Chapter 27
Margot
My screen lights up.
When? Where?
Two questions. No preamble. No anger. The relief hits so hard my ribs ache.
I type fast before courage deserts me.
Hamilton Theater. Tomorrow. 7 p.m.?
Not neutral ground. Not his territory or mine. Somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere the kids' energy still clings to the walls, reminding me why any of the past mattered.
I stare at it for thirty seconds. Then I type.
His response arrives within seconds.
I'll be there.
I set the phone down. Press both palms flat against my thighs. Breathe.
Tomorrow. Everything between us either mends or shatters.
***
The theater basement has settled into Friday quiet.
Footsteps echo down the stairwell.
He's early. That's his trademark.
Except when he appears in the doorway, he doesn't move with that controlled certainty I've watched. His hands rest in his coat pockets.
He's wrecked.
"Hi." The word scrapes out of me, small and uncertain.
"Hi." His gaze sweeps the room, returns to me. "Thank you for meeting me."
Silence stretches. I can't do the big conversation standing here, arms wrapped around myself, feet of scarred linoleum between us.
"Help me with chairs?" I gesture to the stack.
He crosses to the stack without answering.
We carry two folding chairs to the stage. I settle into mine. He follows, leaving space between us.
"You wanted to talk. I'm listening." His voice comes out rough. Uncertain in ways I've never heard from him.
I twist my hands together in my lap, searching for the right words. The true ones.
"You really hurt me." The sentence emerges quiet. Steady. No apology softening the edges. "When you accused me of leaking the contract. When you assumed I'd betray you for... what? Money? Revenge? I don't even understand what you thought I'd gain."
He flinches. The motion is small, barely a shift of his shoulders, and all the more devastating for it.
"I was wrong." Simple. Raw. "I had evidence of who you were and I chose fear over it.
That's the part I can't excuse." He stops.
Drags a hand through his hair, messing the careful styling.
"I should have trusted you. Should have asked instead of accused.
Should have remembered who you are instead of panicking. "
"I would never…"
"I realize that now." His eyes lift. Gray depths storm with emotion. "I realized it the second you walked out. The second you weren't there anymore and the silence in my house became unbearable."
My vision blurs. I blink hard, refusing to let tears fall yet. Not when so much remains unsaid.
"I missed you." The confession spills from him, urgent and unpolished.
"I missed arguing with you about things that don't matter.
I missed losing those arguments." His voice roughens.
"I missed how you'd leave pages from scripts on every flat surface, papers covered in revisions and crossed-out words and notes in the margins.
How the house stopped feeling like a museum to my past and started feeling like…
" He swallows hard. "Like something else entirely. "
Heat climbs my neck. "Those things drove you crazy."
"No." His head shakes, adamant. "Those things made the house feel alive."
"I missed hearing about the kids here," he continues, words tumbling faster now. "The way you transform when you talk about teaching. How all that self-consciousness drops away and you become someone completely certain of her purpose."
My chest aches. Ribs squeezing around lungs that can't quite expand.
"When I said I'd do anything to save the merger…" His voice drops, rough and honest. "I had no idea the deal would bring everything I didn't realize I was missing. You. This. Us sitting on a stage in a community theater basement having the most important conversation of my life."
The tears come now. Silent and hot and tracking down my cheeks.
"You're more important than the merger." Each word lands with weight.
"Consider the contract gone. Done. It no longer exists.
I'll still fund the children's theater. I already did.
I'll…" His hands spread, helpless. "I'll do whatever you need.
Whatever helps you forgive a foolish bachelor for being too broken and scared to recognize the best thing that's happened to him in years. "
I swipe at my face with the back of my hand. "I'm not asking you to choose. The merger matters. Those jobs matter."
"They do." He leans forward, elbows on knees, gaze intense. "And so do you. Both things can be true."
Can they? I want to believe him. Want to trust what's written across his face. The naked vulnerability and desperate hope and something that trembles on the edge of a word neither of us dares speak yet.
"I don't know how to do any part of what comes next." My voice wavers. "I don't know if we can fix what broke. If trust comes back once it's shattered. If…" I stop. Breathe. "If whatever we're building can survive outside the contract and the pretending and the roles we've been playing."
"I don't know either." His admission steadies me somehow. "I don't have a plan. Don't have terms and conditions and negotiation tactics. All I have is…" He pauses. Meets my eyes.
"The truth. I care about you, Margot. More than I've cared about anyone since Alicia died.
More than I thought I was capable of caring again.
And I realize how much I hurt you. How badly I failed to protect what we were building.
I'm asking for another chance. To prove I can be better. To prove I can be what you deserve."
My breath shudders out. The stage lights above us hum, dormant.
"I want to try." The words emerge small. True.
"I don't know if we can make whatever's between us work. All I know is…" I force myself to hold his gaze. "There's something here. Something that terrifies me and pulls me forward all at once. And I'm not ready to walk away from it yet."
His exhale sounds like relief and hope tangled together. "Neither am I."
We sit in silence for a long moment. The theater breathes around us, the old wood settling, distant traffic beyond the walls, our own careful breathing synchronizing.
"So where do we go from here?" I ask.
"Wherever you want." His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. "I'm following your lead."
"Dangerous decision."
"The best ones usually are."
I bite my lip, considering. "The merger is still ongoing. We still have obligations. Some joint public appearances." I pause and work through the logistics ahead. "The contract hasn't changed."
"The merger, yes." He agrees. "But as far as I'm concerned, the contract is done. Gone."
"What do you mean?" I search for the right words.
"If you want, we fulfill the obligations. That now aren't obligations. With honesty. No more pretending." He extends his hand across the space between our chairs. "Partners?"
I stare at his palm.
Like the contract. Only the opposite of everything the contract was.
I place my hand in his. "Partners."
His fingers close around mine. Warm. Steady. The touch sends heat up my arm, settling somewhere beneath my ribs.
"One more question." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "Where would you prefer to stay? Your apartment or…" He hesitates. "The townhouse. If you'd be comfortable returning."
The question surprises me. I expected him to demand. To take. To resume control now that we've reached some fragile truce.
Instead he's asking. Offering choice.
"I suppose I could bring more things to your house." The words emerge before I can second-guess them. "More than the few things I brought last time."
His eyes widen slightly. "You want to come back?"
"I want…" I swallow. "I want to try. See if we can rebuild what broke."
Relief transforms his face. His hand tightens around mine.
"I'm relieved," he admits. "And happy. Happier than I've been all week."
At the door as we lock up, keys in hand, I remember.
The email. The video. The proof.
"Wait." I pull out my phone, scrolling through messages. "There's something I need to show you." I find the email, the attachment still intact. "I don't know if it's real. Or useful. Or…" I turn to face him. "I want you to know it really wasn't me."
His brow furrows. "I do know that."
"I mean proof." I hold out my phone. "Someone sent me security footage from your building. Around when the contract leaked."
His entire body goes still. He takes the phone, thumb swiping across the screen as the video loads. I watch his face shift, how confusion turns to recognition to cold, controlled fury.
"Where did you get this?" His voice remains level. Too level.
"An anonymous email." I move closer, peering at the screen over his arm. "After you sent the play. I wasn't sure if I should forward it. I thought it might be fake or some kind of setup."
He watches. "Grant Sutherland." The name emerges flat. "He's been challenging my leadership for months. Pushing the board to advance him, reconsider my position."
"Thank you." He meets my gaze. "For sending me the footage. For…" His voice roughens. "For giving me another chance."
"Thank you for being worth it."
And standing on the sidewalk outside the theater, Everett's hand finding mine in the darkness, I realize something fundamental has changed.
We're not pretending anymore.