Chapter 10
Margot
The lavender is lying to me.
It’s in the fibers of the borrowed robe, a scent so aggressive and clean it’s trying to scrub the last forty-eight hours off my skin.
Wren uses a specific detergent, eco-friendly, hyper-concentrated, the kind of stuff that promises to remove stains from your soul along with the wine spots.
I’m wrapped in it, tied tight at the waist, huddled on the edge of her guest bed.
The fabric is a plush, white microfiber that feels like a counterfeit version of comfort.
It isn’t mine.
Nothing here is mine. My life is currently contained in a leather overnight bag sitting on a chair that matches a rug I didn’t choose.
Way to go, Margot.
My phone, resting on the nightstand next to a stack of Wren’s unread literary journals, starts to vibrate. Again. The sound is a low, mechanical buzz against the wood. It’s the twentieth time in three hours.
I don’t even have to peek at the screen to know it’s Ross. At this point, his name probably looks like a diagnostic error on the display. Verizon is about to call me any minute. “Ma’am, we can’t help but notice you haven’t answered a single one of your husband’s calls. Is your phone broken?”
Oh gosh. What if Ross went to the phone store in an effort to bully me into answering? He wouldn’t, but it’s a frightening thought.
Instead, I imagine the calls are coming from Ross’s office, or the car, or wherever he’s currently hiding.
Each buzz is a reminder of the betrayal he committed in the center of our bedroom.
Watching it vibrate on the nightstand, I don’t bother to pick it up.
I gave him multiple chances to connect with me, and he chose work every single time. I. Am. Done.
In the kitchen, Wren is making a salad, or venting rage on a cucumber.
I can tell by the clack-clack-clack of a knife against a cutting board.
Wren doesn’t do “quiet grief.” She does “active defense.” She’s been moving around the place for an hour, a whirlwind of protective energy, muttering about locks and lawyers and the inherent flaws of men who design skyscrapers but can’t remember who they’re sleeping with.
The phone stops.
For thirty seconds, there is nothing. I can almost hear the gears turning in Ross’s head, him recalibrating, trying to find a new angle, a different set of specs to fix the unfixable.
Then it starts again. Brrr. Brrr.
I want to take a hammer to it. To smash the screen until the pixels bleed out like his promises did.
But I don’t move. Because moving requires a kind of physical motivation I currently lack. Staying upright is habit now.
“Margot?”
Wren’s voice comes from the hallway, sharp and clear. Holding a stalk of celery, she appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a T-shirt that says “Mind the Gap” and leggings that look like they’ve seen more marathons than I have. But it’s her face, full of pragmatic fury, that grabs my attention.
“It’s him again, isn’t it?” she asks, nodding toward the buzzing phone.
“It’s always him,” I say. My voice sounds like it’s been stored in a dry basement for a decade—thin. Brittle. Honestly, can I go there? To the basement. I need a few decades to process the last few days.
“Give it to me,” she says, stepping into the room. “I’ll tell him exactly where he can stick his architectural sensibilities.”
“No,” I say, finally reaching out and flipping the phone face-down. The buzzing becomes a muffled thud. “It’s fine. Let him call. Let him drain his battery. He’s good at wasting things anyway.”
Wren studies me. She’s always been good at reading body language. “You need to eat something that isn’t made of adrenaline and spite, Margot. I’m making a Greek salad. Feta is the only thing that makes sense in a world where your husband is a complete bastard.”
I try to smile, but my face feels like wet plaster that’s already started to set. “And here I was hoping for pizza.”
“If you want it, you got it! Giant slices of pepperoni and cheese with a side of salad.”
I start to stand, the borrowed robe heavy around my calves, when the world changes.
Three heavy, thunderous knocks hit the front door.
The sound doesn’t just fill the apartment, it shatters it. It’s not a polite request for entry, but a demand. The sound of someone who has stopped caring about etiquette, or about neighbors calling the police.
Wren and I both freeze. The celery stalk in her hand drops to the floor with a soft thud.
The apartment suddenly loses its oxygen. I think of Ross, of the way he looked in the hallway of our house, and a cold, metallic taste fills my mouth.
It shouldn’t be him. But Ross Calder is an architect. He knows how to find things. He knows how to track the movements of the people who matter, even when he’s busy forgetting their names. My parents probably told him.
Wren recovers first. Ready for war. Her eyes turn to flint.
