Page 103 of Playing Dirty
I step closer, and this time she holds her ground. It takes everything I have not to wrap her up and refuse to let go, as if I could hold the two of us together through sheer stubbornness.
"I love you, Margot," I say, and my voice doesn't waver, because it's the one thing left I'm certain of. "I want you, every part of you, for the rest of my life. I'm not scared of the dark parts, none of it. And I know you love me too. You can't talk me out of that, because we're meant to be together. So take the time if you need it. But you're not losing me. I'm not worried about how this ends, Ace. I already know."
She stares at me for a long moment, and something moves across her face that looks almost like belief.
"I love you too," she whispers, and steps back before I can reach for her.
She wipes a final tear, turns on her heel, and hurries across the lot, and I stand there under the flickering fluorescents and watch my entire world drive away into the dark.
29
Margot
I thumb through my phone with a hollow sense of detachment, feeling numb and utterly drained. The porch swing creaks as I give it another slow push, sinking further into the heaviness that has settled in the wake of my panic attack. The sharp, frantic edge that started it all has long since worn off, replaced by a gray fog that sits on me through the day and an anxious churn that takes over at night.
It just feels... empty.
I glance down at the small potted plant on the side table, a little pothos in a hand-painted clay pot. Dot had gifted him to me a month back, and I'd been so diligent about him that I'd coaxed out several proud new leaves. But now he's drooping, looking every bit as wilted as I feel after over a week of neglect. I'd named him Gilbert.
"I'm sorry, Gilbert," I whisper, running a finger over one sad leaf and feeling like crying all over again. I’m letting everyone down.
Isabelle keeps offering to come over and Celeste keepsoffering increasingly criminal solutions to the comment section. I love them for it, but I haven't wanted to let anyone see me like this except the porch swing and Gilbert. And Sabrina of course.
I even told Mom on the phone that everything's fine, in the bright voice she's never once thought to question, and I've burned two sick days at Solstice. Sick days.Me. I’ve worked through head colds, a sprained ankle, and one memorable bout of food poisoning during a three-hundred-person wedding.
It probably isn't a badge of honor, being this exhaustively incapable of rest, but it's my default, and not working feels deeply strange. Carol granted the leave right away, telling me to take the full week off if I needed it, and followed up with a concerned message saying she and Elaine are there for me if I need anything. Everyone being so kind about it somehow only makes it worse.
Another notification pings against the wood of the side table. The hockey alerts I added as a form of digital self-flagellation inform me that game seven is only days away. Cillian and the Renegades have been trading blows with New York all series, three wins apiece now, and it's all narrowed down to one final, brutal match. Whoever takes game seven takes the Cup.
Wanting to be there is an ache I carry around all day, but it wouldn't be fair after the distance I've forced between us. Maybe he's really better off without me, without the constant threat of my anxiety darkening his world.
The porch door slides open behind me. I turn to see Sabrina stepping through with two steaming mugs.
"Hey," she says. "I had a feeling I'd find you out here."
She plops down beside me, hands me a cup of tea, and snuggles up under the blanket I brought out, tucking her cold feet under my leg, the way she has since she was nine.
“Thanks for the tea,” I murmur, grateful for the warmth against my palms.
"Of course." She studies me over the rim of her own cup, her expression uncharacteristically somber. "Have you two been talking?"
"A little. I texted him after the win last night. Just a 'congratulations' and that I'm starting to feel better. It's a total lie, but I can't have him worrying right now." I trace the rim of the mug, my throat tight. "He's better off without a front-row seat to my latest meltdown, and playing the distant cheerleader is the only unselfish thing I can do for him."
"Well, for the record, he texted me too." She sips her tea.
I glance over, my heart doing a little skip. “He texted you?”
She nods. “Asking whether you're sleeping, whether the cheerful texts are real. He’s worried sick, but he didn’t want me to tell you he’d checked in. I think he’s trying to respect your exile, even if he hates it.”
I let out a soft, jagged sigh. “Silly of him to trust one sister not to tell the other.”
She half-grins over at me. “He really should know better since he has so many.”
We sit in a companionable silence for a long while, swinging slowly and watching the sun fade into a bruised purple. Eventually, Sabrina nudges my shoulder.
“Did you call Dr. Bowen?” she asks gently.
“Yep.” I nod. “I’m heading back in next week. So we’ll do the work, adjust the meds if needed since I’m on such a low dose, and maybe I can get my head back above water. But part of me feels like the damage with Cillian is already permanent.”
