Chapter 44 I Should Make Tacos
“Yes.” Maggie dragged the word out. “He won’t leave me alone.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants me to forgive him.”
Lily made a soft, knowing sound. “And I know you’re thinking about it. The way you sound on the phone right now.”
Maggie’s shoulders sagged. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Yes. I am. He promised he won’t do it again.”
“Don’t he always?” Lily’s tone sharpened just enough. “And then repeat the same shit.”
“But he sounds genuine today.”
“He always does, babe,” Lily echoed, gentler this time. “And this is how you fall into his trap, every single time. He comes pleading, you forgive. I’ve witnessed this circle countless times between you two. And this will be no different. Just be prepared.”
Maggie closed her eyes for two seconds. When she opened them, her gaze drifted to the window— campus lights beginning to flicker on below, students heading to early dinner, the gate guard waving cars through.
“What do you think I should do?” she asked quietly. “Because he said he’s coming over right now. And I already told him I won’t let him in.”
Lily exhaled slowly. “I don’t know, Mag. Even if I advise you, you’ll still end up doing what’s in your mind. Whatever decision you make, I support you. But just… be careful, okay? I don’t want him breaking your heart. Like, seriously.”
Maggie nodded— even though Lily couldn’t see it. “I will.”
They stayed on the line another fifteen minutes. Lily ranted about her Contracts professor’s impossible hypotheticals. Maggie laughed— small, genuine— at the impression Lily did of his nasal drawl. They circled back to study plans, confirmed tomorrow at 4 p.m. in the law library if neither crashed first.
“Okay, babe,” Lily said finally. “I’m gonna finish this episode and then actually read something. Text me later?”
“Will do.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call ended with a soft beep. Maggie set the phone down again— this time gently, screen up. She stared at it for a long moment. No new messages. She exhaled through her nose, long and slow.
She stood. Crossed to the window. Pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Below, the campus moved in orderly chaos— bikes whizzing past, laughter drifting up from a group near the fountain. She watched for almost a minute, arms folded tight across her chest.
Then she turned back to the desk. Sat. Picked up the highlighter. Tried again.
The words still blurred.
She glanced at the phone once more. Nothing.
Her shoulders dropped. She leaned forward, elbows on the desk, chin in her hands, and stared out at the gathering dusk. The golden light had turned amber, then rose, then bruised purple at the edges.
Somewhere downstairs, the building’s front door buzzed as people entered the lobby.
Maggie rose, crossed the room to her bed, and collapsed face down onto it.
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'ABOUT TWO HOURS LATER'
The penthouse bedroom floated in late-afternoon hush, the kind of quiet that pressed against the ears like velvet. At 5:03 p.m. the October sun hung low, pouring molten gold through the floor-to-ceiling windows and striping the king-sized bed in wide, lazy bars. Maggie lay sprawled diagonally across the silk duvet— robe the color of bruised plums slipped off one shoulder, black hair fanned in a dark halo around her head, bare legs tangled in the sheets. Her phone rested on her stomach, screen still glowing with the endless scroll of Twitter: memes flashing past, arguments unspooling in threads, a viral video of a cat failing spectacularly at a jump. She hadn’t laughed at any of it. Her thumb kept moving anyway— mechanical, numb.
Then her stomach growled.
Loud. Deep. Indignant. The sound rolled through her like distant thunder, pulling her out of the digital haze. She blinked once— slow— then twice. Her free hand drifted to her abdomen, pressing lightly as though to quiet it. The realization landed hard: she hadn’t eaten since that half-matcha at 10 a.m. Nothing. Not a bite. Just coffee, sparkling water, and the low-grade headache she’d been ignoring.
She exhaled through her nose— long, defeated— and sat up. The robe slid farther, pooling at her elbows. She raked both hands through her hair, gathering it loosely at the nape before letting it fall again. Her gaze drifted to the kitchen visible beyond the open bedroom door: marble counters catching the light like polished stone, stainless steel appliances gleaming, the faint scent of yesterday’s takeout still lingering in the air.
“Tacos,” she said aloud. The word tasted like salvation on her tongue. “I should make tacos.”
She swung both legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet met plush cream carpet— soft, warm from the sun. She stood, stretched— arms overhead, spine arching, robe parting briefly at the front— then padded toward the kitchen, tying the sash loosely as she went.