I took a long sip from my mug and turned away from the window.
Only to come face-to-face with the glaringly empty corner of my kitchen. Somehow, Rhett had managed to wedge himself into every corner of my life. From Marigold’s to my own home, a reminder of him always lingered.
Which was nothing less thaninfuriatingwhen I was working hard to forget how he made me feel. Friends weren’t supposedto get warm and fuzzy inside at something as simple as a pair of crinkly brown eyes. Especially not when thatfriendwas determined to leave.
Whenever I thought of his fingers brushing my wrist or that half-smile he reserved for me, I had to remind myself: he wasn’t staying. Somewhere across the country, his real life waited for him.
It didn’t hurt to think about; it was the inevitable reality of my life. People left. I stayed.
This time, when the knock sounded at my door, I had been expecting it. I puttered across the kitchen and to the foyer, steadying Easton before ushering a very wet Margot inside.
Her eyes landed on me, tendrils of wet hair plastered across her forehead as if she’d run here. The suit she wore was pinstriped, impeccably tailored, and probably once grey. Now, though, it clung to her in sopping near-blackness as the water dripped from the hem to my floor.
“Nice day for a walk?” I chirped, suppressing a smile.
She kicked off her heels, absently patting Easton’s head. “My mother, it seems, is still diametrically opposed to the concept of an alarm clock.” Margot carefully peeled off her blazer and frowned. “Thiswastwo thousand dollars.”
I nearly spit out my hot chocolate. “For that much, shouldn’t it have come with an umbrella?”
She breezed out of the foyer, leaving a trail of rainwater.
“You didn’t bring a rain jacket?” I called, trying not to trip over Easton as he zigzagged around my legs.
“The forecast promised sunshine,” Margot replied primly, standing in the middle of my bedroom rug and dripping all over it. “And besides, I left in a hurry.” Her words trailed off as she peeked expectantly into my closet.
I set my mug on the dresser and shrugged the blanket around my shoulders onto my bed. She looked too frayed to pry.
Instead, I edged around her dripping form and pulled my closet open the rest of the way. Nothing in there screamedMargot, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I didn’t feel like starting a water damage issue in my home as well as Marigold’s.
My hands located the pink, wooly sweatpants before I saw them. I bit my lip and turned as they unfolded before me.
“Rememberthese?”
Margot’s eyes narrowed.
“Because I think it’s time they’re returned to their owner,” I continued with a smothered laugh.
She held them at arm’s length as if she’d catch a disease. “Don’t you have anything else?”
“No, Margot. My closet isn’t the mall.” The retort fell out before I could stop it. But this time, I didn’t mind. “Here,” I added, blindly tossing her a sweater and a pair of mismatched socks.
She studied me for a long moment before conceding and shuffling toward the bathroom, Easton practicing his best impression of a speed bump.
A breath escaped me as I sat on the bed. My room hadn’t changed much since she’d last been in it: pale floral wallpaper, thrifted art and framed photos covering the walls, rows of low bookcases bursting with romance novels. Trinkets and mementos crowded the shelves, a chaotic museum of memories.
Among them sat my pottery—some perched on stacks of books, others on the floor. I’d taken a ceramics class freshman year and never stopped. A few pieces were lopsided relics of my early attempts, but the rest—vases, candlestick holders, dishes and mugs, some glazed in pastels and others in vibrant patterns—were my hidden pride.
I flopped backward on the quilt, burrowed into my blanket, and closed my eyes.
“You look like you’re ready to be productive,” Margot said from the doorway.
Against my better judgment, I rose and pulled the throw tighter. “And you look fourteen again,” I replied, smiling at her pink-fuzz-clad-glare.
She padded inside, hair damp and frizzed, and began surveying my shelves. “I took the liberty of hanging my suit—I hope that’s okay.”
“No dryer for your two-thousand dollar blazer?” I leaned against the bedpost and crossed my arms.
If Margot was annoyed by my jab, she didn’t show it. We were still in friendship limbo—bound by a shared childhood, forced apart by seven years of distance. It would end how it did the first time: Margot back in New York, and me as a faded caricature of home. I was grateful for her help, though—and if I was honest, she was the closest thing I had to family left.
