There’s work to be done.
But I fall asleep at my keyboard before I’ve made enough progress, and I wake up a few hours later to hundreds of pages of nonsense, courtesy of my face on the keyboard.
I make myself a cup of tea to calm my stomach and try again.
But it doesn’t work.
No matter what I type as I’m trying to decide what I want to say to my father, none of it feels right.
I check my phone.
No texts from Rhys.
No texts from Lucky.
No missed calls.
No one checking on me.
No one yelling at me either.
I wouldn’t mind being yelled at. Pretty sure I deserve it.
No, you don’t, I hear Rhys saying in my head.
Even in my imagination, he’s too good for me.
My nose tingles and my eyes get hot again as I call Daphne.
She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you. How’s Colorado?”
“I’m back in Manhattan.”
There’s a pause, then, “Are you okay?” whispered so softly, with so much more care and concern and love than I deserve, that my only answer is to sob.
“Margot,” Daph whispers. Then, louder— “Oliver, we’re going to Manhattan.”
“No,” I protest.
Daphne hates the city.
Bad things happen to her when she’s here.
I don’t want to be another bad thing.
She’s had enough bad.
“Stop me,” she says.
“You—you hate—the city,” I cry.
“But I love you, and you need me, and I’ll be right there.”
I try to argue, but instead, three hours later, she’s barging through my door. “Margot?”
“In here.” My face hurts from how much I’ve cried, and my voice is thick and froggy. I’m buried under a fluffy peach blanket on my couch while I watch that ghost show that Rhys and I watched together the night that I made him popcorn.
Daph throws herself on me and hugs me so tight, I almost can’t breathe.
