by Zee Monodee
After she herself had realized she was incapable of returning his, or any, love ...
“You don’t mean that.”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on inside of me, Margo?”
“Love doesn’t exist.”
It’s twisted, crazy; a delusional notion.
He laughed, and lowered his head. “More the fool you, then, for believing that.”
The cheek of him.
“I’m not the fool in the story, Jamie.”
“Then that makes two of us.”
How could she explain it to him?
Open the wound. Let it bleed. Let it cleanse itself.
It’s going to hurt, she replied.
“I’m ...” She licked her lips for composure. “I’m not cut out to love.”
Silence settled between them.
“I don’t know how to do love.” She turned her palms outward, to emphasize her point.
Don’t say let me show you, please.
He drew closer, until he stood just inches from her. He brought up a hand, placed his fingertips at her temple, where they played with wisps of her hair.
“That’s not true, and you know it. You love Emma.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Emotions, treacherous pleasure, built up inside her under his touch. How could he do that to her?
“Tell me what the real issue is, Margo.”
I can’t. Not yet.
He withdrew his hand and stepped back. She reeled at the sudden change in him.
“If that’s how you want it to be,” he said softly.
Too softly.
Bad.
“Why don’t you trust in yourself, Margo?”
“Pardon me?”
“That’s the problem here. You don’t trust yourself, so you can’t allow yourself to trust me.”
Who did that bloke think himself, and how dare he tell her things like that?
“Trust has to be earned, Jamie.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Time stood still, an instant in which frost crept up in his eyes and snuffed out any warmth that had blazed there before.
“You’re right. I haven’t earned yours.” The words strung flat, toneless. He stood rooted to his spot. “Maybe until I do, we better not see each other.”
Oh, no, not melodrama. Her hackles rose. So she should feel guilty, then? Well, he had another think coming.
“Everything needs evidence to support its claim, Jamie.” That’s what she had learned, how she’d been trained to view everything in life.
His stoic silence annoyed her beyond the pale. She wanted to grab his shirt, shake him, slap him, make him react. Anything ... as long as she could drive away that cold detachment that hurt so much.
Tears stung her eyes, and that’s when she knew that she had lost it. Her control, the situation, the man she cared about. A total failure—that’s what she’d become. Again. Harry had killed himself because of her. It was Jamie’s turn to be hurt today.
“Why do I even bother?” she said under her breath, consumed by shame, anger, regret.
Not wanting him to witness her breaking down once again, she dashed past him and to her house. She slammed the connecting door behind her, pressed her back to the wood as tightly as she pressed her eyelids closed.
Who did she kid, though? There would be no stopping the overflow of tears.
She’d messed up.
She’d messed up badly.
And everything was all her fault.
Again.
Chapter Twelve
Apologize, even if it’s not your fault. Keep the peace. Do your best. Only after trying all that do you give up.
The words his mother had spoken to him while he’d been growing up haunted Jamie in the days following his blow-up with Margo. True, back then, they’d worked at keeping him from falling out with his father, and to prevent a gap the size of the Channel to develop between him and Robert.
All for naught. The Gillespie men weren’t on good terms. At least, not the younger with the two elder.
Why were these words haunting him all of a sudden? He should be done with Margo. Blimey, the woman lashed out and stung, hit right where it hurt. He was younger than her, yes, but what did age have to do with everything? His father, at over sixty years old, still didn’t know that people mattered in life. Not money, not things. Jamie didn’t call aging in years getting wiser—George Gillespie, at sixty-six, proved the perfect example of that.
No, something else fed Margo’s insecurities. Something she couldn’t get past, that she couldn’t face.
Couldn’t, or wouldn’t? And why did he care?
Because he loved her, and wished the best for her. He wanted her, all of her, and yearned for her to desire him the same way, too. Too much to hope for?
Blinded by anger the other night, he hadn’t thought things through. She’d hurt him, dammit—he’d wanted her to hurt, too. He hadn’t minced his words. Though he’d spoken the truth, did he have to deliver the message in such a cold, crude manner?
For all her calm composure and image of a strong woman, Margo hid a fragile creature at the heart of her. Didn’t he feel this, every time he held her, every time she reached that point of no return when she let go in his arms? She abandoned herself with the desperation of one on the brink of dying. She heightened every moment, brought a passion and an open path to her heart during their lovemaking and that pained him every single time, his heart aching for her.
If ever a woman deserved love and cherishing ... And what had he done? He’d pushed daggers into her soft countenance, rattled her cage, and threatened her very equilibrium.
What an arse.
Plopping down on the edge of his bed, he ran a hand through his hair. Yet, for all he berated himself, he was who he was. Full stop. Any woman should take him, or leave him. He had made that clear, hadn’t he?
Damn, daft idiot.
Yes, he’d messed up, too. Nothing existed as clear-cut in love, no argument painted only white or black. Just shades of grey.
Don’t sell it. Just tell it.
Who had told him that? Gordon, most probably. He hadn’t run to anyone else for advice, on love or anything else, for that matter.
