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Chapter Fifty-Six

Maggie

X avier refuses to talk to me. Or see me. He's closed the door on our relationship. On me. And won't even open it a crack, not even enough for me to wedge in a sliver of reason that might then stretch into a full conversation.

He has the uncanny ability to not be around any time I'm at the estate. He's even found a way around bedtimes with Finn, bringing Finny into his room for their nightly hangout when he's around. Or he'll take Finn on outings, if he's got time to hang with him in the afternoons or weekends.

Not that he's got much time to spare these days.

The good news is, at least he hasn't been throwing any more of those stupid parties. As far as I can tell, anyway. Instead, any scraps of free time that he spends at home when he isn't hanging out in his room or outside with Finn, he spends sequestered up in the Observatory.

I tried going up to talk to him one night. He glanced up from his spot on the floor, silencing the chords with a palm against the strings, and told me he was busy. Then got up and closed the door in my face.

And locked it.

Now he locks it anytime he's up there. And it hurts.

Days pass, and I don't know if he's mad at me or at himself. I don't know if he's sad, or lonely, or regretful. Or God, maybe he really is as apathetic as he's letting on.

Only, if he really is apathetic, he wouldn't go to the effort of locking me out, right? You don't lock someone out who makes you feelnothing .

Which is why I’m determined not to give up on him. I am going to pester Xavier until he can no longer deny the growing pile of cold hard evidence that he is not a disappointment. I am not going anywhere… And I still love him.

I write him a long letter that I leave on his bed, telling him how I feel. Explaining how wrong he is about being a disappointment, and why I think he's so convinced that he is. And the fact that those fears of never being good enough are not his fault. And so very false. Also, that all the while he believes them, he’s creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.

And he deserves so much more than that.

When the letter doesn't elicit any reaction, I get creative. Send him random weird texts that, if nothing else, I'm hoping will make him smile.

Maggs

just bombed my bio test. who knew ATP is crucial for energy?

also, does that make it ironic that i had none during the test?

And a couple of days later:

Maggs

Cam says ur jamming rn. here's a song title idea:

Lobster Pants and Khaki Dreams

GO!

???

hullo?

how 'bout: The Lobster Pants Got Me Kicked Out Of The Dive Bar?

When The Lobster Pants Come Off It's All Over?

???

Yeesh. work with me here, will ya?

And a few days after that, I attach a photo of socks with Cookie Monster faces all over them.

Maggs

should i buy these socks for u?

yes?

no?

???

bought the socks. i'll leave them on your bed

I find the socks the next evening in the garbage in my bathroom. Which I take as a win. That took some planning—making sure I wasn't home, going into my bathroom and depositing the socks in my bin.

Okay, not a lot of planning. But still. He didn't just chuck them in his own trash.He cares enough to do that.

I put the socks back on his bed with a sticky note attached: cleaning staff must have accidentally thrown these out. Rescued them for u. You're welcome.

Then yesterday, I left a poetry masterpiece in his guitar case that I wrote for him on the other side of a kid's Valentine card with a smiling train and the words "I Choo Choo Choose you":

Hey Lil' Boo Thang, Your absence makes my heart go clang. I'd write a song, but here's the deal— You're the only one who makes it real. So quit the broody, tragic act, And bring that fine ass back.

I was walking past the upstairs sitting room when I caught him reading it. He looked up just as he'd turned the note over to the side with the train.

I'm almost positive the corner of his lip quirked up on one side. Then when he looked up, I arched an eyebrow at him in a way I intended to be sassy, but suspect was borderline creepy. Either way, he just scowled at me and made a show of balling up the note and tossing it over his shoulder behind the couch.

I considered leaving it at that. But if I left it there, he might think I was giving up. That I’d changed my mind. That maybe he really is too much or not enough or whatever lie he’s convinced himself is true. And I can’t let him believe that. I’m not here to make him love me back; I just need him to know he’s still worth loving. Worth fighting for.

I want him to find reminders everywhere that someone didn’t walk away.

So I went back half an hour later and retrieved the crumpled note (you're welcome, Rockwell cleaning staff), wrote a retaliatory poem beneath the original one, and left it in the same place I'd put the original .

Hey again Lil' Boo Thang, You think you can ditch me that fast? A lil' note-toss, make me the past? Nah, babe—I'm still right here, Armed with rhymes and zero fear. So brace yourself, bae— I've got plenty more. (Spoiler alert: check under your door)

Then I slipped a strawberry Pop-Tart under the door with a sticky note on the foil packaging that said : "Question: What's a Pop-Tart's favorite type of music? Answer: Jam sessions."

And again, his reaction is what I've come to expect.

Stupid stubborn crickets.

Then my day goes from bad to worse when Denise asks to meet with me in her office.