Chapter Five
Margot
On Monday morning, I eat breakfast sitting down.
This shouldn't feel unusual. I own a kitchen table. I bought four chairs for it. For the last four years, however, I've mostly used the whole setup for unopened mail, clean laundry I haven't folded yet, and the occasional stack of work I bring home because eight hours in the office isn't enough.
Today there are two scrambled eggs on an actual plate in front of me, my coffee is still hot, and my laptop is closed on the counter.
I keep looking at it.
My alarm went off at five forty-five after seven uninterrupted hours of sleep, and instead of immediately checking my email, I got out of bed and made breakfast. Now I'm sitting here eating it while my phone remains facedown beside the fruit bowl.
I finish the eggs in less than ten minutes, which might be the most irritating part.
I've spent years telling myself there isn't time for breakfast, only to discover that apparently there has always been time. I just kept giving it to other people before I could use it myself.
When I finish, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher. I feel embarrassingly pleased about the whole thing, considering most adults can feed themselves without a seven-foot dragon assigning it as homework.
Seven hours of sleep. Breakfast. Say no to one thing.
Two down.
The third one finds me at three forty that afternoon.
I'm thirty pages into fixing the formatting on a presentation that should never have reached my desk when Kim from accounts stops beside me.
She has that slightly apologetic smile people get when they're about to ask me for something, although in my experience the apology rarely survives long enough to reach the actual question.
"Margot, any chance you can cover the vendor sync at four? Something's come up, and I'm not going to make it."
Normally, I'd say yes before checking whether I could actually fit it in. I've covered the same meeting four times this quarter, and every one of them has eaten at least an hour of my afternoon before producing a page of notes nobody looks at again.
The yes still gets as far as the back of my throat.
"I can't today. I need to finish this deck for Richard before I leave."
Kim pauses, clearly surprised, and I have the ridiculous urge to explain myself. I could tell her when the deck is due, show her the email, maybe offer to take the next vendor meeting so she knows I'm not suddenly an unhelpful asshole.
Instead, I keep my mouth shut.
"Okay, no problem. I'll see if Dan can do it."
She walks away.
That's it.
Nobody gets angry. Kim doesn't demand proof that I'm busy or remind me of every favor she's ever done for me. The building doesn't collapse. She just asks somebody else.
I stare at my screen for another few seconds while my heart behaves as though I've committed a minor crime, then go back to the deck.
By four thirty, I'm still at my desk.
So is Dan.
The difference is that he's on the vendor call and I'm getting my own work done.
I could get used to this.
My bedtime alarm goes off at nine forty-five. I'm under the covers by ten, convinced that going to bed because a dragon told me to is objectively ridiculous and that there's no chance I'll actually fall asleep this early.
The next thing I know, my alarm is going off the next morning.
Tuesday begins with Richard calling me Margie before I've even taken off my coat.
"Margie, I need you to move my lunch with the Hendricks people, and find out what that place on Fifth can do without dairy. Karen's off it now, apparently."
He says apparently as though Karen has given up dairy specifically to inconvenience him.
"I'll sort it."
"You're the best." He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze as he passes and disappears into his office.
I hang my coat over the back of my chair and look at his closed door.
Nothing about Richard has changed since last week.
He still calls me the wrong name. He still hands me things that have nothing to do with my job because he knows I'll handle them.
His wife's dietary requirements are somehow my responsibility, along with his lunch reservations, his presentations, his calendar, and whatever else he decides he doesn't want to think about.
The difference is that this week I'm noticing how often it happens.
By lunch, I've counted six things I automatically agreed to before I even considered whether I should. None of them are particularly outrageous on their own, which might be why I've never paid much attention before. It's just easier to say yes, fix the problem, and move on.
Apparently I've built most of my adult life around that principle.
That evening, Bree texts while I'm eating dinner.
hey are you around this weekend?? no reason just miss u
I know my sister well enough to recognize no reason as a warning.