He needed to tell Margo all about him. She needed to know everything. If he took the first step, then he’d pave the way for her, so she could reach out to him again.
Yes, something ate at her. That edge had pulsated off her even on the first day he’d lain eyes on her. The same thing had woven the ‘Ice Queen’ mantle around her.
Yet, a passionate woman hid beneath the façade. In his arms, Margo burned with hot fire. Burned too much, in fact—consumed by a raging blaze that threatened to annihilate her. How could a woman who made love like that not know how to love? It didn’t make sense. In fact, he’d say she probably loved too much, the same way she exuded too much passion when in his arms.
Talk to me, Margo.
He had to talk to her first. He wouldn’t ask for forgiveness, just make an assertion. He owed it to the woman he loved, to the very notion of love, to be willing to open up.
Someone should show Margo that she could love, too, if only she put herself on the line.
He reached for a pad and a pen from the bedside drawer. Then, he listed numbers down the sheet, and started to fill in the blanks.
Jamie Gillespie, thirty years old, reduced to a list of all he was and wasn’t.
He could do it. For Margo. They had to salvage their relationship, and he would take that first step.
***
Margo was dragging around in her bedroom, getting ready to head to the lab that Saturday, when Polina knocked on the door.
The nanny held out a white envelope with Margo’s name scrawled on it. “Slipped under kitchen door.”
Her hand trembled when she reached out for the missive. It could mean only one thing.
The paper burnt her fingertips when she touched it.
&n
bsp; On the threshold, Polina stared hard at her.
“What?” she asked.
The young woman shook her head.
“Not my business—” she looked down, before staring Margo straight in the eyes again, “—but you and Jamie. Make it work.”
I wish I could.
Polina left, and Margo sagged onto the bed. She slid down the satin, quilted duvet until her arse hit the rug with a muffled thud. With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope and retrieved the single, folded sheet.
She gasped, and quelled a sob, while perusing the very doctor-like, almost illegible scrawl on the paper. A list, numbered one to thirty, with some lines left blank. Intentionally, perhaps.
No, she refused to cry while she read the different characteristics he had listed about himself.
Headstrong. Loyal. Know what I want. In love with you.
The tears didn’t come, though her eyes stung and her throat closed.
There it is. She’d returned to normal, unable to cry. That day would’ve come sooner or later. Maybe best it happened already. Before anyone got hurt.
She hurt, yes. But hurt proved normal. Hurt represented the way the heart and brain colluded to get over an imbalance brought about by chemical changes, catalysed by environmental triggers, in the deep limbic system. She’d survived hurt in the past.
Proof matters—not emotion, feelings, or impressions.
The first line she’d heard in the introductory lecture to histopathology students who’d wished to become forensic pathologists.
That mantra had helped her in good stead throughout her career. Too bad she’d applied it to her life only after she had left Harry. If she’d had this perspective back in the day, she would’ve figured out that proof of his love had come through blows, scathing words, and sulking behaviour when he didn’t get his way.
That kind of dramatic, vitriolic life with him had proved so unfit for a rational, intellectual person like herself. She’d tried her best to love Harry, to give him what he needed, because he’d adored her. How could she not? Every day, he’d showed her she existed as his sun and his moon. Yet, everything she gave, everything she had, had never amounted to enough. Over the next few years, they’d gone from love to hate, from tenderness to spite, from good to bad.
Still, Harry had wanted to marry her. But their downfall had lain with her—she’d had nothing to give, none of the passion he’d showered on her. So she’d set him free, and had thus ended up pushing him to his demise.
Because she didn’t know how to love. Her relationship with David had chugged along nicely, because love had never entered the equation, nor had it been expected to. David had wanted a companion, an intellectual equal in his life. She thought she’d made David happy. In reality, she didn’t know. Proof of her failure there, too, like the confirmation of her total ineptitude at love when Harry had overdosed on sleeping pills?
Harry, who had wanted love, just like Jamie.
She fisted her hand, crushing the letter in her palm. The paper crumpled, and she released her grip, tried to smooth out the list flat on the carpet.
A man who could put himself on the line like that deserved love. The real love a normal woman could give him. The kind of deal Margo didn’t know how to return.
He also deserved that she put herself on the line, too. Could she do it? She bit her lip. She could take the easy way out, grab a sheet of paper, and write down her own list, too. Yet, what could she add that she hadn’t already said during that fateful evening?
Harry could not be reduced to a name next to a number on a line of printed paper. Jamie deserved that explanation face to face.
Only when she’d come clean with him would he be able to move forward. She had to tell him where she came from, how she couldn’t move ahead, that he couldn’t remain stuck with her.
Picking up her courage with both hands, she stood. She folded the list, put it into its envelope, and placed it on the crystal tray where she left her diamond stud earrings every night before going to bed.
Once downstairs, she hesitated in front of the connecting door. Back when they used it, Jamie had kept the way free.
