frustration and… something else lower in her belly that she would not be admitting to.
She should’ve ripped her hand free, made a scene, stomped right back in and climbed on the damn bar again if only out of spite.
But her feet kept moving, matching Gwen’s stride.
Her pulse thudded in her throat, in her palm where Gwen’s fingers pressed against hers.
Half a block from the bar, the noise dimmed enough for Maggie to hear her own ragged breathing. “This is kidnapping,” she muttered. “Highly illegal.”
That earned her the tiniest curve of Gwen’s mouth, quick as lightning.
Maggie swallowed down the sound clawing its way up her chest, half laugh, half sob. “You think you can just, what, drag me out like this, and I’ll, what? Just listen? Just—”
“Yes,” Gwen said, cutting her off. Simple. Certain.
Maggie hated how much her body obeyed that certainty, even as her brain screamed at her to turn back.
The Uber ride and the elevator up to the room was silent, but not calm. Maggie could feel her pulse in her ears, in her fingers still tingling from Gwen’s grip. She stared at the glowing floor numbers like maybe they’d tell her everything would be all right.
By the time they reached the room Gwen had apparently “borrowed” from Lillian for the night, Gwen had shifted into full crisis-management mode. Door shut. Lights on. Shoes off. And then, maddeningly practical, she steered Maggie straight into the bathroom.
“Shower,” Gwen said, flipping on the water like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Maggie snorted, half-hysterical. “Oh, sure. Just a casual shower at two a.m. Totally normal.”
Gwen was already adjusting the temperature gauge, testing it with her wrist — her wrist, like Maggie was a toddler she didn’t want to scald. The familiarity of it made Maggie’s throat tighten.
“Come on,” Gwen said softly. “You’ll feel better.”
Before Maggie could muster another protest, Gwen was undressing her from behind, unzipping her top and sliding it down Maggie’s arms, then unzipping her skirt and holding onto Maggie’s hip as she stepped out.
Her hands were so warm on Maggie’s skin, and her touch wasn’t sexual, but caring.
Comforting. The touch Maggie had felt one thousand times in crowds and parties and city sidewalks.
A guiding hand of the person she trusted most in the world.
“I can undress myself,” Maggie snapped, but she still leaned forward to hold onto the wall, her eyes closing as Gwen slipped her underwear down her legs. Then, without ceremony, Gwen led Maggie over the shower ledge and under the spray.
When the water hit, it was a shock. Too cold at first, then easing into warmth, running over her face, soaking her hair. Maggie pressed her palms to the tile, eyes shut tight.
Behind her, Gwen’s voice: “I’ll be right back.”
The door clicked shut, and suddenly it was just her and the water.
Maggie let her head fall forward, forehead against cool ceramic. Her stomach twisted. Every nerve in her body was still sparking from the night, from Gwen dragging her here, from Gwen’s hands slowly and carefully undressing her, from that ridiculous, impossible confession — I miss you.