When she’s completely gone, I close the door. Safe, I lean my forehead against the wood for a second, feeling the adrenaline drain out of me.
“Brutal,” a voice comments.
I turn. Elias is leaning against the kitchen counter, holding his phone.
“It was the truth,” I say.
“Usually is.” He rotates the screen toward me. “Got the whole thing on my security camera.”
I walk over. On the display, a grainy, fisheye reality plays out: Tabitha’s arrival. The confrontation. The explanation. The apology.
“Send it to Margot,” Elias suggests. “It’s proof. Shows you shut it down. Shows you explained the name thing and that she accepted it. That’s the smoking gun, isn’t it?”
I study the footage. It offers such an easy out, a digital witness to my loyalty. See?I told her. I clarified everything.
But as I stare at the send button, I can't bring myself to do it.
“No.” I shake my head.
“Why not?”
“It’s a shortcut,” I say. I turn away from the glowing screen. “I can’t win her back with a video clip. I need to earn it. If I send this, I’m only managing the PR of my marriage. I need to actually show up.”
Elias studies me for a long moment. He nods slowly, then sets the phone face down on the counter. “Fair enough.”
That night, I don’t sleep well. The couch is lumpy, and my mind is loud.
By the time the sun rises, I am already dressed. I drink a cup of coffee, staring out the window, watching the light hit the trees. Margot's car sits in the driveway. Soon, I find myself walking there. As I do, the morning sun blinds me. The air is crisp. I stop at the bottom of her porch steps. The wood under my boots feels familiar, I hired someone to sand the porch three years ago.
It’s her humming that grabs my attention. She’s not inside, but out.
And so, I go to her.
Chapter 18
Margot
It’s early in the morning and I’m already outside. I submitted a handful of art pieces for a local artist showcase, and I, along with several others, were selected. That was two weeks ago. The showcase has come fast. It’s tomorrow. So now I’m painting to relax my nerves.
The acrid tang of linseed oil and turpentine hangs heavy in the early-morning air. It’s a sharp, chemical smell that I used to hate, but today it smells like oxygen, especially lovely because it’s all my space. I love Wren and appreciate her opening her home to me, but I haven’t returned since my last clothing run.
I stand in the garden, the easel digging into the soft earth. On the canvas, muddied umbers bleed into a harsh, acidic yellow. I’m trying to capture a solitary figure standing at an impossible crossroads, but the light isn’t right yet.
I step back, wiping my hands on a rag.
In my old life, the one with Ross, I would be making espresso right now or checking his calendar, bracing myself for the rushof his departure. My morning cortisol levels would be dictated entirely by his schedule.
Today, the only schedule I have is the drying time of the paint.
I take a sip of my tea. It’s cold, but I don’t care.
For the first time in five years, my brain is soothed. No background radiation of “How can I fix him?” or “Is he happy?” runs through my mind. There is just me, the color yellow, and the birds chirping in the neighbor’s yard.
And the terrifying truth is: I like it.
I like the quiet. I like that I took up the entire bed last night. I like that I don’t have to shrink myself to fit into the empty spaces of someone else’s ambition.
I lift the palette knife, ready to scrape the yellow back, when a shadow falls across the grass.