Usually I'd answer immediately, and by the time she told me what she needed, I'd already be figuring out how to provide it.
Instead, I put my phone back down and finish eating while my brain supplies increasingly creative possibilities involving overdue bills, her car, or something she forgot to cancel before a free trial ended.
Nothing terrible happens during the twelve minutes it takes me to finish dinner.
Afterward, I pick up my phone and type, miss you too.
I don't answer the question about the weekend.
Bree sends three hearts and a picture of her cat asleep with his face pressed into the couch.
I look at it for a while.
Then I realize I just said no without actually using the word.
By Wednesday, something else has started bothering me.
I've been trying to take better care of myself for years. I've promised myself I'd eat breakfast, go to bed earlier, stop answering work emails at ridiculous hours, and quit agreeing to things just because saying yes is easier than disappointing somebody.
None of it ever lasted.
Soren gives me three rules, and all he has to do is tell me he expects me to follow them.
I'm not sure what that says about me.
Wednesday also means drinks with Tess, who chooses a wine bar with sticky tables, low lighting, and a bartender who starts pouring her usual before we've taken our coats off.
She waits until we have our glasses before leaning across the table. "I want it noted that I've been incredibly restrained about this. Five full days, Margot. I deserve some kind of award."
I know exactly what she means. "It went well."
"That's all I get?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"You went to a mansion to spend two hours with a dragon you met on a BDSM website, then booked another session. I'd like slightly more than it went well."
I take a drink, mostly to give myself something to do. "He was very professional."
Tess stares at me.
"And attentive."
Her stare gets worse. "What?"
"You're talking about him like you're filling out a customer satisfaction survey."
I look down at my wine. She's right, but I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of saying so.
The problem is that I don't know how to explain Saturday without making it sound either clinical or completely unhinged.
There doesn't seem to be a sensible way to tell your best friend that a dragon ran you a bath, washed your hair, gave you an orgasm, made you cry, fed you fruit, and somehow got you to agree to a bedtime.
Tess waits.
"He bathed me."
Her eyebrows lift.
"He had the bath ready before I got there," I continue, because now that I've started, I'm going to make this as humiliating as possible.
"And then he washed my hair. I cried, which was obviously mortifying, except he didn't make it mortifying.
He didn't start asking me what was wrong or make me explain myself.
He just kept washing my hair like it was completely normal. "
Tess has gone very still.
"And then he gave me a mind-blowing orgasm." I take a drink of wine. "Afterward, he wrapped me in blankets, fed me fruit, and somehow got me to agree to a bedtime. Also, he purred."
Tess's eyebrows climb.
"His whole chest vibrated. I could feel it under my palm.
" I stare into my wine, trying to find a way to explain the rest without sounding completely unhinged.
"And I felt safe, Tess. Like, ridiculously safe.
I'd known him for an hour, I was naked in a house full of monsters, and somehow I felt safer there than I have in…
" I trail off because I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"Anyway. He gave me three rules, and I've followed every single one of them.
I've eaten breakfast every morning. Sitting down for the first time like, ever. "
For once, Tess doesn't make a joke. She watches me for a moment, then reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Good."
Her eyes are a little bright, which immediately makes mine threaten to do the same, so I look down at the sticky table between us and give myself a second.
"Okay," I say once I trust my voice again. "Your turn. Tell me about the guy from the gym."
Tess lets me change the subject. She always knows when I've reached the point where pushing will make me shut down completely, and within a minute she's telling me about a man with excellent shoulders and absolutely no understanding of how texting works.
Thursday evening, my mother calls while I'm making dinner, and I nearly answer out of habit.
My hand is already reaching for the phone when I stop.
I know what she wants before I pick up because we've had some version of the same conversation three times this month.
The pharmacy hasn't called. Dr. Dickson's office is impossible to get through to.
Could I please sort it out because they listen to me and she doesn't understand why they make everything so difficult?
