Page 107 of Playing Dirty
She nods and slips back inside, the noise swelling and fading as the door opens and closes behind her. And then it's just me and the city and a window sixty miles north that I can't see and can't stop facing anyway.
Tomorrow, whoever wins the game takes everything.
And then, either way, I'm going to get Margot back.
31
Margot
Game seven of the Stanley Cup Final starts in an hour, and I've spent most of the afternoon pacing the cottage like I’m in a cage. I've wiped down counters that were already clean, rearranged the couch cushions twice for a watch party of one, and made a cup of tea that I’ve yet to sip, all while my mind runs its frantic loop of what-ifs.
Sabrina is at a film seminar, so there's no one here to witness me losing it except the muted pregame coverage, where two men in suits keep gesturing at a graphic of Cillian's face.
Cillian is out there right now, somewhere inside that arena, preparing for the biggest game of his life. I can't stop wondering if he's as rattled as I am. Probably not. He gets calmer as things get bigger. Meanwhile I might as well be the one playing tonight, for how hard my heart is going and how much this night has come to mean to me.
I want to be there so badly it's a physical ache. I've picked up my keys twice tonight and put them back down both times, running the same useless debate on a loop. He's never oncepressured me to come. His texts have been all patience, telling me to take whatever time I need, and somehow that makes it harder, because the decision is entirely mine and I keep failing to make it.
What if I pop up out of nowhere and it throws him, tonight of all nights? What if seeing me in the crowd puts my meltdown front and center in his head when he needs to be thinking about nothing but the ice? And what does it say that the first game I'd show my face at is the biggest one of his life, like someone who skips the grind and only turns up for the trophies?
There's no version of this where I'm not failing him somehow. So I'm here, pacing my own cottage, watching the clock eat the last hour.
I desperately need something to do with my hands, so I head out to the porch and survey the garden for anything that needs me. Weeding? Deadheading? Aggressive, unsolicited pruning? I settle for crouching down to check on Gilbert, who after a good watering and some sincere groveling is thankfully looking bright again, his leaves glossy in the low evening light.
"We're both going to get through this, Gilbert," I tell him firmly, even if I don't quite believe it myself.
I'm still hunched there, refreshing the hockey feed on my phone, when a knock sounds at the front door. Sabrina, maybe, home early from her seminar and locked out for the millionth time. I head back inside, already mentally drafting the frog-in-the-herb-garden lecture, and yank the door open.
Jason is standing on my porch.
I stare at him in total shock, my hand frozen on the handle, speechless.
"Hey." He does an awkward little shrug, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand. "I know I should have called. I've just been feeling weird about how we left things at the party, and honestly, I've been worried about you, the way you ran off likethat. I was passing through anyway, so I thought I'd check on you."
I finally recover my voice. "We survive one excruciating conversation at a fundraiser and now you're doing house calls?"
“Come on, Margot.” He sighs, and shifts the bottle from one hand to the other. "Seeing you again after all this time... I just couldn't let it go. This doesn't have to be weird. Chelsea's at a bachelorette thing in Sonoma tonight, so she doesn't even need to know. It’s not a big deal, we can just talk, like old times."
She doesn't even need to know.
The phrase hits like a bucket of ice water, and I look at him, really look at him. The wine. The outfit. The quick glance he just sent past my shoulder into the cottage, checking whether the hockey player is home.
"Are youfuckingkidding me?" I ask, my voice vibrating with a sudden, sharp clarity.
"Margot, I know you're pissed, but I'm trying to make things right.” He frowns. "The way you ran out of that party. And then I heard around town that you haven't been seen with that guy lately. I thought maybe something happened there, and I wanted to be here for you."
"You think Cillian cheated on me and you've come up here to pick up the pieces?" I ask, and the bastard actually looks sincere.
I start laughing.
He blinks, looking confused, then glances over his shoulder as if checking whether anyone's witnessing this. "Uh. Are you okay?"
I laugh harder, wild and a little hysterical, doubling over with a hand pressed to my chest while he stands there holding his big stupid bottle, and somewhere in the middle of it, something I've only ever known intellectually finally lands in my body. There's a profound difference between knowing in your mind and actuallyfeelingit in your body.
Because there he is. The man I spent years believing I drove away by being too anxious, too much, too heavy to love, and he's standing on my porch trying to cheat on his sweet new girlfriend. With me. There is no version of me, calm or spiraling, polished or falling apart, that was ever going to change what he is. His cheating was never a verdict on me. It was only ever a fact about him.
And I've spent two weeks hiding from the man I love because of a rule this pathetic creature wrote. Waiting until I was fixed enough, shiny enough, manageable enough to be seen. Cillian never asked me for any of that. Jason's the one who taught me love had a weight limit, and I've been running my whole heart by his rulebook.
The laughter winds down, and I wipe my eyes, and what's left underneath it is clean and quiet and absolutely certain.
