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.”
