Page 92 of Sirens
“Thanks, man,” Trent said, working up to an epic brood. He needed to speak to Maggie. Needed her to understand everything he’d said. Everything he was. Everything he’d done to make her feel like she was less was never about her. It was him.
He was the one who brought his Kentucky-fried bullshit into their interactions and then made her feel less for not accepting it.
He needed to do better.
To be better.
And he had an idea of just how to get her back.
EIGHTEEN
Top shelf
THE HIGHEST QUALITY AND MOST EXPENSIVE BOTTLES OF ALCOHOL AVAILABLE, OFTEN KEPT ON THE TOP SHELF BECAUSE THEY'RE NOT USED THAT OFTEN
“Wherethefuck are they?”
Maggie kicked a pile of clothes out of the way and stepped over the avalanche of pillows and cushions that had escaped from their encampments on the couch.
“Jesus, Magpie.” Mark Kelly stood in the doorway of Maggie’s bedroom closet, a glass of prosecco in either hand, and a delicately disdainful expression on his face. “You find your self-respect yet? Because I’m starving, and the selection in your fridge and pantry is downright unacceptable.”
“Iknowthey were in this box.” Seeing a file labeledCharlie Taxes, 2020, she hurled it over her shoulder and reached for the next one.
“I mean, I understand you’re a resident of the Pacific Northwest, but quinoa salad? Really?”
“The hall closet!” Shoving herself up from the floor, Maggie ducked under Mark’s arm and pushed past him into the hallway.
“And kimchi? That shit’s spicy farts that just haven’t happened yet.”
Wrenching the closet door open, she yanked the light bulb string and reached up to the top shelf for a box markedFuck This Motherfuckerin angry marker scrawl. She dropped it to the floor and yanked open the flaps, pausing to flip the bird to the stack of files related to Charlie’s trial and subsequent conviction.
“But the marinated tofu thing, you’re going to have to explain to me,” Mark said before tipping back his glass of prosecco.
She paused while dumping out a box of Charlie’s high school football memorabilia. “You’re not helping.”
“All right.” Mark raised one hand in mock surrender, his green eyes lit with amusement. “What are we looking for, then?”
“The divorce papers Chazz the fuckstick never signed,” she snapped, tossing a stack of old birthday cards aside.
“First things first,” he said. “You’re going to stop, take a breath, and take a sip of this excellent prosecco I acquired for you.”
She blew out a sigh, puffing her hair off her sweat-kissed forehead as she accepted the glass. The crisp, citrusy swallow made her eyes sting.
“Better?” Mark asked.
Maggie nodded, feeling her throat tighten.
She truly had been better since Mark showed up on her doorstep, a box of her favorite Italian wedding cookies in one hand and an industrial-sized box of Kleenex in the other.
Better, as in she wasn’t eating, sleeping, and sobbing on her couch for days on end.
Better, as in she’d taken a shower and put on actual clothing instead of the holey sweats that had become her uniform.
Better, as in she’d traded the soul-sucking, shame-fueled sadness for a refreshingly fiery rage.
At Charlie, for thinking he could just show up and call her back to his side like a dog.
At her father, for making her think that a man like Charlie was all she could expect for herself.
