Page 134 of Doctorshipped
I’ll never forget the look on her face as her eyes darted between me and Margot, obviously reading the worst into the situation. Margot showing up scrambled my thoughts. I wasn’t in a state of mind to think about what time it was, or my plans with Jayme, or anything besides the fact that Margot was here like a woman revived from the grave.
Margot had just shown up—something I had never imagined she’d do. Though, after talking with her this afternoon, after cleaning up the glass, water, and flowers on the floor, I realize I should have always known she might come back.
I had walked in from chasing Jayme to her car, watching her speed away, and sending up a silent prayer that she'd be safe driving under such emotional duress. I quietly cleaned the kitchen floor while Margot sat watching me. As soon as I had the spill mopped up, I called Hazel to ask her to pick Fiona up from school and keep her for the evening.
Then Margot and I sat at the kitchen table and talked.
Margot appraised who Jayme was to me—is to me. I confirmed her conjecture that I’m in love. She explained she didn’t intend to interfere with my relationships. She just wants to be a part of Fiona’s life in whatever way we can work it out.
I made it clear to her that will be one hundred percent up to Fiona every day of her life from today until forever. If Fiona never wants to see her mom again, I will fully support her in that choice. If she wants to reconnect with Margot, I will facilitate that the best I can.
After our talk, Margot left for a place she’s found in Dayton to stay the night. I told her she may need to arrange for more nights to stay in Ohio because I have a lot of relational damage to work through, thanks to her surprise appearance.
In hindsight, she agrees she should have called me first. She justifies her choice to show up unannounced by the presumption I might not have even answered her calls. She may be right. We’ll never know. Either way, I’m in no hurry to make my daughter face the reality that her mother has had a change of heart. I’m also not planning to keep Margot’s presence here a secret from Fiona much longer.
I just need time. Time for Jayme.
Jayme stands at the driver’s side of her car, the door propped partly open as if she might change her mind and hop back in. I stop in my tracks, standing at the edge of the walkway where it meets the sidewalk. I drop my hands to my side.
“You came,” I say, softly.
“I did.”
She shuts the door and slowly makes her way around the front of the car. I shove my hands in my pockets. They physically buzz with the urge to reach out and hold her.
She steps closer. We’re only two feet apart at the most now, close enough that she has to tip her head back to look up at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
They feel like the most inadequately lame words I’ve ever spoken. Why aren’t there better words for times like this? Words that can say so much more. The three words I want to say do not belong in this setting. She’ll hear them from me, as a declaration and a promise, but not for the first time under these conditions.
“Is it okay if we go inside?” I ask.
“Yes, please. I mean, we can.”
She’s awkward and shy. Reserved. I did this. Margot did this. Jayme’s another casualty in our wreckage.
“Is Fiona here?”
“No. She’s with Hazel for the night. I just needed … time … to think and …”
Jayme waits for more. I don’t want to stand out here for this conversation, and I don’t want to say anything until I’ve told her the most important things I have to say to her.
I gesture toward the house. “Let’s go in.”
Jayme nods and follows me toward the house. We get to the doorway and I open it for her. She passes by me, and her cinnamony sweetness wafts up to me, taunting me and comforting me simultaneously. I inhale lightly, wanting more of her. Always wanting more. Afraid I’ll end up with none.
Jayme walks past my office, to the back living room. She chooses an overstuffed chair that faces the couch from an angle, clearly sending a message.
“Do you need anything? Can I get you anything? At all?”
“I’m fine.”
So she says. She’s not fine. Obviously.
“I’m sorry about the vase. Earlier.”
“You’re sorry?” I ask, shocked.
