Page 57 of Us in Ruins
She could still hear the way her dad would sigh every time she told him she wanted to try something new. Could feel the heat rising to her cheeks like she was standing in their sage-green living room with the pilled carpet beneath her feet. Could see the frustrated way he wrapped his fingers against his stubbled jaw when she sobbed or shouted, like she was a wild thing he had no idea how to tame.
Eventually, it seemed like every conversation they had was rife with stomping and slammed doors and cold shoulders and, eventually, bleary-eyed apologies after she was done lashing out.
No version of herself had been able to outrun the ache in her chest from the inescapable question: Why hadn’t she been enough? Enough to hold her family together, enough to make her dad proud, enough for her classmates to like her. Smart enough, nice enough, strong enough.
“It’s just been me and my dad since then, but he doesn’t get it. Get me. He’s always so busy with work, and I kept thinking I’d find the thing that made him understand me, but—if I find the Vase, it’ll be enough to make him love me.”
Maybe it was the wine in her system. Maybe it was Van watching her, searing and inquisitive at the same time. But saying it out loud, admitting it to someone—even if that someone was Van Keane—made her feel exposed. Like she’d said too much again. Been too much.
She yanked her hand back from his, cradling it instead in her lap. Even staring at her cuticles, she could feel the way he looked at her. Like she was a riddle to unravel, a problem to solve.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “That’s not how that works.”
“I know, I know. You think the Vase gives you treasure, but—”
“No, Margot. You’re you. That’s plenty.”
Van’s words were a tidal wave crash that left Margot stunned in the wreckage, battering down all her strongest-built walls. She brushed a curl behind her ear, shaking her head. “I thought I was a troublemaking girl with a brain full of bad ideas.”
Van’s brow crinkled. That same analytical gaze sank into his eyes. “You held your own in the Nymphaeum.”
“I had a panic attack.”
“And you solved the Aura trial.”
“After getting thrown forty feet into the air.”
“You’re brave, Margot.” His voice was tender, quiet. It had lost all patented snark. “It takes courage to let people see you for who you really are.”
He sounded like Van from the journal. Her Van.
Although lately, all of him felt more and more like her Van. She liked his jagged corners and sharp lines. He was everything she wasn’t—logical and precise and detail oriented. They were two sides of a scale, keeping the other in perfect balance.
She wanted to believe what he’d said about her. She might have let herself, but a figure below pulled on the threads of her attention. More specifically: a backpack with one strap. The person wove through the crowd, his head covered by a hood. But Margot knew her disgraced Fjällräven when she saw it.
“Is that... Enzo?” She lurched upright so fast, her foot slipped out from beneath her.
Van rose, steadying her with an arm against her back. “Let’s go.”
They hopped over the patio railing, and Margot dropped the half-empty bottle of wine back off in the ice bucket on their way out.
The elevator doors wouldn’t close fast enough, no matter how many times Margot jammed her finger against the first-floor button. When they did close, trapping a confused-looking businessman in with them, smooth jazz filtered over the speakers. She’d never hated a sound more.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she begged.
She and Van squeezed out the doors before they’d even fully opened.
“Is he close?” Margot asked as the lobby’s revolving door spat them out onto the street. She lifted onto her toes. Searching, searching. “Do you feel any less statue-y?”
Van shook his head. Even from his six-foot-something perspective, it must have been impossible to spot Enzo in a crowd this thick. “No? Maybe. I can’t tell.”
“There!” Margot said, spying her yellow backpack in the fray. She reached for Van’s hand, and he threaded his fingers between hers as they ran.
Margot leaped around a street vendor selling single-stem roses to blushing couples. She dodged a painter’s wooden easel but accidentally knocked over a cup of brushes, sending them rolling. Someone’s arms flew up to defend themselves, but the timing of it meant that Margot got a face full of cannoli. The orange-flavored cream stuck to her eyelashes and slid down her face. Some dripped onto her lips. At least it was delicious.
Ahead, a green door opened, and Enzo darted inside beneath its weathered awning. Margot and Van surged toward him. The door closed behind them, softening the din of the city. Enzo barged between white-clothed tables, knocking over crystal glasses and steaming plates of cacio e pepe.
Margot and Van tailed him through a pair of saloon-style, silver doors into the kitchen. Here, chefs in tall, white toques swung trays in a synchronized dance. Margot ducked beneath a platter of sfogliatella. Someone yelled after them, but Enzo was already sneaking out the windowed back door.