8. Los Angeles #2
"And then I met you." Margot's voice dropped to almost nothing. "And you were so—you just felt everything, so openly, like it was easy. Like wanting things wasn't terrifying. And I couldn't stop watching you, couldn't stop wanting to be near you, and it was like—"
"Like standing on a ledge."
"Like standing on a ledge with no railing and someone telling me to jump."
"Okay, that's dramatic."
"You asked."
Becca pulled her knees tighter to her chest. She knew it was a defensive posture, knew Margot probably recognized it too, but she didn't care.
"Here's what I don't understand," she said. "You said all that—the incandescent thing, the wanting to thaw thing—you said you were falling in love with me. And then six hours later you took it all back. So either you were lying then, or you're lying now. It has to be one."
"It doesn't."
"It does. That's how words work, Margot. You can't say something and then unsay it just because it's morning and you got scared."
"I didn't unsay it." Margot leaned forward, urgent now, her tea forgotten on the table. "I meant everything I said to you. I meant it when I said it and I mean it now. This morning—this morning I tried to destroy it because I couldn't handle how much I meant it."
"That's the same thing!" Becca's voice cracked, and she hated that too. "If you blow something up because it's real, you're still blowing it up!"
"I know. I know that. I'm not saying it makes sense.
" Margot pressed her palms flat against her thighs, steadying herself.
"I'm saying it's what I did, and I'm sorry, and I need you to understand that the fear isn't stronger than the wanting.
I just let it win this morning. I won't let it win again. "
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise to fight it." Margot's eyes were wet now, tears threatening to spill.
"I can promise to tell you when I'm scared instead of running.
I can promise to stay in the room even when every instinct is screaming at me to leave.
I can't promise I'll be perfect. But I can promise I'll keep trying. "
Becca stared at her.
This was the part where, in a movie, she'd melt. Cross the room, fall into Margot's arms, let the music swell and the credits roll.
But this wasn't a movie. And Becca had spent twenty-nine years being the girl who forgave too fast, loved too hard, let people off the hook because she was so desperate to be loved back.
"That's a good speech," she said.
Margot blinked. "But?"
"But I've heard good speeches before. From people who didn't mean them.
" Becca stood, because if she didn't move she was going to throw her mug at the wall.
She crossed to the window and stared out at the street, watching Mrs. Okonkwo walk her ancient Pomeranian past the building.
Normal life, happening right outside, while Becca tried to figure out if she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life.
"The airport thing was a big action," she said without turning around. "And I appreciate it. But it was also kind of easy. You bought a ticket, you made a scene, you said romantic things in public. That's the fun part."
"Becca—"
"The hard part is what comes after." She turned, finally, and found Margot watching her with an expression that held so much hope it hurt to look at. "The boring part. The part where you keep showing up even when it's not dramatic."
"Regular Tuesdays," Margot said.
"What?"
Margot shook her head, and something that was almost a smile crossed her face. "I want the regular Tuesdays. Not just the grand gestures. The ordinary parts. The mornings and the arguments and the days when nothing special happens."
The air stuck in Becca's throat.
Margot stood, crossing to her slowly, her footsteps careful on Becca's creaky floor. She stopped an arm's length away. Close enough to touch, far enough to give Becca space.
"I want to build something with you that isn't just crisis and reconciliation," Margot said. "I don't know how. I've never done it before. But I want to learn."
"Regular Tuesdays," Becca repeated.
"Regular Tuesdays." Margot reached out, hesitated, then put her hands on Becca's cheeks. Tentative, like she wasn't sure she was allowed. "I want to learn what your mornings look like. What you watch when you can't sleep. What makes you laugh when no one's watching."
"You'll get bored."
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know I want to find out." Margot held her gaze. "I want the boring parts, Becca. I want all of it. For as long as you'll let me."
Becca felt the tears start again, which was ridiculous, she'd cried more today than she had in the entire last year, but she couldn't seem to stop.
"Say that again," she whispered.
"I want the boring parts."
"The regular Tuesdays part."
"I want regular Tuesdays." Margot's thumbs brushed across her cheekbones, catching the tears. "Every single one. With you."
Becca kissed her.
It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. It was more like a question: can we do this? Can you actually show up for me? Margot answered with her whole body, pulling Becca closer, kissing her back like she was trying to prove something.
