52. Margot
52
margot
Karah pokes her head into my office. “You’re still here?”
“Yeah.” I let out a sigh, barely glancing at her from my computer screen before my fingers keep moving over the keys. “I’m still here.”
“Hmm.”
I have no idea what type of connotation comes with that sound, but I have a feeling her “hmm” isn’t a celebration of how hard I’m working. Forcing a breath, I push back from my desk and turn my chair to look at her. “Heading home?”
“Yes,” she says with a slow nod. “That’s what people do after . . .” She glances down at her watch. “Almost ten hours.”
“I know. I’ll go home soon. I just want to finish up this piece on the farmer’s market.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You mean the one due next week?”
“Yeah. I really like my angle with it, but you’ll have to let me know what you think.”
She crosses her arms and leans against the doorway. “I can already tell you it’s great. All your work has been great this week. Ahead of schedule, thorough, unique, and polished. You’ve barely had any revisions since the bookstore—which was phenomenal. Just . . .” She eyes me with concern. “Take care of yourself.”
I nod. “Don’t worry. I am.”
“Okay,” she says, but the tone of caution still lingers. “Lock up when you leave, okay?”
“Will do. Have a good night, Karah.”
She gives me a tight-lipped smile like she’d like to say more, but I don’t care. I know I’ve been working too much. In the span of the last week, I’ve become a full-blown workaholic with insomnia. Going home just means I’ll be left to my own devices, and all I do is make myself miserable. Everything at my apartment—including most of the people—reminds me of Jackson. If Rae is home, it’s a little easier to breathe, but I hate being there alone. I end up sitting on the couch and stalking the band’s social media account and searching hashtags. Jackson has his own account, but he never posts. I think his last upload is from when he was still in high school, so the only way to get up-to-date on anything is through the band’s page.
Well, that or I could just talk to him, but that’s been painful, too. The texts that used to light up my day now add to the increasing pressure in my chest. Everything feels like a lie. Not necessarily on his end, but on mine. It feels like a lie to go back to talking the way we were before even though I’m still affected by what happened. It feels like a lie to ask him about his day when all I really care about is the night before. It feels like a lie to flirt with him when all I do is wonder who else might have whispered those things in his ear lately.
It feels like a lie to love him. A lie to laugh with him. And a lie to act like I’m not doubting everything.
This is why I didn’t want to date him. I didn’t want to turn into a paranoid mess, and that’s exactly what I’ve become. I want to trust him completely. I want to listen to him talk about his day without reading between the lines I’ve created with my own insecurities. This isn’t healthy—it can’t be. It can’t be right to comb through details like I’m some type of detective. But every time I try to let go of my fear, those pictures of Jackson with that girl flash in my mind like a damn neon sign. Reminding me that even when the water is calm, there will always be sharks.
I jolt when my phone starts buzzing on the desk. Seeing Jackson’s name only adds to my heightened state. My heart pounds in my chest, and I actually consider not answering for a moment. We haven’t talked on the phone since I confronted him a few days ago, and now it’s like even this is tainted. Seeing him call always made me happy—even if I was panicking a little on the inside. Now, seeing his name just feels heavy. I’ve been distant lately, and he knows it. This will be him calling me out, I’m sure of it.
Forcing a breath, I make sure to smile before answering because they say you can hear a smile in someone’s voice.
Another lie.
“Hey!” I say, sounding a little too excited.
He sounds like he’s getting comfortable somewhere. “Hey, are you busy?” His voice melts something inside of me. I missed hearing it these past few days. His voice is grounding—it always has been. Something about the deep warmness to it relaxes my nerves and quiets my mind in a way nothing else does.
“Not really.” I still scroll a little on my computer even though multitasking with Jackson on the phone is hopeless. “I was just finishing up some work.”
“You’re at the office?”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “I am. Where are you?” I hope my voice doesn’t sound accusing. Everything feels off with me lately. Just in case, I quickly add, “I know you don’t usually like to talk when you’re in the RV. ”
“Margot, it’s late.”
Brushing off his concern, I say, “I’m almost done.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Do they make you stay this late?”
