12. Grayson
12
GRAYSON
S omething’s off. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious. If I didn’t know Margot so well, if I hadn’t spent the last several years watching her pull apart patterns and predict human behavior better than most psychologists, I might’ve missed it. But I know her. And this version of her? It’s not the Margot who lectures me for using too much toothpaste or who refills the coffee filter like it’s a sacred ritual.
It starts with breakfast. She barely touches her food, pushes things around her plate like a chess match she doesn’t want to win. I try not to make a thing of it, God knows she hates being hovered over, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s here, but not really here.
After breakfast, we attempt to clean up. I’m rinsing out the pan while she dries the mugs, and her movements are slower than usual. Distracted. Like her brain’s on a different frequency.
“You okay?” I ask, casually, not looking up.
“Fine,” she says. Quick. Too quick. Her towel squeaks over the ceramic, then stills. “Just tired.”
That’s the third time she’s said that in two days. Margot doesn’t repeat herself unless she’s covering something up.
Later, we try to go for a walk to stretch our legs. It’s chilly outside, a damp breeze threading through the pines. She bundles in her hoodie and folds her arms across her chest like she’s bracing against something more than the cold.
Normally, she walks beside me, keeping pace, nudging me when I say something annoying. Today, she stays a step ahead or a step behind. Never beside. When I point out a squirrel doing something vaguely ridiculous on the branch above us, she gives a half-smile, no comment. At one point, I stop walking entirely and call her name.
She turns slowly. “What?”
I shrug. “Just making sure you still like me.”
That gets me a real smile. Brief. But it’s there. “Don’t push it.”
We head back to the cabin and settle into the usual rhythm, her at the table pretending to work, me trying not to get in the way. But every few minutes, I glance at her. She keeps shifting in her seat. She gets up to make tea, doesn’t drink it. Fiddles with her laptop cord. Runs her fingers through her hair like she’s trying to erase a thought she can’t say out loud. And she’s not looking at me. Not the way she usually does. Like she’s searching. Like she’s trying to understand me.
I don’t know what it is, but I know Margot. And I know this isn’t just about the algorithm or the press or even the mess we’re cleaning up from Eleanor. It’s something else. Something she hasn’t told me yet, and the weirdest part? It doesn’t feel like betrayal. It feels like fear. Whatever it is… she’s scared. And I don’t know how to ask without scaring her more.
So I do what I always do when I don’t know how to fix it. I stay close. I wash the dishes. I fold the blanket she left on the couch. I make her laugh when I can. I pretend not to notice when she flinches at smells or steps out onto the porch for air. I let her keep her secrets., but that doesn’t mean I won’t push a little.
Later, as we’re both on the couch, her scrolling through lines of code like she’s trying to find salvation in syntax, me pretending to care about the latest investor memo, I catch her glancing at me and not saying anything.
“Want to talk about whatever’s turning your brain into soup?” I ask, glancing at her over the edge of my screen.
She doesn’t look up. “My brain is not soup.”
“It’s at least a gentle simmer. Maybe a rolling boil if we’re being honest.”
She sighs and sets the laptop aside, rubbing her temples. “Why is it always food metaphors with you?”
“Because I’m complex and emotionally underdeveloped. Also, hungry.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, reluctant but real. She leans back, arms crossed like she’s trying to build a fortress out of sarcasm.
“You’re staring at me,” she says, still not meeting my eyes.
“That’s because you’re hard to look away from. Like a car crash. Or a particularly intense TED Talk.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You married me.”
She groans, head falling back against the couch. “Will you please stop weaponizing our surprise nuptials every time I call you out?”
“Never. Legally binding love, Evans. It’s in the fine print.”
She grabs the nearest throw pillow and hurls it at me. I catch it with one hand and grin like I’ve won something, and for a moment, we’re just us again. Banter and sparks and something easy in the middle of everything that isn’t. And for a moment, it’s normal again. Us again.
She’s still leaning back against the cushions, the late afternoon light slanting in through the window, catching in the dark waves of her hair. There’s a strand falling across her cheek, and before I even think about it, I reach over and tuck it gently behind her ear. She glances at me, surprised, but doesn’t pull away. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, her eyes soft in that way that makes it hard to breathe.
“You’re beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.
She huffs a quiet laugh, like she doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t want to argue either.
“You’re being weird,” she murmurs.
“I’m being honest.”
She doesn’t say anything for a beat, just studies my face like she’s trying to decide whether to kiss me or run for the hills.
I’d take either, honestly. But she leans just a little closer. Only a breath. Then blinks, pulls back, and reaches for her laptop again like the moment didn’t happen. And maybe it didn’t, or maybe it meant more than either of us is ready to admit. But her eyes flick away too fast. Her laugh doesn’t linger. Whatever it is she’s carrying, it’s still there. I don’t know what it is, but I know it matters. So for now, I give her the space she thinks she needs, and I let her keep her secrets. But when she’s not looking, when she’s half-asleep with her laptop sliding off her legs or when she’s brushing her teeth, humming that one tune she doesn't realize she always hums, I find myself thinking about the future. About our future.
I never thought about weddings much. Not really. But lately? I can’t help it. I picture her in something simple and elegant, no frills, Margot would never go full princess. Probably ivory silk, sleeves she can push up when she’s annoyed. Maybe barefoot, maybe somewhere coastal. I imagine Olivia crying and trying to pretend she’s not, Priya giving a toast that’s half heartfelt and half roast. I imagine us laughing and dancing. Us finally doing something on purpose.
I’d never say any of this to her. Not yet. She’d panic, deflect, throw a metaphorical pillow at my face. But I think about it. I think about it more than I probably should. And somehow, that makes her silence a little easier to carry, for now.