35. Margot
MARGOT
I t’s been two days since Cal left.
Two long, aching, silent days.
The house hasn’t changed, but everything inside me has.
My family rallies around me—Hazel brings flowers, Thea checks in every hour, and Aunt Edie keeps slipping me shortbread like it’ll fix anything.
Even Juniper calls from school twice a day, chirping optimism through the phone like she can will me back to normal.
But I’m not normal. I’m not okay.
Because the truth is sharp now, and it cuts every time I breathe. I miss him. Dang, I miss him.
I try to distract myself. I mop the floors.
I rearrange the teacups. I wipe down the brass key rack even though it doesn’t need wiping.
But everything reminds me of him—how he used to lean against the kitchen island like it belonged to him, how he fixed the squeaky front door without being asked, how he kissed me in the garden like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.
And now he’s gone.
Because I told him to go.
Because I was scared. Because I let my pride speak louder than my heart.
I sit on the porch swing with a blanket wrapped around me, staring at the driveway, half-hoping his car will come rumbling up like this is some rom-com ending and he’s come back to fight for me.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, I sit there and finally say it out loud—to no one, to everyone, to myself:
“I’m in love with him.”
“Yes, sweetheart. You are.”
I flinch at the voice. Aunt Edie stands in the doorway, soft sweater wrapped around her shoulders, eyes kind and knowing.
Tears prick my eyes. I’ve been holding it together—shoving down the words, ignoring the ache, pretending this isn’t eating me alive. Everyone’s tried to get me to talk. Hazel. Thea. Juni. Mom. Even Dad, in his quiet way.
But I’ve refused.
Now it’s collapsing on top of me.
“Oh, Aunt Edie,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I was so stupid.”
She crosses the porch and pulls me into her arms without hesitation. Her hug is warm, solid, safe. Just like it’s always been.
“I thought he liked me. He was just testing the waters.” I cry harder, choking on my own disbelief. “I let down my walls, Aunt Edie. I believed him. I believed us. I’m so stupid.”
She doesn’t say anything. She just holds me tighter, letting me cry it out. When the storm quiets, and my breath comes in soft, hiccupping exhales, she finally speaks.
“Do you remember when I told you Cal reminds me of someone?”
“Yes.” I look up, blinking past tears, blotting my face with my sleeves like a kid.
“He was handsome too,” she says with a faraway smile. “Very sweet. Cared a lot for me.” There’s something fragile and wistful in her tone. “I lost him because I was just like you. Ultra-independent. Thought I knew it all. I didn’t like giving second chances.”
“You’re asking me to forgive him?” I suck in a breath, not sure if I’m offended or just exhausted. “He’s a billionaire. What could we possibly have in common?”
“You had a lot in common when you didn’t know he was a billionaire,” she says gently. “Why does the money change anything? It makes me wonder if he was right to keep that part of himself quiet.”
“Aunt Edie, I just… I don’t trust him anymore.” My voice trembles again.
“That’s okay,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “It’s getting cold. Go inside, sweetheart. Before the guests start arriving for Kettle Hour.”
I nod, my body heavy with grief. She pulls me gently to my feet, and I start toward the front door.
Just as I reach it, she calls out behind me, a twinkle in her voice.
“Don’t worry. We’ve all prepared a little surprise for you—something we know you’ll like.”
I pause, looking over my shoulder.
“What kind of surprise?”
“You’ll see,” she laughs, settling deeper into the porch swing like nothing’s happened.
And for the first time in two days, I feel the faintest flicker of curiosity push through the numbness. But this curiosity doesn’t last long. By 3:56 p.m., I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the clock on my nightstand.
Kettle Hour starts in four minutes.
I haven’t gone down for Kettle Hour once since Cal left.
Aunt Edie says it’s fine. That I need time.
That everyone understands. But the longer I stay up here, the more I feel like a shadow of myself.
And part of me wonders if forcing a smile and making small talk over tea and pastries is exactly what I need.
