61. Jackson
61
jackson
My Uber drops me off in front of Margot’s apartment, and I stare up at the building in the dark. She’s probably sleeping, and now her inconsiderate asshole of an ex, who didn’t even tell her he was coming, is going to wake her up by knocking on the door.
I can’t believe I missed my flight. We could have had all night to talk about everything. We could have smoothed things over by now. If anything, I could have found a different place to stay if she won’t see me.
Maybe Braden is still here. I could always knock on his door and see if I can crash on the couch for the night. I could even wait to see Margot first thing tomorrow morning. That’s probably the better decision.
But God do I want to see her.
I’ve waited so long to just be around her again. I probably should have thought about this while I was rebooking my flight for the next one out, but all I could think about was getting to Florida as fast as possible. I didn’t think about the fact that I’d get here after eleven and have to explain myself to her this late.
With my backpack slung over my shoulder and my guitar case in hand, I head upstairs to the second floor. It feels good to be back here after jumping from city to city. I like that nothing has changed. Thanks to the maintenance company, I doubt this place ever looks different. The grass doesn’t even seem to grow.
As soon as I can see the landing of the second floor, my steps slow.
She isn’t sleeping.
She isn’t even in her apartment.
She’s here. She’s right here.
Margot sits in the hallway with her back against her door. She’s holding a single flower and picking the petals off, one by one. It doesn’t look like this one is her first victim either. There are petals and stems scattered around her like she’s been at this for a while. Her hair is shorter now. It doesn’t cascade down her arms and back the way it always has, but I like it. A few strands are tucked behind her ear, giving me a clear view of her face, and I drink her in. Her downcast eyes as she stares at the flower in her hands, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, the curve of her lips. It’s a face I could never forget, but one I’m never fully prepared for either.
Especially when she looks this . . . hopeless.
“Margot.” My voice comes out rough from lack of use.
Wide eyes snap to meet mine and she stops plucking the petals. Her lips part, her cheeks flush, and her shallow breaths make her chest rise and fall at a rapid pace.
She’s panicking.
The urge to try to comfort her pulls at me, but I stay where I am. “Why are you sitting out here alone?” My eyes jump to the tattered bouquet next to her and I add, “With flowers.” My chest tightens at the sight. When I didn’t show up here with flowers, I never thought someone else would have already given her some.
She glances down at the one in her hand. It has one petal still attached, and she runs her thumb over the soft petal before pulling it off with a frown. She looks even more saddened by what she’s done to it. “Braden got them for me.” Those words knock the wind out of my chest. Is she dating Braden? My fist clenches around my guitar case, but before I can ask, she says, “But I can’t even enjoy them. I can’t even be happy about a perfectly nice guy giving me flowers.” Some of her sadness spikes to anger as she tosses the stem away and reaches for the next one in the bouquet.
My heart hammers as I take a hesitant step toward her. She’s still a couple of doors away from me, but it feels like she might bolt any moment. “Why can’t you be happy about Braden giving you flowers?”
She scoffs and shakes her head. “Because of you.” She goes back to plucking petals. “Because even though you’re nowhere, you’re somehow everywhere.” She plucks another petal. “You’re always in my head, and it’s infuriating.” More petals. “And despite the fact that I know you’re not good for me, I still love you.”
I freeze and so does she.
I couldn’t have heard her wrong. She said it. She said she loves me.
Still.
As in never stopped. As in she loved me at all in the first place. My heart feels like it might burst out of my chest. Margot Reid loves me.
Still.
Not before . Not used to. Not did.
She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide. She shakes her head. “I didn’t mean—I was just—” She curses under her breath and jumps to her feet. “I’m sorry.”
I take another step toward her. “Margot.”
Her hand extends like a stop sign. “No, Jackson. I can’t—I can’t do this.” Her eyes brim with tears, and for the first time, I see how broken she is over this. This decision hurts her just as much as it hurts me, even though she’s the one making it.
The sight of her like this makes me pause, and it’s just enough time for her to dart into her apartment and close the door behind her. The slam of the door jolts me from whatever trance I was in, and I rush forward and bang my fist against the wood. “Margot, open the door.”
She doesn’t answer, and I curse under my breath. I can’t talk to her if she’s on the other side of the apartment. My head hits the door with a thud, but I don’t care. “Margot, please,” I say a little more quietly this time. I never thought she’d actually shut me out—not like this. This can’t be where our story ends. This can’t be what defines us. We’re better than this.
“Jackson . . . Why are you here?”
Her muffled voice is barely audible through the door, but I lift my head, hope surging through my veins. “Because I needed to see you.”
“You shouldn’t have come.” Hearing the sadness laced in her words almost makes me think maybe she’s right.
But then I remember she loves me. Still.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I needed to. I miss you. Can you please open the door?”
The door doesn’t open, but she says, “Nothing has changed. There’s no easy fix to this.”
“Sure, there is. We work on it instead of running from it.” I have no idea how to get past this, but I know the first step is not giving up. I just need her to see that. Taking a steadying breath, I try again. “Margot, you’re the first person I think of when I wake up, and you’re the last person I think of before I fall asleep. Every day. And every night. I know this is hard. I know being with me is hard, but if you feel even a fraction of that, we shouldn’t be having this conversation through a door.”
I hold my breath, afraid if I breathe, I might miss what she says .
But then the door opens. Not all the way, but it opens. After the day I’ve had, I don’t even have the energy to take a step back. I’m practically in the door frame after leaning my head against the door to talk to her.
Margot’s head tilts up to meet my stare, and I fight the urge to reach for her. Her eyes are wide and vulnerable. Her nose is a little red like she’s been crying. But it’s the way she looks at me that I notice the most. She still looks at me like she’s mine, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for anything. The way she’s looking at me gives me so much hope, and I hope I’m not wrong to have it.