18. Top shelf
EIGHTEEN
Top shelf
THE HIGHEST QUALITY AND MOST EXPENSIVE BOTTLES OF ALCOHOL AVAILABLE, OFTEN KEPT ON THE TOP SHELF BECAUSE THEY'RE NOT USED THAT OFTEN
“Where the fuck are they?”
Maggie kicked a pile of clothes out of the way and stepped over the avalanche of pillows and cushions that had escaped from their encampments on the couch.
“Jesus, Magpie.” Mark Kelly stood in the doorway of Maggie’s bedroom closet, a glass of prosecco in either hand, and a delicately disdainful expression on his face. “You find your self-respect yet? Because I’m starving, and the selection in your fridge and pantry is downright unacceptable.”
“I know they were in this box.” Seeing a file labeled Charlie Taxes, 2020 , she hurled it over her shoulder and reached for the next one.
“I mean, I understand you’re a resident of the Pacific Northwest, but quinoa salad? Really?”
“The hall closet!” Shoving herself up from the floor, Maggie ducked under Mark’s arm and pushed past him into the hallway.
“And kimchi? That shit’s spicy farts that just haven’t happened yet.”
Wrenching the closet door open, she yanked the light bulb string and reached up to the top shelf for a box marked Fuck This Motherfucker in angry marker scrawl. She dropped it to the floor and yanked open the flaps, pausing to flip the bird to the stack of files related to Charlie’s trial and subsequent conviction.
“But the marinated tofu thing, you’re going to have to explain to me,” Mark said before tipping back his glass of prosecco.
She paused while dumping out a box of Charlie’s high school football memorabilia. “You’re not helping.”
“All right.” Mark raised one hand in mock surrender, his green eyes lit with amusement. “What are we looking for, then?”
“The divorce papers Chazz the fuckstick never signed,” she snapped, tossing a stack of old birthday cards aside.
“First things first,” he said. “You’re going to stop, take a breath, and take a sip of this excellent prosecco I acquired for you.”
She blew out a sigh, puffing her hair off her sweat-kissed forehead as she accepted the glass. The crisp, citrusy swallow made her eyes sting.
“Better?” Mark asked.
Maggie nodded, feeling her throat tighten.
She truly had been better since Mark showed up on her doorstep, a box of her favorite Italian wedding cookies in one hand and an industrial-sized box of Kleenex in the other.
Better, as in she wasn’t eating, sleeping, and sobbing on her couch for days on end.
Better, as in she’d taken a shower and put on actual clothing instead of the holey sweats that had become her uniform.
Better, as in she’d traded the soul-sucking, shame-fueled sadness for a refreshingly fiery rage.
At Charlie, for thinking he could just show up and call her back to his side like a dog.
At her father, for making her think that a man like Charlie was all she could expect for herself.
At McGarvey, for telling her that she deserved better.
But mostly at herself, for believing it.
“Okay,” she said, setting the glass aside to resume her search. “I’m okay. I can do this.”
“The thing I don’t understand,” Mark said, setting aside his own drink to begin scooping everything into something resembling a pile, “is why you need those now.”
“For fucking McGarvey,” she spat. “I’m going to march right up to him, shove those papers right in his stupid, uptight face before flipping him off and never speaking to him again.”
“Riiight,” he drawled, raising an eyebrow. “And the point of doing that would be…”
“Proving to McGarvey that I was trying to leave Charlie even before his well-deserved incarceration.”
“I’m just saying, that seems like a shit-ton of work for someone you never intend to see again.”
Maggie used the doorframe to haul herself up and stomp over to the desk, where she began yanking open drawers.
“It’s about closure, Mark.” She grabbed a stack of notebooks and set them off to one side. “It’s about knowing that he knows that I was trying to get as far away from that lifestyle as I possibly fucking could.”
“So basically, you’re saying McGarvey’s opinion of you matters.”
“Yes! No. Fuck off.” With a disgusted sigh, she reached for a manilla folder. Seeing Sirens on the tab in McGarvey’s mechanically precise handwriting felt like a sucker punch to the guts.
In the aftermath of Chazz’s unwelcome visit, she hadn’t even started laying out her notes for the Madame Katz episode of her podcast. A hot flame of irritation flickered within her chest.
One of the throw blankets that she’d hurled across the room began to move. Maggie whipped it off and scooped up Roxie. “Here, take this,” she said, handing her over to Mark.
Cradling her in one arm, he walked over to the couch and set the dog down. “You know, the real tragedy here is that we haven’t even gotten to discuss my latest Tinder disaster,” he said. “And when I tell you that a narcissistic Manhattan pastry chef with a crème anglaise fetish is the new sad thing, I mean it sincerely.”
“Huh,” Maggie said, paging through her notes. “That’s crazy.”
“All right, that’s it.” Mark stood up from the couch. “I’m officially staging an intervention.”
She looked at him, bewildered. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said with a wry smile. “We’re going to pregame until we’re pleasantly lit, and then we’re hitting the town. Or what passes for one around here.”
“Mark, I don’t?—”
“Look, I get that you’ve been through hell and back. But you can’t keep going like this. I’m here now and I’m taking my best bitch out. Step away from the papers, get your ass in the shower, and put on the outfit you’d want to be wearing when you see McGarvey next.”
Maggie chewed her lower lip, alarmed by the sudden tightness in her chest.
“Good,” Mark said. He wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace, and suddenly Maggie found herself unable to hold back the tears any longer. They streamed down her cheeks, wetting Mark’s shirt as she quietly sobbed into his chest.
