The Trial Run

The car ride back to the hotel is quiet.

Too quiet.

Margot's looking out the window, fingers drumming absently on her thigh, not saying anything, and I can feel the weight of her earlier words sitting in the air between us like a third person in the backseat.

. . . where did your leg go?

I'll give her this—delivery was spot-on. It caught me so off-guard I nearly choked on my own tongue. It was hysterical. Objectively. The timing, the bluntness, the complete lack of malice. I almost laughed right there in the car, but the moment wasn't built for that.

She'd clearly been thinking about it all day. I saw it on her face during trial: how distracted she was, how she kept glancing at me like I was some weird puzzle she was trying to solve but didn't have the edge pieces for yet. Her notebook was full of jury doodles and not a single usable note from the last witness.

I didn't blame her.

But this wasn't the place for a conversation like that. Not when we were both still in trial clothes and courtroom hangovers. Not when we had to walk into a hotel and pretend everything was normal.

So we sat in silence the rest of the drive.

Not awkward. Not angry.

Just full of everything we weren't saying.

I don't bother hiding the limp as we walk in.

What would be the point?

She already knows.

Margot walks a little ahead of me, her heels clicking softly against the sidewalk. But when I pop the trunk, she turns back. I pull out the crutches, sling my briefcase over one arm, jacket tossed on top of it, and carry the crutches in my free hand. My gait's uneven, probably worse than I think, but I don't care enough to fix it.

Margot watches me. Her face is unreadable. Curious, concerned, or maybe just unsure what she's supposed to do next.

But she doesn't say a word.

I give her a wink. "Go on. I'll catch up."

She nods. Doesn't smile, but doesn't look away either. Then she veers slightly right, choosing the automatic doors a little farther down instead of the closer one that requires pulling.

I can't help but smile at the gesture.

Inside the room, everything feels routine. Almost.

Margot heads straight to her side, kicks off her heels, peels off her blazer, pulls the pins from her hair until it falls in soft waves down her back. It's exactly like yesterday, but the air feels different now. More aware. More exposed.

She doesn't say anything. Neither do I.

I throw my jacket onto my bed, set the crutches beside it, kick off my shoes, and sink onto the mattress, arms behind my head. The weight is starting to lift slowly, but I know it won't be gone until I just get it all out.

She disappears into the bathroom and comes out a few minutes later with her makeup gone, face bare and calm. Freckles across her nose. Hair down. Athletic shorts and a T-shirt. She looks relaxed. Young. A little too comfortable for someone who saw a piece of my prosthetic this morning.

I wait until she's fully settled before I speak.

"Let's order."

She nods, like she's been waiting for me to say something all evening.

We call downstairs, ask them to charge the room, then hang up and fall back into silence.

She flips the TV on, but leaves the volume low. Reads the closed captions while some crime drama plays out. I lie on the bed, arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling while the glow of the screen flickers across the room.

When the food arrives, she jumps up before I can move.

"I've got it," she says quickly, stepping to the door and greeting the delivery person. She takes the tray from them with practiced ease, sets hers down on her bed, and hands me mine like it's second nature.

She sits cross-legged, facing me.

The TV is off now.

The room's quiet again.

She doesn't push. Doesn't pry. Just watches me—waiting—like she knows I'll speak first, and she's giving me the space to do it on my own terms.

So I sit up. Slowly. Shift to the edge of the bed, feet to the floor, and face her.

She looks calm. But not indifferent. She's being careful. Thoughtful. Like she knows this matters.  And that if she handles this wrong, I might shut down and never bring it up again.

And I keep telling myself this is fine. This is Margot. She's not going to flinch. She's not going to treat me like I'm broken.

This isn't high school.

I have a good job. I've built something. I've earned respect, even if I still sometimes think I don't deserve it.

Margot respects me.

That much I know.

So I take a deep breath. Let it fill every part of me before I let it go.

Then I look her in the eye and say, quietly:

"What questions do you have?"