Chapter 31 Margot
Margot
It’s been two months since I walked out of Ethan’s cabin and out of his life. Two months since we exchanged more than a polite smile.
Things are still hard, but I’m making progress.
Therapy helps. Not in big, sweeping ways, but in little shifts that I hardly notice until I stop and take stock.
I don’t cry in the work bathroom anymore.
I don’t cry myself to sleep at night. The ache is still there, but it doesn’t consume me the way it used to.
My new apartment is starting to feel like home. It’s nice to have a place that truly feels like it’s mine, a place I can easily afford without stretching myself too thin every month.
My new job is… fine. It’s mostly spreadsheets and endless emails. I miss the daily challenges of my old position, but I’m learning to tolerate the tedium of this new one. It’s steady, safe, predictable. All the things that I need right now.
Coming home to my cats is the best part of every day. It’s impossible not to smile when they curl up on my lap, purring and kneading their paws.
There’s a future for me without Ethan North. I’m sure of that now. I can see it taking shape around me. The only problem is that I hate the way that future looks. It feels like a book rewritten with a missing chapter.
With Jeremy, I was happy to rip our chapter up and burn the pages to ash.
Four years together, and it barely felt like a loss.
When he showed up at my apartment last week saying he made a mistake and begging me to take him back, I felt nothing at all— except maybe a flicker of satisfaction that the other woman had come to her senses and dumped his sorry ass.
When I mentioned it to my therapist, she asked what felt different about that breakup. What did I do differently that helped me recover from it so quickly and completely?
Thinking back on the days that followed our breakup, I remember the darkness, but I also remember these little pinholes of light that kept shining through.
It was Ethan—I realize that now. A little compliment, an inside joke, a quiet shoulder to lean on.
He’s the reason I bounced back so quickly.
He was the light. Without him, those pinholes are just a bunch of puncture wounds.
After admitting this out loud, my therapist set her pen down, crossed her legs, and leaned back in her chair. I figured she had given up on me at that point. Instead, she said the last thing I expected to hear: “I think you need to talk to Ethan.”
“Why?” I asked, confused and slightly betrayed. I’ve spent a small fortune and a large chunk of time on therapy. Telling me to talk to Ethan seems an awful lot like outsourcing her own job—not to mention a potentially epic setback to the small amount of progress I’ve made.
But I can’t deny that there was some small part of me that was thrilled and excited by her suggestion.
She sighed. “I think you should tell him how you feel, and I think you should listen to what he has to say as well.”
I told her I wasn’t ready for that, but I’d be lying if I said that the idea hasn’t taken root in my brain since that session.
In the middle of the night, I lie awake considering what I might say to Ethan and how he might respond.
A whole index of imaginary scenarios exists within my head now—some hopeful, some resolute, some terrifying. All completely fictional.
Until now, that is.
There’s nothing but a door separating me and Ethan at the moment.
Last weekend, Emma said we needed to talk.
She sat me down and explained that her future in-laws wanted to host a party to welcome her and Garrett home, as well as celebrate their engagement.
Ethan would be there, of course. She wanted me to attend as well but understood if I wasn’t up for it.
And while I appreciate her thoughtfulness, there isn’t a chance in hell that I’m sitting out of my best friend’s engagement party.
So, here I am, standing in front of Ethan’s parents’ front door.
I’m wearing a nice dress and light makeup. My hair is down around my shoulders. Any second now, I’ll take a step forward, ring the bell, and make my best attempt at a genuine smile.
Any second…
…but maybe just a few seconds more.
I’m not sure how long I stand there. Hopefully they don’t own a doorbell camera, but in a neighborhood as fancy as this, that’s doubtful.
From their giant front porch, I can see Garrett and Emma’s house down the street. If I squint, I can see Ethan’s house in the distance as well.
I wonder if he’s already inside. I wonder if he brought a date. I wonder which of the million scenarios I’ve played out in my head will come closest to the reality of seeing him again.
The only thing that actually propels me forward to press my finger to the doorbell is the headlights of another car rolling to a stop in front of the house, and the idea of being caught standing outside just staring at the front door like a weirdo.
