Page 75 of The Long Way Home
What I don’t mention is the box Rhett left on my porch. The one filled with old photos, pieces of a past I’ve been trying not to look at too closely. I haven’t even taken the things out yet. Just lifted the lid, felt the weight of it in my chest, then closed it again. It’s now stashed under my side of the bed along with Rhett’s sweatshirt.
“Rachel.”
“Look, I know,” I sigh, still not meeting her eyes. “I can’t avoid it much longer, and I promise I won’t. But this isn’t about me tonight, okay? This is girls’ night, we’re supposed to have fun and get a little tipsy.”
She ignores that completely and circles back to a topic worse than Ben and my relationship.
“Do you think you’d give Rhett a chance?”
The question lands like a stone in my stomach, pulling everything else down with it.
“You’re relentless tonight, Margs.” She stays silent, only narrowing her eyes a little more, forcing an answer out of me.
“I’m not sure he wants one,” I say, aiming for indifference. “It’s not like that for him.”
“If you say so.”
“It’s the truth, Margo. I’m done holding my breath for that man.” It comes out a little more defensive than I meant for it to be. Because itisthe truth. Rhett doesn’t see me as anything more than a friend, and I can’t handle another night of Margo trying to convince me that Rhett feels differently.
Desperate for the attention to be anywhere else but me, I rest my elbow on the table and lean in, forcing a lighter tone. “How’s Anderson’s family doing?”
Margo’s eyes soften instantly, like she can tell I need the subject change. “They’re good. I think his mom might be seeing someone. Anderson kinda sniffed it out when we went to visit her last month.”
“How does he feel about it?”
“I think that’s what he wants for her,” she says, finally taking a sip. “So ultimately I think he’s okay with it all.”
“But they’re good people. Kind,” she adds. “They asked about you, by the way.”
I raise a brow. “Me?”
“You must have made an impression at the wedding. Anderson’s mom said you have a good laugh.”
That pulls a small smile from me, though it sits oddly in my chest. “Well, that’s sweet of her.”
We’re not two glasses of wine in when Margo switches to something gin-based and pretentious, and I follow suit, but mine is basically adult Capri Sun.
“How’s work been?” I ask. I haven’t seen Margo nearly as much as I usually do over the past month and a half.
Margo tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and leans back in her chair. “I swear, if one more wellness client asks me to make their brand voice sound‘spiritually elevated but still chill,’I’m throwing my laptop into the road.”
I snort into my drink. “Have you really been getting that many of those requests? What does that even mean?” I tilt my head. “It’s giving cool monk vibes.”
“Exactly,” she says, pointing at me. “A cool monk who microdoses and uses oat milk.”
“Honestly, I’d follow that account.”
She tips her head back with a laugh, then lets out a long sigh. “Work’s fine. It’s been busy recently. I had three campaign launches in the past six weeks, and I don’t think I’ve eaten a vegetable since April. But, you know. Glamorous.”
“Seems like a call for help, Margs, but hey, at least you’re not spending eight hours a day listening to patients tell you they read something on Facebook that completely contradicts actual medical science—and then expect you to agree with them. Oh,or for your boss to practically beg you to apply for the director position for the new outpatient wing that focuses on long-term neuro recovery.”
“Wait, I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to rewind,” Margo says, lifting her glass. “What do you mean Faier is practically giving you the biggest promotion of your career?”
I take a sip of my own wine, pretending it will give me courage. “I mean, he wants me to apply. But Margs, I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m ready for a position like that. I’m not leadership material.”
Margo leans back, eyes wide, mouth open in horror. “Rachel Lillian Collins, are you serious? Youliterallyrun your department now. You’re the person everyone goes to when something’s broken, when someone doesn’t know what to do. And you’ve held more of us together than you even know.”
I shrug, twisting the stem of my glass. “I don’t know. This feels different. More permanent. Official. What if I apply and I hate it? What if I make the wrong choice?”