She closed one hand on the doorknob. With her heart beating hard, she turned the handle and pushed the panel.
It opened without a squeak.
Dread balled up inside her chest. He hadn’t closed the entry—did that mean he knew she would come?
Oh, Jamie. I can’t give you what you need.
Quiet hovered over the ground floor, the surgery closed. She would find him upstairs. With small, soundless steps, she reached the edge of his bedroom.
Margo stopped in the doorway. She raked her gaze over him as he came out of the adjoining bathroom, clad only in a towel around his hips. His dark locks glistened wet, droplets of water running down his shoulders and broad chest. He would probably use the other towel in his hand to dry his hair.
He froze when he saw her.
“I ... I got your list.”
He nodded, said nothing.
“I—” She didn’t know how to continue, at a total loss for words. So she stared at the pine parquet, buffed to a dull gleam with years of footsteps treading upon it.
“When I was at university, I met someone. Harry. Harry Milburn.” She glanced up, risking a look at his face.
His features had grown tense, taut, eyes expectant and wary.
“Cora’s brother,” she added. “We stayed together for close to a decade, dating on and off then living together for a while.”
He cleared his throat. “What happened?”
“I failed him.” The words came out soft, barely audible.
“How?”
Open up, Margo. Let the wound cleanse itself.
“He asked me to marry him.”
“And you said no.”
She nodded. “I didn’t return his feelings. Couldn’t return them.”
“So you’re paying penance for hurting him.”
His voice thrummed low, hard. She flinched.
“He killed himself, Jamie.” She took a deep breath. “He was too young, only thirty. The same age as me back then.”
Silence stretched between them, cold, murky, choking.
“I’m not Harry, Margo.” He threw the towel in his hand on the bed. “If you don’t feel anything for me, say it.”
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She stepped away from him.
“Wha … what do you mean?”
“Don’t hide behind a man who proved himself nothing but a coward.”
He stepped forward. She braced a hand against the doorframe to keep herself from bolting. The conversation had taken a turn she hadn’t planned on. Jamie was supposed to accept her explanation and move ahead. The rational thing for him to do, full stop.
“That was your relationship with Harry, Margo. Not with me. I’m not Harry Milburn.”
She reeled. He wouldn’t let this drop. Goodness, she couldn’t do this! Bile rose in her throat, her legs going weak.
“I’m sorry.” Then she turned tail and left.
*
Sorry.
That’s all she could say? Blimey bloody stinking— Jamie stopped cursing. Margo Nolan didn’t need to mince her words—she struck with a simple “sorry.”
Serves you right. He’d wanted her to come clean, so he should reckon he’d stood the risk of losing her completely. He’d thought she would be able to get past whatever hindered her emotions. How wrong he’d been. She remained convinced she couldn’t love.
That bastard Harry had most probably not deserved her love. But until she realized that for herself, what chance did he stand? Push had come to shove, and she still couldn’t believe in herself enough to take a chance. Life came with no guarantees. Love, neither. What did she look for? Assurance that everything would be perfect between her and a man? That whatever notion she had of love would turn out rational, or sane?
Not how it worked in real life. He cursed again. He could pull her to him, kiss he
r, hold her, shake her, and nothing he’d do would get through the barrier she’d erected around her heart.
How could anyone be convinced they couldn’t love? How could they disprove that belief, if they never took a chance?
He just wasn’t worth the risk, to her.
He slammed his fist into the wall. Pain erupted along his knuckles, paralysed his hand. He winced, and welcomed the hurt. Anything not to feel lost, jilted, cast aside.
The walls of the house closed in on him, and he heaved for breath. He couldn’t stay here any longer. Not with Margo next door. Not when he’d have to see her every day, and ache for her. His body already craved her, like a junkie eager for a fix.
He had to get away—an addict’s hope of rehab meant being away from the source of his pleasure and his downfall. Four months since he’d settled here. He’d fulfilled his side of the deal. Gordon would have to find someone else to fill in for him.
While his resolve burnt and stung his entrails, he reached for his cell phone. Better get that over and done with before he could think twice.
His thumb hovered frozen, proof of the difficulty he had in dialling the number. Yet, he forced himself to press the call button. With the phone to his ear, he took a deep breath, to try and quell the choking sensation taking over him.
“Dad, it’s me,” he said.
“Jamie! Got tired yet of your stint in the backseat of nowhere?”
Anger surged through him and obliterated his misery. “I’m doing well, thank you for asking.”
George Gillespie barked with laughter.
“Still the same, I see.” His father paused. “I meant to call you, actually.”
“Whatever for?”
Suddenly, leaving Surrey didn’t sound so much like a good idea. The village existed far enough from his father that he wouldn’t feel like throttling the arrogant bastard to Hell and back every day of his life.
Still, it would be worse to see Margo, and Emma, and think about what he could have had.
“Got a superb job offer lined up for you. Could put those goddamn years of medical school that I paid for to good use, finally. Your training in trauma would even be an advantage.”
So his father knew he’d specialised in trauma? Since when?