“Stay here,” she commands. “Do not come out or make a sound.”
She turns and marches to the entryway, her footsteps purposeful.
Not wanting to obey anyone but myself, I stop at the edge of the hall. Then I stop at the edge of the frame, peering into the living room.
Wren reaches the door. She doesn’t look through the peephole—because she knows. Grabbing the handle, she yanks it open, her body blocking the entire entrance like a human shield.
“You have a lot of nerve showing up here, Ross,” she says, voice of ice. Not the kind of ice that melts, but the kind that cracks the engine block of a car.
“Wren. Move.”
The voice that answers doesn’t sound like my husband. It’s too low, too ragged. It sounds like a man who’s been screaming into a pillow for forty-eight hours.
I edge another inch, squinting. From this angle, I can see him.
It’s a shock to the system. The Ross Calder I know is a creature of discipline and silver-grey suits. He is salt-and-pepper hair and a jawline that could cut glass. The man standing in Wren’s hallway is a man possessed with urgency.
He’s unshaven, a dark, uneven stubble covering his face.
His skin is the color of old newspaper, grey and sallow, and his eyes are mapped with red veins, sunken into his skull.
He’s wearing the same white dress shirt he had on when I left, but it’s a disaster: buttons missing, the collar stained with sweat and coffee, the fabric wrinkled in a way that suggests he’s been sleeping in it, or perhaps not sleeping at all.
His tie is a loose, frayed cord hanging around his neck.
After setting his briefcase on the floor, he starts to step inside.
“You are not coming in here,” Wren says, her voice rising. She crosses her arms over her chest, her stance immovable. “I should have called the police the second I saw your car on the street. Turn around and walk away, Ross. Before I make this official.”
While he doesn’t flinch, he does look past her, his gaze searching for me with wide, glassy eyes.
“I’m not leaving,” he says. There’s no aggression in his tone, only a flat, terrifying determination. “I’m not leaving until I speak to her. I don’t care if you call the cops. I’ll wait for them on the porch. I’ll talk to her while they’re handcuffing me.”
“You think this is a romantic grand gesture? You whispered another woman’s name in the afterglow, Ross. This silence is what you earned. You don’t get a rebuttal.”
“I know what I did,” Ross gasps, and for a second, his knees seem to buckle.
He catches himself on the doorframe, his fingers digging into the wood.
His wedding ring, the one I watched him twist and turn, glints under the hallway light.
A cruel joke. “I’m a wreck because of my actions and mistakes. But I’m not leaving.”
“She’s not a project for you to fix, Ross!
She’s a human being you broke!” Wren takes a step forward, pushing into his space, her face inches from his.
“Go back to Arthur. Return to whatever associate’s name is currently on your tongue.
But you are not touching her. You aren’t even breathing the same air. ”
He may have his Tabitha, but I have my Wren.
I’m shivering now, not because I’m cold, but because I can see the tremors in Ross’s hands. He looks like he’s on the verge of a total neurological collapse.
“Margot!” he shouts, his voice cracking, the sound echoing through the small space. “Margot, please! Give me five minutes! Let me explain. I’ll sign the papers. I’ll leave the city. But just five minutes!”
“Shut up!” Wren hisses. “I will call them, Ross. I’m dialing right now.” She reaches for her back pocket, where her phone is tucked into her leggings.
Standing as a ruin of a man, he stares into the darkness of the living room. He looks like he’s waiting for the building to fall on him. He looks like he’s hoping it does.
I’ve never seen my husband so desperate.
Despite the rage, despite the name Tabitha still echoing in my ears, I feel a sickening pull in my chest.
It’s not love. Not anymore.
It’s the same feeling you get when you see a beautiful skyscraper being brought down by controlled explosives. You know it has to happen. You know the structure was flawed. But you still can’t help but mourn the silhouette.
So I step out of the shadows.
Every muscle in my legs protests the weight of my own body, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that has settled into the marrow. I’m still wrapped in Wren’s microfiber robe, the white fabric a stark contrast to the dim, beige hallway. I feel small, exposed, a soft thing in a house of hard edges.
The floorboards don’t even creak, but the shift in the air is enough.
Wren doesn’t turn around, but her shoulders stiffen. She’s an intuitive fighter; she knows I’ve broken cover. Ross, however, reacts like I’ve stepped through a portal from another dimension.