Chapter 25
Margot
The problem with a “trial separation” under the same roof is the weight of what’s left unsaid.
It has been three weeks. Ross is living in the guest room, a space that smells of lavender detergent and impermanence. We are polite. Excruciatingly, painfully polite.
“Good morning,” he says, entering the kitchen. He wears jeans and a soft flannel shirt, the uniform of the “New Ross,” but his posture remains rigid, as if bracing for a board meeting.
“Morning,” I reply, tightening my grip on my mug.
He moves to the coffee pot. “I made a fresh pot. Ethiopian blend. I remembered you liked the acidity.”
“Thank you.”
“I also unloaded the dishwasher.”
“Thanks.”
“And I cleaned the gutters this morning.”
“Okay.”
He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, watching me with the intensity of a dog waiting for a treat. He wants praise. He wants me to acknowledge that he is checking the boxes, fulfilling the contract, being the Good Husband.
It makes my skin crawl.
It feels like a performance. Like he’s building a new skyscraper, and I’m the client he needs to impress to secure the bid. There is no ease. No rhythm. Just a series of calculated moves designed to minimize friction.
“Ross,” I say, setting my mug down. The porcelain clinks loudly against the granite.
“Yeah?” He straightens. “Do you need something? I can run to the store.”
“I need you to stop.”
He blinks. “Stop what?”
“Stop acting like a guest who’s trying to earn his keep. You’re hovering. You’re narrating your chores like they’re heroic feats. You emptied the dishwasher. Great. You live here. That’s what people who live in houses do.”
His jaw tightens. The hurt flashes across his face, quick and sharp, before he smooths it over with that practiced, corporate calm.
“I’m just trying to help, Margot. I’m trying to show you I’m present.”
“You’re performing,” I correct him. “You’re treating this marriage like a project you can optimize. If I do X chores and brew Y coffee, Margot will output Z forgiveness. It doesn’t work that way.”
The calm cracks. A flush creeps up his neck. “So what do you want? You want me to ignore the chores? You want me to go back to forgetting the gutters existed?”
“I want you to be a person, not a butler!”
“I don’t know how to be the person you want yet!
” he snaps, his voice rising for the first time in weeks.
“I’m trying to settle my place outside of Corporate America; and frankly, it’s terrifying.
I’m scrubbing dishes because it’s the only thing I know I can’t screw up.
So I’m sorry if my effort annoys you, but I’m flailing here. ”
He stops, chest heaving slightly. The silence that follows isn’t polite. It’s heavy. Real.
The frustration in his eyes is raw. He isn’t managing me right now. He’s struggling.
“Okay,” I say softly. The anger drains out of me, leaving a dull ache. “That. Give me that.”
“The yelling?”
“The honesty. I don’t need the perfect coffee, Ross. I just need to know you aren’t acting.”
He exhales, a long, shuddering breath, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not acting. I’m… scared.”
“Me too.”
He doesn’t fix it. He doesn’t offer a solution. He just nods, picks up his mug, and turns to look out the window. We stand in the kitchen, two terrified people drinking coffee, and for the first time, nothing feels forced.