When they broke apart, they were both crying. Becca laughed, wet and shaky.
"We're disasters."
"Complete disasters."
"I need food. I can't have another emotional breakthrough on an empty stomach." Becca wiped at her face with the back of her hand. "There's a Thai place on the corner—best pad see ew in Silver Lake, and I'm not exaggerating."
"Let's go."
"No, I'll order delivery. I'm not ready to share you with the public yet." Becca grabbed her phone. "Stay here. Try not to impale yourself on any more springs."
She ordered the pad see ew, extra wide noodles, extra egg, the way she always got it, and added spring rolls because Margot probably liked spring rolls. People like Margot always liked spring rolls. It felt like a guess. She realized she didn't actually know what Margot's favorite food was.
They were going to learn. That was the point. Regular Tuesdays meant learning all the ordinary things you don't think to ask on a wedding weekend.
The pad see ew was perfect.
Becca had eaten it a hundred times, hungover Sundays, late-night baking sessions, the occasional actual Tuesday when she couldn't face cooking, but eating it with Margot was different. Margot ate slowly, deliberately, making small sounds of appreciation that she probably wasn't even aware of.
"This is incredible," she said, chasing a noodle around the container.
"Told you."
"The noodles are—" Margot paused, tilting her head like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "There's something smoky. What makes them taste like this?"
Becca's heart did something complicated in her chest. "Wok hei.
Breath of the wok. It's about the heat. Like, insanely high heat, so the noodles get a little charred at the edges.
Most American Thai places can't pull it off because their burners aren't powerful enough, but Arun, the guy who runs this place, he rigged up this custom setup.
" She shrugged. "I asked him about it once.
He talked for forty-five minutes. I took notes. "
Margot was staring at her.
"What?"
"You just—you care about everything." Margot set down her fork. "The noodles, the heat, the person who makes them. You pay attention to all of it."
"I'm a baker. That's my job."
"It's more than a job. It's—" Margot shook her head. "I don't pay attention to anything. Not like that. I eat to fuel my body. Half the time I don't even taste what I'm eating, I'm just shoveling it in between meetings."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It is sad, isn't it?" Margot laughed, and it sounded hollow. "I want to taste things. I want to care about the breath of the wok. Will you teach me?"
"To eat?"
"To pay attention." Margot reached across the bed (they'd migrated there when Becca's couch proved too aggressive) and took her hand. "To notice the small things. The regular Tuesday things."
Becca intertwined their fingers. "Yeah. Okay. I can try."
They finished eating. Becca told Margot about the farmers market, how she went every Sunday morning and loaded up on whatever looked good—Meyer lemons when they were in season, blood oranges that stained her fingers pink, weird produce she'd never heard of that she'd buy just to figure out what to do with it.
She told her about Mrs. Okonkwo next door, who traded neighborhood gossip for croissants and always knew who was fighting, who was sleeping together, who was about to move out.
About the alley cat she'd been trying to befriend for six months.
"His name is Eduardo," Becca said. "After my dad. Same suspicious energy."
"Your father is suspicious?"
"Of anyone dating his daughters, yeah." Becca picked at the last of her noodles. "He came back when I was fifteen. Took a while to forgive him, but we got there. Now he overcompensates with the protective dad routine." She shrugged. "He's going to interrogate you. Fair warning."
"I look forward to it."
"You say that now."
Margot leaned back against the headboard, pulling Becca with her. "Tell me more. About your life here. I want to know all of it."
So Becca talked. About the way the sunrise came through her bedroom window and hit the KitchenAid first, making the chrome glow orange.
About the mornings she woke up at four to prep pastry dough, the meditative rhythm of folding butter into flour, turn after turn after turn.
About the first wedding cake she ever sold, a three-tier disaster that had nearly collapsed during transport but somehow held, and the bride who'd cried when she saw it.
"That's when I knew," Becca said. "That I wanted to do this forever. Make things that matter for people's most important days."
"You made Sophie's cake." Margot's fingers were tracing slow circles on Becca's shoulder, absent and warm.
"Yeah."
"It was beautiful." Margot's voice was soft. "I didn't tell you at the time because I was busy being—"
"Emotionally constipated?"