My stomach twists. For once, I wish he didn’t know me as well as he does. He can tell I’m running from my feelings, staying in constant motion so they can’t catch up with me. With a sigh, I slump in my chair. “They do not.”
Another beat of silence. “But you’re not home because?”
“Because . . .” I look up at the ceiling like there might be a teleprompter there to tell me what I should say. My lips twist because I can feel it happening. I can feel the emotions closing in, and there’s nowhere left for me to run. Intentional or not, Jackson has once again backed me into a corner. I cycle through all the things he might want to hear in response to that question, but none of them are the truth—not the whole truth anyway. I could say I’m working late because I miss him, but there’s more to it than that. Plus, if I know anything about Jackson, I know he wants me unfiltered. Letting out a breath, I resign and say what’s on my mind. “Because I don’t like being there lately.”
“Do you want to tell me why?”
“Not really.”
“Margot.” When he says my name again, something inside me wanes. I’m no match for him. I never have been.
I groan. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that when I’m home, I think about you more than when I’m at work.”
There’s a shuffle like he’s sitting up. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“Sort of?” I grimace as I say the words. Letting my face fall into my hand, I level with him. “I just can’t get it out of my head, and I don’t know how to fix it. I feel stuck, and there’s no good outlet for everything I’m feeling.”
“I’m a good outlet. ”
My chest tightens. “No, you’re not. Not for this.”
There’s another slight pause, and my heart races faster for every beat of silence. “Because I’m the problem,” he says.
It’s not a question, but I jump to answer him anyway. “No, Jackson. You’re not. I promise you’re not. I’m just . . .” I puff out my cheeks. “I’m just angry. I know it’s not your fault—not really, so all that anger just gets directed back at me.”
“What are you mad at yourself for?”
My eyes burn, and I bite the inside of my cheek to help keep the tears at bay. I feel like my list has grown too long over the past week. Falling for you is the first thing that comes to mind, but I know I can’t say that. Now isn’t the time. “I’m having trouble letting go of this, and it’s making me feel like an idiot. I knew you being on the road would mess with my head, but I was doing so well with it before this. Now it’s all I can think about, and I feel like I should have known better than to put myself in this position.”
“This position . . . as my girlfriend?”
I grimace. “Maybe.”
He sucks in air through his teeth on the other end. “Ouch.”
I bite my lip. “Maybe that came out wrong. See, this is why I shouldn’t share what I’m feeling. I’m not good at this. I shouldn’t have said that.”
His voice is low on the other end. “No, it’s fine. You meant it. I’m glad you said it.”
My thoughts tumble out too fast for me to stop them. “It’s just that I knew this would happen. I knew I’d start to feel like this eventually. You’re a rockstar, Jackson. You practically have whatever you want at your fingertips. I’m trying to trust you. I’m trying so hard, but I’m miserable like this. I just feel so stupid. We’re young, and maybe it was dumb to think we’d beat the odds—that we’d be different.”
“We are different.” The command in his voice shuts me up.
My eyes burn. “Are we? ”
“I want us to be.”
I can feel my heartbeat drumming throughout my entire body, and I’m starting to feel nauseous. I can feel us teetering on the edge of dangerous territory, and I hate it. I hate everything about this. Pulling my knees to my chest, I sit huddled in my office chair. My voice comes out as small as I feel when I say, “Me too, but I don’t know if it’s enough.”
Jackson curses under his breath, and I lose it. He didn’t sound angry, but I think he realized my doubts, and that thought alone breaks me.
For the past week, I’ve been worried this isn’t working—terrified even. What if I never get over this? What if I never feel like I can trust him again? The logical part of my brain knows I should trust him, but the irrational, emotional part of my brain drowns out the logic until it’s barely a whisper in the back of my mind, desperately trying to make me see reason.
The tears spill from my eyes, and all I can do is desperately try to control my breathing, so I don’t end up sobbing into the phone. How did this conversation get here? I wanted to tell him how I’m feeling. I wanted him to understand why I’ve been distant. I wanted to be honest with myself and to lighten the weight that’s been slowly crushing my chest a little more each day. I didn’t mean for this to turn into a conversation about whether we should stay together, but that’s what it feels like. It feels like I’m either prioritizing him or prioritizing me, and I don’t know when we stopped being on the same side.