The man who answers the door is tall with a familiar expression and a strong jawline. It takes me a second to realize that I’m looking at Ethan’s father.
“H-hi,” I stammer. “I’m Margot.”
“Hi, Margot.” He smiles, opening the door wider and gesturing for me to step inside. “Come on in.”
The warmth in his tone is open to interpretation. Does he recognize my name from something Emma or Ethan has said, or is he just friendly to everyone?
It’s rare that I feel compelled to blabber, but the sudden urge to properly introduce myself wells up inside of me.
I’m Emma’s best friend and Ethan’s ex-assistant.
We also kinda-sorta dated, then I found out that he’d been lying about his ex-wife and we broke up.
But my therapist seems to think that maybe I should give him another chance, and I’m not sure how I feel about that yet.
And now I’m here. In your house. Possibly about to have some sort of mental collapse.
Yeah… no.
Luckily, before we exchange any other words, the next group of guests arrive at the door. I step out of the way while his dad offers another round of warm welcomes.
The swell of laughter and voices leads me down a hallway, my heels clicking lightly on the hardwood floors and my heart in my throat. My stomach knots a little tighter with every step.
Ethan’s here… somewhere. I keep telling myself I can handle seeing him, but the truth is that I have no idea how I’ll react. When it comes to Ethan North, my heart, my brain, and my body each have a mind of their own, and the results aren’t always pretty.
I turn the corner into a dining room, but before I can orient myself, I’m yanked into a suffocating hug.
“You came!” Emma squeals.
“Of course,” I manage, smiling into her shoulder. “I told you I wouldn’t miss this.”
Emma leans back, looking me up and down. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, and you look amazing!”
I laugh, shying away from the compliment. “No, you look amazing.”
She really does. Several months of hiking through New Zealand have left her toned and tanned.
She’s still has all her curves, but they’re just a bit firmer now.
And I don’t have to ask if Emma made her own dress for this event because the blush-colored dress fits her way to well to be anything but one of her original designs.
Someone calls Emma’s name from across the room, drawing both of our attention.
She smiles and quietly groans in unison.
“Duty calls,” she says, turning back to me.
“I’m pretty sure Garrett’s parents invited everyone they’ve ever met.
And since Garrett isn’t exactly Mr. Small Talk, all of the socializing falls on me. ”
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “Go mingle.”
“You’ll be okay?” The look she gives me silently conveys her concerns.
They’re the same as my concerns, but this isn’t the time to dwell on them. I force a smile and nod. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Just enjoy your party.”
After one last assessing look, Emma nods and allows herself to be whisked away.
I wander through the crowd in the opposite direction, smiling politely even though my chest is tight and my breathing is shallow.
A waiter with a tray of wine crosses my path, and I pluck a glass of red from it.
Maneuvering to an inconspicuous spot where I blend into the crowd without exactly joining it, I scan the room.
But I don’t see him. Somehow, that’s both a relief and a disappointment.
Between small sips of wine and even smaller bits of passing conversation, my eyes keep drifting. Roaming. Searching. Waiting for that inevitable moment when he’ll appear.
Then I hear his voice.
It’s familiar, warm.
A punch to my sternum.
My gaze cuts across the room, following the sound. My body tenses, bracing for the impact of seeing him. For the possibility that he won’t be here alone. For the realization that I may not be over him even if we are truly over as a couple. For weeks of therapy to be wasted on this single moment.
Ethan steps through the backdoor, backlit by the afternoon sun and smiling at something another man says.
He’s wearing a light grey button-down shirt, cuffs rolled up around his forearms, and a pair of black slacks.
He looks as handsome as ever, but there’s something weary in his expression, a hint of exhaustion in his otherwise happy facade.
My heart is suddenly everywhere: in my throat, my ears, my fingertips. Then his eyes connect with mine.
His smile falters, reshapes. The look he gives me is too much to contain in a single word. It’s happy, apologetic, conflicted, and hopeful. Months of emotions all at once. My knees almost buckle under the weight of them all.
Ethan says something to the man beside him, then breaks away, moving toward me in slow but steady strides. It reminds me of the way one might approach a stray chihuahua when they aren’t sure if its natural defense mechanism is bolting or biting.
And that’s fair, actually.