Except I already sorted it out.
I called the doctor's office last week, spoke to the pharmacy afterward, and confirmed the refill had been approved. Mom knows that. I told her twice.
The phone keeps ringing on the counter.
She's my mother. Answering a phone call isn't some outrageous demand, and I could probably deal with whatever she needs in half an hour.
I'll call the pharmacy again. If they don't pick up, I'll sit on hold.
Then I'll call Mom back and reassure her that everything is fine, and somewhere along the way she'll ask whether I've spoken to Bree lately.
By the time I hang up, dinner will be cold and I'll be annoyed with myself for being annoyed with her.
The phone stops ringing and the guilt hits almost immediately.
I pick it up, stare at her name in my recent calls, and come within a second of calling her back before I put it down again.
Then I finish making dinner.
I eat chicken and rice at the table while the voicemail notification sits at the top of my screen. I manage not to listen to it until I've finished eating, although I couldn't tell you much about what the food tasted like.
The message is exactly what I expected. The pharmacy, Dr. Dickson's office, and then, right at the end, a reminder that Bree hasn't called her in three days and could I please check that everything is okay.
I close my eyes.
Of course.
I type out a reply before I can talk myself into calling.
Your refill was approved last week. I confirmed it with the pharmacy, so you'll need to call them if there's still a problem. I'll let Bree know you're looking for her.
My thumb hovers over the message.
Normally, you'll need to call them would become I'll call them tomorrow.
I send it before I can change my mind.
Mom replies a few minutes later.
Okay sweetheart. I just hate dealing with them. Love you.
There's no anger. No accusation. Just enough disappointment for my stomach to tighten anyway.
Love you too.
I put the phone down.
That night, I sleep worse than I have all week.
By Friday afternoon, the guilt hasn't disappeared, but it has become easier to carry. Mom has the pharmacy's number. Her prescription is approved. She is perfectly capable of making the call herself, even if she doesn't want to.
More importantly, I haven't called and done it for her.
I'm starting to understand that saying no doesn't necessarily feel good just because it's good for me.
Friday night, I pack a bag for tomorrow.
I don't need much. A change of clothes for afterward, a few toiletries, my hairbrush. I'm about to zip the bag closed when I remember the shampoo sitting in my bathroom and go back for it.
I bought it Wednesday on the way home from drinks with Tess.
I recognized the bottle as soon as I saw it on the shelf—the same shampoo Soren used when he washed my hair.
It comes in a heavy glass bottle, smells even better than I remembered, and costs more than I'd usually spend on shampoo.
I stood in the aisle for far too long trying to justify the price before finally putting it in my basket.
There was no reason I needed it. The shampoo I already had worked perfectly well, and I could think of at least six more sensible uses for the money before I'd even made it to the register.
I bought it anyway.
Now I tuck the bottle between my clothes so it won't knock against anything on the drive tomorrow.
It's such a small thing that I feel stupid being pleased about it, but I am. I wanted it, I could afford it, and for once I didn't need a better reason than that.
I zip the bag and set it by the bedroom door. When I straighten, I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the dresser and pause.
The circles beneath my eyes haven't disappeared, but they're lighter. My shoulders aren't bunched up around my ears, and I don't have the dull headache that usually starts somewhere around Wednesday and follows me through the rest of the week.
I look rested.
That shouldn't be remarkable either, but this is the week for discovering how many ordinary things I've been doing without.
Nothing else has magically fixed itself. I still feel guilty about Mom. Bree will eventually tell me what she actually wanted. Richard will be waiting on Monday with his calendar, his coffee, and another opportunity to call me Margie.
But tonight, none of them needs anything from me.
I brush my teeth, get into bed, and realize I don't need the bedtime alarm anymore. I'm tired at the right time now, my body already beginning to expect sleep instead of another few hours staring at a screen.
For the first time in weeks, I sleep straight through until morning.
And when I wake up, my first thought is that I get to see Soren today.