I don’t turn immediately. I know that shadow. I know the shape of those shoulders.
Resentment flares in my chest, not the heavy, grieving kind, but a sharp, prickly irritation.I was working. I was in the flow.
I deliberately clean the knife before I turn.
Ross stands at the edge of the garden, where the manicured hedge gives way to the wildflowers I stopped pruning last week. He looks different, no suit, no phone, just worn denim and a t-shirt that’s seen a few wash cycles.
But I don’t stare at him with longing anymore. I see him as an interruption.
“You’re painting,” he says. His voice is low, respectful.
“I am.” I cross my arms, holding the dirty rag like a shield. “Did you need something, Ross? I’m in the middle of a session.”
He blinks, surprised by the sharpness of my tone. He’s used to Sad Margot. He’s used to Angry Margot. He isn’t used to Busy Margot.
“I… I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says. “I noticed you out here. It’s been a long time since I saw you at an easel.”
“It’s been a long time since I had the mental space to stand at one.”
The words land hard. He flinches, staring down at his sneakers. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need apologies, Ross. I need light.” I gesture to the canvas with the palette knife. “And you’re standing in it.”
He steps aside quickly, moving into the shade of the oak tree. “Right. Sorry.”
He stays there, hovering, looking lost. A month ago, seeing him this unmoored would have broken my heart. I would have rushed to comfort him.
Now, I just want to finish the yellow section.
“Margot,” he says, and there’s a desperate, raw edge to his voice that finally pulls my gaze away from the canvas. “I miss you. I miss us.”
“I know you do.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, and the honesty of it feels dangerous. “I miss the companionship, sure. But Ross… I don’t miss the weight. I woke up this morning and didn’t have to worry about anyone but myself. Do you have any idea how addictive that is?”
He goes still. This is the threat he didn’t see coming. He prepared for my anger; he didn’t prepare for my indifference.
“I’m trying to fix that,” he says intently. “I’m rebuilding. I’m stripping it all down so I can be the person who adds to your life, not the one who drains it.”
“I hear you,” I say. “But I’m building something too.” I point to the canvas, then to the house, then to myself. “I’m finally filling in the outlines of my own life. I’m terrified that if I let you back in, you’re going to take over again.”
“I won’t,” he vows. “I’ll stay in the background. I’ll just… I’ll stretch the canvas. I’ll wash the brushes. Just let me be there.”
He takes a step forward. “Coffee? Ten minutes. I promise I won’t keep you from the work. I just want to exist in the same space as you for a moment.”
I hesitate.
Part of me wants to say yes immediately. But a newer, stronger part of me checks my mental watch.
I have a call with Wren at noon. I want to finish this layer by ten.
“I can give you twenty minutes,” I say, checking the drying paint. “But then I have to get back to this. The light changes at eleven, and I can’t miss it.”
Ross smiles, a small, relieved thing that reaches his eyes. “Twenty minutes. I’ll take it.”
I set the palette knife down and wipe my hands.
