Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
RACHEL
Idon’t dress up for girls’ night often, but tonight I want to feel something.
I pull out the black bodysuit I’ve been saving for a night I actually feel like showing up in.
The one that hugs all the right places. The low back, the thin spaghetti straps—it makes me feel a little dangerous, a little bold.
I tug it on slowly, adjusting the straps over my shoulders, feeling the fabric settle against my skin.
Then I shimmy into my high-waisted jeans.
They do their best to remind me I have a body worth dressing up for.
I curl my hair loosely, letting the soft waves fall just below my shoulders.
The scent of my shampoo mixes with the faint hint of perfume I dab on my neck.
I take my time with makeup: bronzy lids, fluffy lashes, a sweep of highlighter across the tops of my cheeks.
A touch of gloss on my lips, shiny but soft, playful without saying too much.
I step back and study myself. I almost don’t recognize the girl in the mirror. I force a small smile and whisper, “You look good.”
I turn out of my bedroom and grab my phone. I still haven’t heard from Ben since he disappeared to guys’ night earlier this evening. Ben knows I have plans tonight, I’d mentioned it this morning, twice. But still, I text him a reminder.
Me:
Heading out to meet Margo for drinks.
We still haven’t really talked about what happened after dinner last week.
I’ve honestly seen him only once, other than sleeping next to him in bed.
I don’t know why I keep avoiding the conversation.
Maybe it is easier to live in the space before decisions, before truths get spoken out loud.
Or maybe I’m afraid of what I’ll admit once I start.
Part of me still waits for him to change. I hate that part of me. I don’t trust it, and I don’t know why it’s still here after everything I know. But what scares me more is the realization that I’m not sure I want him to change.
Because if he did, if he became the version I’ve been hoping for, I’m not convinced I’d choose him anyway. And that’s the thought I can’t stop circling.
I’m not sure I want him.
I grab my purse and throw on my oversized jacket. I turn and lock the door behind me before I can talk myself into staying home. Before Ben’s silence convinces me I’m not wanted anywhere at all.
Margo picked a place a few blocks from her house. A tucked-away little bar on the edge of the historic district, with exposed brick and velvet booths you could sink into.
“Damn, Rach,” Margo says when I walk up, her eyes sweeping over me as she leans back in her chair. “You look hot.”
I roll my eyes, but a laugh slips out. “I try.”
“You don’t just try. You succeed.” She nods toward the glass across from her. “Come sit. Drink. Tell me everything about this week.”
I slide into the booth, tugging off my coat and draping it beside me.
My purse follows, tucked neatly against the velvet cushion.
The wine glass waits, half-full, and I reach for it right away.
The server drops off a small charcuterie board, neat rows of crackers and folded meats.
It almost looks too pretty to touch. I nod a quick thanks, grateful for the distraction, for something to keep my hands busy.
“You know, Rhett was over at the house the other day. Anderson had him over to watch football.”
“How nice, they’re bonding.” My head tips, one eyebrow raised.
Her mouth tugs into a smile. “He was asking about you.”
My fingers go still on the glass. “What did he say?” I ask, too quickly.
Margo watches me over the rim of her wine glass, the stem paused halfway to her lips.
“Just little things,” she says. “Like how you were doing. It was brief—from what I could hear. Mostly guy time.” She shrugs, then softens.
“Which is good for Rhett, you know. I feel like he shut himself off after Josh died. It’s nice seeing him bond with Anderson. ”
I lean back in my chair, letting her words settle. “I… hadn’t really thought about it like that.” The realization stings. Had I been so wrapped up in my own shit that I didn’t even give him the benefit of the doubt?
Margo takes a sip, then sets her glass down. “I did hear him talking with Anderson about his mom or something. I honestly didn’t even know his mom was still alive. I’ve never heard him talk about her.”
My head snaps up. “He was talking about his mom with Anderson?”
She nods. “Yeah. Practically the whole night.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter, staring down into my drink.
Margo’s brows knit together. “Why the shock?”
I hesitate, rolling the stem of my glass between my fingers. This isn’t my story. But I also don’t want to hold it alone.
“Rhett’s mom left him and his dad when he was twelve.”
Her mouth falls open. “What?”
“He doesn’t talk about it,” I say quietly. “I think only Josh knew. And eventually me.”
