First Love and Second Chances

2.

Margaret’s POV

I look at her, my vision blurred with tears. “I don’t know.”

The morning sunlight filters through the window, cutting harsh lines across the walls. I blink slowly, the pounding in my head reminding me that I barely slept. It’s strange how silence can be so loud when you’re alone.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through the heavy silence. I glance at the screen. McCarty.

For a moment, I just stare at the name. It feels foreign now, like it doesn’t belong in my life anymore. But I pick up the phone anyway, swiping to answer before I can talk myself out of it.

“Margaret,” his voice comes through, soft and almost cautious. “Where did you go last night?”

I pause, letting the silence drag. He sounds worried, but it’s hard to tell if it’s real or just another act.

“Margaret?”

“I saw you,” I say finally, my voice flat.

“What?” he asks, his tone sharper now, as if I just accused him of something unthinkable.

“I saw you, McCarty. With Clara. By the bar.”

There’s a pause on his end. “Margaret, it’s not what you think. She—she was just talking to me. That’s all.”

“She was touching you,” I say, my voice rising despite myself. “Laughing. Whispering in your ear.”

“Margaret, you’re blowing this out of proportion. Clara’s just—she’s friendly, okay? That’s who she is.”

“That’s not who I am,” I snap. “I don’t throw myself at people who are married, McCarty. And I sure as hell don’t stand there letting someone flirt with me like it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re being dramatic,” he says, his voice hardening. “Clara means nothing. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this.”

“Because it is a big deal!” I shout, and the words echo in the empty apartment. My hands are shaking, and I grip the phone tighter to steady them. “I watched you, McCarty. I watched you look at her like…” My throat tightens. “Like you used to look at me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and the silence cuts deep.

Finally, he sighs. “Margaret, I love you. You know that.”

The words should mean something, but they don’t. Not anymore. I’ve heard them too many times, and they always sound the same—like a blanket he throws over whatever mess he’s made.

I close my eyes. “You can’t keep saying that and expecting everything to be okay.”

“Can we just talk about this in person?” he says, his tone softer now, like he’s trying to calm me down. “Please, Margaret. I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

“Fine,” I say quietly. “Come over.”

I hang up before he can say anything else. My chest feels tight, but I take a deep breath, pushing down whatever it is I’m feeling.

About an hour later, there’s a knock at the door. I don’t move right away. I just stare at the door like it might disappear if I wait long enough. But the knock comes again—three sharp taps—and I know he’s there.

I stand up, smoothing out my wrinkled shirt as I walk to the door. When I open it, McCarty is standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. His eyes meet mine, and for a second, neither of us says anything.

“You look tired,” he says finally, stepping inside when I move aside.

“Thanks,” I say dryly, shutting the door behind him.

He turns to face me, his expression softening. “Margaret…”

“Don’t,” I say, holding up a hand. “Just don’t start with that.”

“Can we at least sit down?” he asks, motioning toward the couch.

I hesitate but nod, walking over and sitting on the edge of the couch. He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel his presence but not touching me.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I can feel him looking at me, but I don’t meet his eyes.

“Margaret,” he says finally, his voice low. “I swear to you, nothing happened with Clara. She was just being friendly.”

“That’s not the point,” I say, my voice shaking. I look up at him now, and his eyes search mine, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. “The point is, you didn’t stop her. You didn’t pull away, McCarty. And the way you looked at her… I can’t unsee that.”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, his frustration obvious. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I told you it meant nothing.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” I ask, my voice rising. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? ‘It meant nothing.’ Every time you flirt with someone, every time you smile at a woman like she’s the only one in the room, you tell me it’s nothing. But it hurts, McCarty. Every single time.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. You know that, right? I—God, Margaret, I’m trying here.”

“Are you?” I whisper. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”

We sit in silence again, the air between us heavy.

“You’ve never trusted me,” he says finally, his voice quiet but sharp. “Not really.”

“Do you blame me?” I ask, my voice trembling. “How can I trust you when you keep giving me reasons not to?”

He looks at me, his hazel eyes darkening. “I don’t know what you want from me, Margaret.”

I feel my hands curl into fists in my lap. “I want you to love me the way I deserve to be loved. I want to feel like I’m enough for you.”

“You are enough,” he says quickly, reaching out like he’s going to take my hand, but I pull away.

“Then why do I feel like this?” I ask, my voice breaking. “Why do I feel so… alone when I’m with you?”

He doesn’t answer, and that silence tells me everything I need to know.

I stand up, wrapping my arms around myself. “I think you should go.”

“Margaret—”

“Please,” I say, cutting him off. “I can’t do this right now.”

He stands slowly, his eyes still on me. For a second, it looks like he’s going to argue, but then he just nods.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll go.”

I watch as he walks to the door, his shoulders slightly hunched. When he opens it, he hesitates, turning back to look at me.

“I do love you, Margaret,” he says softly. “Even if you don’t believe it.”

The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone again.

The hours pass in a blur. I move through the apartment like a ghost, picking things up and putting them down again, unable to focus on anything. My mind keeps replaying the conversation over and over, like a broken record.

I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the divorce papers Emily brought me months ago. I never signed them. I couldn’t bring myself to believe it had come to that. But now, as I look at them, something shifts inside me.

I can’t keep living like this.

I grab a pen and pull the papers closer, my hands shaking slightly as I flip through them. The words blur together, but I know what they mean.

“Are you really going to do it?”

I jump at the sound of Emily’s voice. I didn’t hear her come in. She’s standing in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee, her expression careful.

I look down at the papers and nod slowly. “I think I have to.”

She sets the coffees down and sits across from me. “You don’t have to rush this, Margaret. Signing those papers… it’s final. You need to be sure.”

I meet her eyes, my throat tight. “I can’t keep hoping he’s going to change, Em. It’s like I’m waiting for something that’s never going to happen.”

She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Then you do what’s best for you. For you, Margaret. No one else.”

I nod, even though it hurts. I look back at the papers, gripping the pen tightly.

But just as I press it to the page, there’s a knock at the door.

Emily and I both look up, and my stomach twists.

“Are you expecting someone?” Emily asks.

I shake my head, already standing up. My heart beats faster as I walk toward the door, my bare feet silent against the floor. I hesitate for just a second before opening it.

McCarty is standing there, his face pale and eyes wide with something that looks like panic.

“Margaret,” he says, his voice shaking. “You have to listen to me. Please.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.

He looks past me and spots Emily. “Can we talk? Alone?”

Emily stands up, eyeing him suspiciously. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” She gives me a look that says, If you need me, I’m here, and disappears into the other room.

McCarty steps inside, his hands raking through his hair. “Margaret, I made a mistake.”

I blink at him. “You think?”

“No. Not about Clara,” he says quickly. “This isn’t about her. This is about us. I’ve been an i***t, and I—” He swallows hard. “You can’t leave me.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” I say, my voice hardening.