I swing my legs off the bed and reach for a sweater, still undecided, when the door creaks open.
I freeze.
Then I blink.
“Mia?” My voice cracks around her name.
She steps into the room like some vision out of the past—hair tucked into a bun, same spark in her eyes, same Mia.
“Oh my gosh.” I shoot up and rush into her arms. “Mia!”
We hug tight. She’s warm and familiar and smells like almond lotion and flowers, and the second my cheek touches her shoulder, I break. The sobs come fast, ugly, unstoppable.
She just holds me, rubbing my back like she always used to, not saying anything until I’ve cried enough to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wiping at my face. “I don’t even know why I’m crying again?—”
“Yes, you do,” she says softly, looking at me like she already knows everything.
I pull back. “How did you?—?”
“Your family reached out to me,” she says gently. “Hazel, then Aunt Edie, then your mom. They’re worried. You’ve been floating around the house like a ghost in your own story — and they figured maybe I could tug you back to the land of the living.”
I let out a laugh-sob, still wiping my face. “So they called in backup?”
“They called in reinforcements.” She squeezes my hands. “I know what it looks like when you spiral. And babe, this is a full-blown descent.”
“I’m trying,” I whisper. “I really am.”
“I know. And I’m here now. So you don’t have to try alone.”
“I like him a lot, Mia.” The words flow out of me now as she gently presses me onto the bed. My voice wobbles. “A part of me regrets sending him away, but there’s another part of me that knows it was the right thing.”
She watches me gently, hands clasped in her lap, like she doesn’t want to interrupt.
“But I can hardly see that part anymore,” I whisper. “All I feel is regret.”
Mia nods, like she understands all of it—the war in my chest, the ache that hasn’t left since the day Cal drove off.
“That’s grief,” she says quietly. “You’re mourning something you almost had. Something that felt real. Maybe it was real. But even when you’re doing what’s right for you, it can still hurt.”
I nod, biting my bottom lip.
“I let down all my walls for him,” I admit. “And he lied to me. He says it wasn’t a lie, but—what else do you call it?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “But I do know this—if someone makes you feel more seen, more alive, more yourself than you’ve felt in a long time… then it’s okay to miss them. It’s okay to still love them and still need space. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I press the heels of my palms to my eyes, willing the tears away again. Mia parts my hair gently. “You know, dating Jack… It’s not all glitz and premieres. People think it’s romantic, but fame? It’s exhausting. And messy. And invasive. It takes real work to hold on to what’s real.”
I let out a quiet sigh. “You make it look easy.”
She chuckles. “That’s because we agreed to make it work. That’s the secret, Margot. We chose each other—again and again—even when it got complicated.”
I glance at her through the mirror, the reflection catching the warmth in her eyes. “But Jack never lied to you.”
“No,” she says softly. “Not about being famous, but about other things. There was a point where he didn’t know if he could trust me. Because fame makes you paranoid. Makes you guard the parts of yourself that are real. Especially when you’re used to people loving you for the wrong reasons.”
My chest tightens. I know exactly what she’s trying to do. “So now you want me to see it from Cal’s point of view?”
“I’m just saying… maybe he wasn’t hiding who he was from you. Maybe he was trying to be someone for you.”
I stare down at my lap, the braid sliding down my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Margot—”
“It’s too late,” I say, cutting her off gently. “He’s gone. And I told him to go.”
Mia doesn’t say anything at first. She leans forward, resting her chin on my shoulder so our reflections sit side by side in the mirror.
“You don’t have to decide anything now,” she murmurs. “But don’t lie to yourself just to stay angry. You don’t have to forgive him. But you owe it to yourself to ask what you’re really afraid of.”
My throat closes. I don’t answer.
“Come on.” She rises to her feet, shattering the solemn mood. “I’ll be here until tomorrow, and I’ve always wanted to attend Kettle Hour. Aunt Edie says there’ll be mini lemon tarts today. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll have a reason to smile again.”