“Holy shit,” she breathes again, shaking her head.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “I saw him last week. His mom apparently ran into him on the street.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “It really messed him up. It’s not my place to tell, but I’m glad he feels like he can talk to Anderson about it.”
Margo leans back, dragging a hand down her face. “God. I feel like an asshole. I had no idea. I never even thought to ask. I just assumed she was dead. Wow, I’ve been such a shit friend to him.”
I reach across the table and tap her wrist. “I don’t think that’s fair.” She looks at me. “You were dealing with your own trauma,” I continue. “We all handle things differently.”
She exhales, then straightens, resolve flickering back into place. “Okay. Can we talk about something else?”
I blink. “Oh, do we have other pressing matters?”
She points her glass at me. “You’re kidding, right, Rach?”
I just stare at her and take another sip of my drink.
“You are really going to make me ask?” Margo sighs, setting her glass down with a soft clink. I remain silent, hoping she won’t want to press further. “Okay. Did you and Ben ever work out last weekend’s stuff?”
“Not really. We did what we always do: avoid each other for a couple of days, then act like it never happened.”
What I don’t mention is the box Rhett left on my porch.
The one filled with old photos, pieces of a past I’ve been trying not to look at too closely.
I haven’t even taken the things out yet.
Just lifted the lid, felt the weight of it in my chest, then closed it again.
It’s now stashed under my side of the bed along with Rhett’s sweatshirt.
“Rachel.”
“Look, I know,” I sigh, still not meeting her eyes. “I can’t avoid it much longer, and I promise I won’t. But this isn’t about me tonight, okay? This is girls’ night, we’re supposed to have fun and get a little tipsy.”
She ignores that completely and circles back to a topic worse than Ben and my relationship.
“Do you think you’d give Rhett a chance?”
The question lands like a stone in my stomach, pulling everything else down with it.
“You’re relentless tonight, Margs.” She stays silent, only narrowing her eyes a little more, forcing an answer out of me.
“I’m not sure he wants one,” I say, aiming for indifference. “It’s not like that for him.”
“If you say so.”
“It’s the truth, Margo. I’m done holding my breath for that man.
” It comes out a little more defensive than I meant for it to be.
Because it is the truth. Rhett doesn’t see me as anything more than a friend, and I can’t handle another night of Margo trying to convince me that Rhett feels differently.
Desperate for the attention to be anywhere else but me, I rest my elbow on the table and lean in, forcing a lighter tone. “How’s Anderson’s family doing?”
Margo’s eyes soften instantly, like she can tell I need the subject change. “They’re good. I think his mom might be seeing someone. Anderson kinda sniffed it out when we went to visit her last month.”
“How does he feel about it?”
“I think that’s what he wants for her,” she says, finally taking a sip. “So ultimately I think he’s okay with it all.”
“But they’re good people. Kind,” she adds. “They asked about you, by the way.”
I raise a brow. “Me?”
“You must have made an impression at the wedding. Anderson’s mom said you have a good laugh.”
That pulls a small smile from me, though it sits oddly in my chest. “Well, that’s sweet of her.”
We’re not two glasses of wine in when Margo switches to something gin-based and pretentious, and I follow suit, but mine is basically adult Capri Sun.
“How’s work been?” I ask. I haven’t seen Margo nearly as much as I usually do over the past month and a half.
Margo tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and leans back in her chair. “I swear, if one more wellness client asks me to make their brand voice sound ‘spiritually elevated but still chill,’ I’m throwing my laptop into the road.”
I snort into my drink. “Have you really been getting that many of those requests? What does that even mean?” I tilt my head. “It’s giving cool monk vibes.”
“Exactly,” she says, pointing at me. “A cool monk who microdoses and uses oat milk.”
“Honestly, I’d follow that account.”
She tips her head back with a laugh, then lets out a long sigh. “Work’s fine. It’s been busy recently. I had three campaign launches in the past six weeks, and I don’t think I’ve eaten a vegetable since April. But, you know. Glamorous.”
“Seems like a call for help, Margs, but hey, at least you’re not spending eight hours a day listening to patients tell you they read something on Facebook that completely contradicts actual medical science—and then expect you to agree with them.
Oh, or for your boss to practically beg you to apply for the director position for the new outpatient wing that focuses on long-term neuro recovery. ”
“Wait, I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to rewind,” Margo says, lifting her glass. “What do you mean Faier is practically giving you the biggest promotion of your career?”