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“I already ordered for us. I know what my man likes,” she states with a coy smile, then lowers herself onto a loveseat and beckons me to join her.
With no other seating options, I reluctantly I drop down next to her, trying to leave a modicum of space between us. Unfortunately, I fail. This seat is too small for two people who used to be in a relationship. But the fact that she chose it tells me I’m not just here to hear this apology. That and themy mancomment.
“You ah, changed your hair,” I say lamely, gesturing to her new, longer, blonder locks.
“I did; do you like it?” She preens, toying with the ends of it.
I shrug. “It’s all right.” I’m a dude, I don’t really care about hair.
Maggie’s shoulders slump a little, but she quickly shakes it off and her smiles widens. Placing her hand on my thigh, she leans into my space. “You’re probably wondering why I waited so long to reach out again.”
“Not really. You made it pretty clear where you stood when you walked out on me,” I tell her. I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing, but I’m not encouraging it.
Her smile faulters, but again, she rallies. “I was hurt and confused. I appreciate you giving me time and space to think things through. And I have, Valentine. I’ve thought long and hard about our relationship and I’m just not willing to give it all up for something as trivial as a little jealousy. I’m ready to forgive you and move forward.”
My brows hike up my forehead. “Mags,Ididn’t do anything requiring forgiveness. You’re the one who threw an epic bitch fit and stormed out of my house after calling me an array of names I’m not going to repeat. So, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
She bats my shoulder as she throws her head back and…laughs.
I eye her, worried she’s about to pull some full blown sociopath shit right here in the middle of Perky’s. Glancing around, she appears to have gained quite a bit of attention. I throw the other patrons what I hope is a reassuring smile, then turn back to my nutso ex-girlfriend.
“What’s so funny, Mags?” I ask, half afraid of her answer. She wasn’t crazy when we were dating last year. It wasn’t until the last month or so when she started trying to gaslight me about my friendship with Belle. Then there was the ultimatum. But the way she’s behaving is setting off all kinds of alarms in my head.
When her gaze returns to me, she takes my hand between hers, brings it to her lips, then brushes a kiss against my knuckles. “I always was the pursuer in our relationship, wasn’t I?” She sighs wistfully, then lowers my hand to hold it in her lap.
As gently as possible, I disentangle my hand from her grip. “Ah, yeah. I guess so. But I fail to see what that has to do with anything.”
She chuckles, leaning in and swiping a few strands of hair off my forehead. “You want me to apologize, I understand. And I am sorry, Valentine. I caused us both needless pain, and I deeply regret the months we’ve spent apart. But I’m here now, and we can pick up where we left off.”
A waitress arrives, placing two mugs on the small coffee table before us. She shoots us a quick smile before moving on to deliver another order.
Once she’s out of earshot, I shake my head, displacing Maggie’s hand from where it’s now cupping the side of my neck. “Pick up where we left off? What are you even talking about? We’re done. And have been for the last six months.You made sure of that with your extremely offensive accusations. And you expect me to forget that?”
“Water under the bridge,” she says, her eyes becoming glassy.
I squint, really looking into her eyes for the first time since I sat down. “Are you, are you wearing contacts?”
She perks up again. “Do you like them?”
Shifting as far back from her as I can without falling off this damn loveseat, I take a moment to catalogue her. She’s changed more than her hair. She’s wearing blue contacts, a full face of make-up, a form fitting navy dress, and heels Belle would probably kill for.
My eyes widen as it all comes together.
She’s transformed herself into Belle. Or tried to.
Jesus. H. Christ. Sheisa sociopath. Or a psychopath. Either way, this is fucked.
“Well?” Maggie prompts.
I’m drawing a blank. What were we just talking about? “What was the question again?”
She grins and shoves me playfully. “My contacts, silly. Do you like them?”
“Oh, right. Umm, yeah, they’re nice.” This answer seems to unsettle her, yet please her at the same time. Her expression wars between the two emotions. I don’t want to upset the crazy, so I rush to add, “But your eyes are pretty without them.”
Mollified, she smiles coyly and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks, Val, you always know just what to say.”
I strongly disagree, but that’s a moot point at this juncture in time. Maggie clearly has a few loose screws upstairs. I wish Meg were here, she’d know how to handle this situation. I probably should have listened better when she gave that presentation on talking down mentally unstable skippers.
