Chapter 27
Margot
The pasta water has boiled away. All that remains is a white, salty residue caked onto the bottom of the stainless-steel pot.
I turn the burner off. The click of the knob sounds violent.
It is now forty-five minutes past the promise.
I stand at the kitchen island, staring at my phone. No text. No call. No update.
The rational part of my brain, the part that knows he quit his job, the part that watched him walk away from a partnership for me, says there is traffic. It says the line at the wine shop is long. It says his phone battery died.
But the traumatized part of me doesn’t care about logic. It is vibrating.
My chest tightens, a familiar, suffocating pressure I haven’t felt in weeks. It’s the physical memory of the old Ross. The Ross who promised dinner and then got sucked into a conference call. The Ross who lost track of time because a design was more interesting than his wife.
He’s doing it again.
The thought takes root.
He got a call from Arthur. He took a consulting gig and didn’t tell me. He’s at a bar with a client. He’s with her.
I grip the edge of the granite counter until my knuckles ache. I told myself I wouldn’t do this. I told myself we were past the surveillance phase. But trust isn’t a switch I can flip back on. It’s a muscle, and mine has stiffened.
I pick up the phone. I dial his number.
It goes straight to voicemail.
The robotic voice, “You’ve reached Ross Calder,” is the trigger.
I throw the phone onto the table. It bounces harmlessly, but the urge to shatter it is overwhelming.
I walk to the stove. I grab the pot of dry, sticky pasta and dump it into the trash. The sound of the food hitting the plastic liner is wet and final.
“I knew it,” I whisper. The anger rises hot and fast, protecting me from the hurt underneath. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
I am halfway to the stairs, intending to pack a bag, intending to go back to Wren’s, intending to end this charade, when the front door flies open.
Ross stumbles in, looking wrecked.
His hair is wild, blown back as if he’s been standing in a wind tunnel. His white shirt is ruined, smeared with long, jagged streaks of black grease. He is sweating, chest heaving, face pale.
“Margot!” he shouts, his eyes scanning the room until they land on me. “Margot, I’m so sorry.”
I freeze on the bottom step. I cross my arms, a shield against him. “Don’t.”
“My phone died,” he gasps, kicking the door shut behind him. He walks toward me, but stops when he sees my face. “I hit a pothole on I-96. Blew the front tire. The jack was rusted. I had to flag down a truck.”
“A pothole,” I say. My voice is ice. “That’s a new one. Better than ‘Miller needed a brief.’”
Ross flinches. “It’s not a lie. Look at me.” He holds up his hands. They are coated in motor oil and road grit. There is a cut on his thumb, bleeding sluggishly, the red mixing with the black grease.
“You didn’t call,” I say. I know I’m being irrational. I can see the grease. I can see the sweat. But the panic won’t let go. “You said six. It’s seven. I thought…”
My voice breaks. The anger drains away, leaving me exposed and terrified.
“I thought you were working,” I whisper. “I thought you lied.”
Ross stares at me.
Before, he would have been defensive. He would have yelled. He would have said, “I have a flat tire, Margot! Give me a break! I’m the victim here!” He would have made me feel small for doubting him.
New Ross doesn’t yell.
He looks at his dirty hands. He looks at the trash can, where the pasta sits. Then he looks at me.
He understands.
He crosses the room in three strides. He doesn’t care about the grease. He doesn’t care about the rug. He drops to his knees at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up at me.
“I know,” he says. His voice is rough, urgent. “I know where your mind went. I know you thought I was in an office. I ran up the driveway because I knew exactly what you were thinking.”
I look down at him. He’s ruined his pants. He’s bleeding.
“I was terrified,” I admit. “I felt like I was back there. Waiting for the text that never comes.”
“I know,” he repeats. He reaches out, hovering his dirty hands near my waist but not touching my clean clothes. “Margot, listen to me. I will never choose work over you again. Even if I have a flat tire. Even if the car explodes. I’m running to you.”
He looks at his hands, then grimaces. “I wanted to hold you, but I’m covered in oil.”
A small, watery laugh escapes my throat. “You’re a mess.”
“I’m a mess who wants to be here,” he says firmly. “I’m sorry I triggered it. I’m sorry I was late. I should have asked the trucker to let me use his phone.”
“He probably would have thought you were crazy.”
“I am crazy. About fixing this.”
He stays on his knees. He doesn’t demand forgiveness, but sits in the discomfort with me, letting me regulate. He offers me his vulnerability, physically lowering himself so I have the power.
I take a deep breath. The band around my chest loosens. The panic recedes.
I sit down on the step, bringing myself to his level. I reach out and take his greasy, bleeding hand in mine. The oil stains my fingers.
“We have to get that cut cleaned,” I say.
“Pasta first?” he asks hopefully.
“I threw it away.”
“Pizza,” he decides. “We order pizza. I shower. And then I let you check my phone call log so you can see the battery died at 5:50.”
“I don’t need to check it,” I say. And I mean it.
“Check it anyway,” he says, squeezing my hand, smearing oil over my knuckles.
After dinner, I need to decompress. So I’m sitting at the desk in Ross’s old home office, which I’ve reclaimed as my studio.
Crumpled paper litters the floor, white balls of frustration. Sunlight pours through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the space where inspiration used to live. Today, the light feels mocking.
I stare at the blank sheet. Every pencil stroke feels heavy, sounding less like creation and more like a countdown to failure. I am lost in the haze.
I sigh heavily, shoulders hunched, rubbing my temples as frustration builds within me. The sketchbook lies open, revealing a collage of half-formed ideas. I drop my pencil again and press my palms into my eyes. Why can’t I just create? Why can’t I find the spark?
As I glance toward the door, I spot Ross silently standing there. For a fleeting moment, our eyes meet. There’s a shift in the air. He hesitates before stepping inside, hands tucked into his pockets.
He takes a seat across from me, close enough that I feel his support. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low and caring.
“I’m fine,” I reply, though the tremor in my voice betrays me. I realize I’m tired of lying to myself, let alone him. “Just struggling a bit with this commission.”
Ross shifts slightly in his chair, tilting his head as he observes me. “Can I see it?” His tone is layered with genuine curiosity. Still, I hesitate. Vulnerability is difficult. But his presence is comforting, and the idea of laying it bare doesn’t feel as intimidating with him here.
I push the sketch toward him, feeling the warmth of my pulse quicken. “I don’t know if it’s working,” I admit.
He studies the paper, furrowing his brow. I watch closely as the lines of his concentration deepen. It’s different watching him think this way—not as the architect busy with corporate designs, but as someone who genuinely cares about my artistic expression.
“What if you shifted the perspective here?” he suggests after a moment. His finger points lightly to an area of the sketch where the composition feels off-kilter. “It might give it a sense of depth, like the figures are engaging with their surroundings instead of being trapped in them.”
I blink, surprised by the insight he offers. The way he frames his comment feels respectful, acknowledging my vision while guiding me toward something that could work. “I never thought of it that way.”
He watches intently. His fingers are poised as I incorporate the suggestion, shifting the elements on the page. I nudge them until the composition breathes.
I lean closer. My pulse quickens.
Suddenly, the shapes align.
When I look up at Ross, relief spills through me.
“Thank you.”
He nods, his expression softening. “You’ve got this.”
It’s then I’m sure. Ross loves me, and I love him. We’ve both changed. I’m ready to let go and trust him again. Because he’s proved it to me. So without any hesitation, I say, “Move out of the guest bedroom and come back to ours.”