The Wrong Name on Valentine’s (OTT Shorts #3)

Chapter 1

Margot

The lamb is a corpse.

It sits on a bed of garlic and roasted fingerling potatoes, glazed in a red wine reduction that has long since lost its sheen. The entire meal has turned tacky and cold. Plating it anyway, I use the silver tongs we got for our wedding and place a chop onto Ross’s plate.

The candles are hunched over, weeping wax onto the linen runner. One of them flickers and dies, a tiny gray ghost of smoke rising from the wick.

I’m not a martyr. Martyrs die for a cause they believe in. I’m just a woman who spent forty dollars on a bottle of Barolo and three hours on a meal that is currently decaying at room temperature.

Outside, the street is calm. Our neighbor, Elias, saw me through the window an hour ago.

As a retired contractor, he’s thinking of where to put the new doghouse for his dog, Sally, this spring.

Elias doesn’t wear a tie. He doesn’t have a corner office.

He has a wedding-ring tan line that refuses to fade, and sometimes I think he’s the luckiest man on the block, because at least he knows exactly what he’s lost.

I’m still trying to find where I went wrong in my own marriage.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m still fighting for my husband’s attention.

The front door lock clicks. It’s a sound I usually love, because it means my husband is finally home, but tonight, it sounds like a breach.

Ross enters the kitchen, his usual disciplined sweep of salt-and-pepper hair now a riot of static. His tie is yanked down, the knot hanging near his sternum, but the exhaustion haunting his eyes is far more telling.

He doesn’t even glance at the table. Not yet. Instead, his eyes stay glued to the glowing screen of his iPhone.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words a reflex he repeats every night. “For being late.”

“By two hours, Ross.”

“The meeting with Arthur dragged. He’s a terror when it comes to the sustainability specs for the Dubai project. He wouldn’t let anyone leave. He’s convinced the current glass-to-steel ratio will tank the firm’s reputation if we don’t recalibrate by Monday.”

“Arthur Keane isn’t the one who has to eat cold lamb.”

“I know. I know. I tried to call, but my battery was at three percent, and Arthur was—well, you know how he is. He’s the CEO. You don’t interrupt the CEO to say you have a date.”

“It wasn’t a date,” I say. My voice is thin, sharp. “It was Valentine’s Day. Our anniversary—the first time you told me you loved me. Remember that? Or was that too many building codes ago?”

Wincing at my bluntness, he sets his briefcase on the counter, right next to the bowl of fruit I spent ten minutes arranging this morning.

“I remember.”

His phone chirps. Predictably, he looks down at it.

Annoyed, I ask, “How are you on your phone now if it’s dead?”

“Charged it in the car. The structural engineer wants to schedule a meeting.”

“I don’t care who it is, if you answer that, I’m going to throw this bottle of Barolo out the window.” I don’t have to raise my voice; my mood is already doing all the work.

Ross freezes. Then he stares in my general direction for the first time since he returned home.

I’m wearing a silk slip dress I bought for tonight.

He sees the pearls he gave me six years ago.

Back when we were good. He sees the two plates of congealing meat and the way my hand trembles enough to make the wine ripple in the glass.

He looks like I’ve hit him with a beam.

“Margot,” he breathes.

“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t say my name like that.”

He swallows hard. I can see the pulse in his neck, the frantic beat of a man who has realized he’d ruined the night.

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right about the things that hurt.”

He stares at his phone. The screen glows with a notification that usually signifies the end of the world for Ross Calder, Architect. He glances at me, then at the lamb on the table.

And then he breaks the pattern.

He holds the side button. The screen goes black. The light dies. He doesn’t pocket the device, but takes it one step further by placing it face-down on the granite. Then he slides it away, past the bowl of lemons.

Without a word, he sheds his jacket and tosses it over a chair. No hanger. No precise folding. He lets it drop.

“It’s off,” he says.

“It should have been off at six,” I say, though my heart does a slow, heavy roll in my chest.

“I know. I’m a fool. An absolute, tunnel-vision idiot. I spend all day trying to impress a man who will forget my name the second I stop making him money. I forgot that you’re the one who actually knows it.”

“I’m starting to forget it too,” I lie. I could never forget it. It’s etched on the backs of my eyelids.

“Let’s help each other remember,” he says, taking the wine glass from my hand and setting it on the table. His fingers are warm, his skin rough against my palm. “I don’t want the lamb. The wine. I don’t want to talk about Arthur or the firm.”

We’ve had our struggles, but I love him. I study him now—the dark circles under his eyes, the way his jaw permanently clenches. I remember the man who once spent a weekend redesigning my tiny kitchen so I could reach the spices without a stool. He was always trying to build a better world for me.

“Sit down, Ross,” I say softly. “The lamb is terrible. Eat it as a penance.”

He laughs. “I’ll eat the whole thing.”

After he pulls out a chair for me, he sinks into his own. He simply watches me, his gaze fixed the way it is when he’s memorizing a site plan. It’s the kind of absolute focus that used to make me feel like the center of the universe.

“How was your day?” he asks.

The question is so simple, it hurts.

“I spent it waiting for you, wondering if you’d realize it was Valentine’s Day or if your secretary would have to send the flowers.”

Ross winces again. “I did buy flowers myself, but they’re in the car, right next to my brief case.”

“Leave them there,” I say. “I don’t want car flowers.”

“Fair,” he says. “What do you want?”

“I want the man who used to look at me with devotion.”

He leans across the table, his hand finding mine again. “I’m sorry.”

I want to believe him. I want to let the tension drain out of me and fall into the safety of his promises.

But I’m Margot Calder. I’m independent and resilient, and I’ve been around my husband enough to know buildings can look perfectly fine on the outside while the dry rot is eating the studs.

So I say, “Prove it.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He stands up, circles the table, and stops behind my chair. Heat radiates from him. The kitchen suddenly feels tiny.

“I’ll spend the rest of the night proving it,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “And tomorrow. And the day after that.”

He leans down, his lips brushing the side of my neck, just below my ear. It’s a soft, tentative touch, a question asked in skin and heat. My rigidity crumbles. The cold lamb, the dying candles, the two hours of resentment, they don’t disappear, but they move to the periphery.

“Dinner is ruined,” I murmur, closing my eyes.

“Good,” Ross says, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register that always makes my stomach flip. “I’m not hungry for dinner, anyway.”

I stand up, turning to face him. He’s right there, gazing at me with an intensity that is almost violent. A desperate need to reclaim what he’s been neglecting seems to overtake him.

“Ross.”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m finally here.”

He pulls me against him. The friction of his dress shirt against my silk slip is the first real thing I’ve felt all day. I realize then that I wasn’t just waiting for a meal. I was waiting for him to fight for me.

And for the first time in months, Ross Calder is looking like he’s ready to go to war.

Sensually, he slides his hands down my back, his palms resting on the swell of my hips.

“The bedroom,” I whisper.

“The bedroom,” he agrees.