“Hey, hey,” he murmured, rubbing her back soothingly. “I know, Maggie. I know.”
“It’s…” she choked out between sobs. “Trent… He was the first person who ever made me feel like I was better than what I’d come from. Like I deserved more than just…this.” She gestured weakly at the chaos surrounding them.
“Hey, look at me,” Mark said gently, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “You are better than this. You deserve the world, Maggie, and if McGarvey isn’t man enough to see that, then fuck that motherfucker. Next.”
She gave a weak chuckle.
“And, on a related topic”—he cleared his throat—“it’s worth reminding you that my family has a history of disposing of bodies.”
Maggie sniffled, attempting a small smile as she gazed into her best friend’s eyes. “Thank you.”
“Always,” he replied, squeezing her one last time before letting her go. “Now, speaking of bodies,” Mark continued, “I love you, but yours needs some self-care. So, let’s get you cleaned up, shaved down, and shimmy you into something that shows off that dat ass.”
“Oh, we’re so going in here.”
They slowed in front of Vee’s Lady Garden, the salt-scented air chilling Maggie’s cheeks.
“Um, thanks but no thanks,” Maggie said, hugging her coat tighter around her. The last thing she needed was to be anywhere connected to strong sexual memories about the man who had ma’am’d her.
“How about this? You’re single now, and it’s time to upgrade your toy collection.” Grabbing her hand, Mark led her up the stairs toward the boutique. “Trust me, this is essential self-care.”
As they entered, Maggie couldn’t help but feel a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. The usually bustling boutique was eerily quiet, void of any other customers. She furrowed her brow, curiosity piqued.
“Looks like we have the place to ourselves,” Mark said, waggling his brows. “Now let’s find you something fun, shall we?”
Maggie rolled her eyes but followed him as he led her toward the back of the store. As they pushed through a set of velvet curtains, she gasped at the sight before her: a luxurious private shopping area filled with designer outfits in her size, displayed like treasures for a queen.
“What the…” she breathed, trailing her fingers over a silky blouse.
“Hello, Maggie.”
Trent McGarvey stepped out from behind a clothing rack.
Maggie froze at the sight of him, surprised and momentarily speechless. His warm gaze seemed to map the planes of her face, lingering on her lips before finally meeting her eyes.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” she stammered, her pulse quickening.
“Apologizing,” he said, lips stretching in a smile.
The words evaporated from her throat, the world around her blurring.
“Listen, Maggie,” he began. “Since meeting you, my life has changed. You’ve brought color, laughter, and warmth into a world that was cold, rigid, and empty. But my point is, you changed my world for the better. And I want to be a part of yours.”
As his words washed over her, Maggie felt a warmth spreading through her chest. It was as if something within her chest had unlocked, allowing in air and light. And maybe…the possibility that she could believe.
Her vision blurred with tears as she took a shaky breath, unable to contain the flood of emotions any longer. In a sudden burst of movement, she ran into his arms, burying her face in the crook of his neck.
His arms wrapped around her shoulders. Containing her. Anchoring her.
For a moment, they just stood there, locked in a silence that seemed to transcend time and space.
As Maggie pulled away, he held up a designer tote bag he had been clutching in one hand. “For you,” he said gently, slipping the strap onto her arm.
“What is it?” she asked through her tears, her fingers trembling as she unzipped the bag.
“Have a look for yourself,” he replied.
Maggie reached inside, her heart pounding as she pulled out a stack of papers. As she began to read them, her eyes widened in disbelief.
Her divorce papers.
Flipping through the thick sheaf, she could see an addendum had been paperclipped to the back of the bundle, wherein Charlie acknowledged responsibility for all debt and signed a promissory note guaranteeing her a monthly sum in restitution for the damages she suffered during their unfortunate union.
And on the last page, she found Charlie’s self-important kindergarten scrawl of a signature.
“But…how?” she asked, looking up at Trent in shock.
“I may have taken some creative liberties and used my connections to track down the previous set,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “But after reviewing the terms and having a heartfelt conversation with our friend Chazz, we decided some amendments were in order.”
Maggie couldn’t help but let out a watery laugh, shaking her head in amazement. She could envision exactly how that conversation had gone down.
“You did all that…for me?” she asked.
“Fuck yes,” Trent said, his eyes softening. “You’re more than worth it, Maggie Michaels.”
As the reality of this development sank in, Maggie felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief wash over her.
Free.
She was finally free from the suffocating, toxic grasp of her past.
She looked into Trent’s eyes, seeing the sincerity and warmth radiating from him, and knew there was only one way to truly thank him.
Surging forward, she captured his lips with hers in a passionate, fiery kiss that seemed to ignite every nerve ending in her body.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer as their mouths moved together in perfect harmony.
As they broke apart, both breathless and flushed, Maggie couldn’t help but grin at the astonished expression on his face.
With a tender smile, Trent carefully lifted the designer tote bag from Maggie’s arm and placed it on her shoulder. The scent of expensive leather drifted up to her as the strap settled against her skin, and for the first time, she felt it belonged there.
“Besides,” Trent said, brushing tendril of hair back from her face. “If you’re going to have baggage, it should at least be Versace.”
“Snob,” Maggie teased, letting herself melt into the warm wall of his chest.
“You love it,” he rumbled, resting his chin atop her head as his big arms enfolded her.
Maggie’s fingers stroked the buttery leather as a contented sigh escaped her. “I think maybe I do.”