“This isn’t a movie,” Jaime insisted, turning to Claire. “This is real life, and he was a real dick to her.”
“But people can change,” Claire countered. “Look at you and Quinn. You swore you’d never have a boyfriend, least of all him, but you gave Quinn a chance.”
“That’s different,” Jaime said testily. “Plus Quinn is insanely good in bed. Tripp was a disaster, wasn’t he Margot?”
I winced. “I don’t know if I’d say disaster. The sex was just a bit…uninspired. Maybe that’s not the most important thing, though. Maybe there are more important elements in a relationship than good sex.”
Jaime looked at me incredulously. Blinked. “Like what?”
“Like common interests,” I said, sitting up a little taller. “And family ties. And a shared history. Shared values.”
Jaime rolled her eyes. “So your families both sailed here on the Mayflower or whatever. Big fucking deal. If you didn’t want to tear his clothes off when he walked into your house last night, you don’t have any chemistry.”
I thought about that for a minute. Then I started to laugh at the idea of tearing off those whale shorts and the pink shirt. “We’re just not like that,” I said. “We’ve never been like that. We’re both more…reserved. Conservative, maybe. Would I like better sex? Sure.” I shrugged. “But I’m almost thirty. And maybe I need to worry less about that kind of thing.”
“Thirty isn’t old,” Jaime scoffed. “And I don’t want to see you go backward, Margot. A year ago you were so unhappy. You’ve made so much progress.”
“I agree,” I said. “But underneath it all, I’m still the same person. I still want the things I wanted then. I’m traditional, OK? I want a traditional life, the life I grew up with. Husband, house, family.”
“And that’s OK,” Claire soothed, reaching over Jaime’s lap to pat my hand. “We’re not judging you for wanting those things.”
“And Tripp gets me,” I said, annoyed because it was true. “The ring he picked out was perfect. He knows my style, my taste. He’s got a good education, a good job, a good family. Those things matter to me more than sex.”
Jaime refused to give up. “But what about passion? What about that mind-blowing physical connection? Don’t you want those butterflies in your stomach when he walks in the room? That racing pulse when he gets close?”
“But what if I’m not cut out for that?” I asked, voicing a fear that usually lurked silently in the back of my mind. “What if I’m just not that passionate a person? What if I’m not the type to blow anyone’s mind? Does that mean I have to be alone?”
“No,” Claire said firmly, shooting Jaime a look. “And if you want to give Tripp another chance, that is completely your choice. We stand by you no matter what.”
I looked at Jaime. “Will you?”
“Of course I will.” Her face softened, and she tipped her head onto my shoulder. “I’m sorry. You know I love you, Gogo. I just want you to be happy. If you think Tripp is the one, then go for it. I’ll always be here for you.”
“Thanks. I’m still thinking it over.” I checked my phone and noticed the time. “Oh, shoot. I better get over to that thing for my father.”
“A dinner thing?” Jaime picked up her drink.
“No, just drinks and dessert with some donors who’ve written fat checks to the campaign.”
“How’s the campaign going?” Claire asked.
“Fine, I think. I haven’t been involved much since my politics are a bit different than my father’s, but we don’t talk about that.”
Jaime shook her head. “God, I love your family. Have fun tonight. Will Tripp be there?”
I put a twenty on the bar and finished off my drink. “Not sure. But I know Deuce is a major donor, so it’s possible. How do I look?”
They glanced at my sleeveless navy blue sheath, which I wore with nude heels and my favorite pearl necklace. My blowout was smooth, my nails were manicured, my legs were shaved. My lipstick would be reapplied in the car, since my grandmother had taught me never to apply cosmetics in public.
“Perfect,” said Claire. “Very Grace Kelly.”
Jaime nodded. “Classic Margot.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” After giving them each a kiss on the cheek, I walked out the back to the parking lot.
As I drove to the large private home on a gated street in Grosse Pointe where the fundraiser was being held, I had a strange feeling in my stomach. I can’t say it was butterflies exactly, more like a gut instinct that something in my life was about to change. I get a similar feeling when I cut more than an inch off my hair at the salon, like I’m sort of scared but also sort of exhilarated.
After pulling into the drive and handing my keys to the valet—who gazed longingly at the pristine, powder blue 1972 Mercedes my grandmother had given me last year when she finally decided to stop driving—I entered the house.
The strange feeling intensified when I saw Tripp standing to my right in the cavernous living room. It was so large, even the nine foot Steinway in one corner didn’t seem out of place. Sofas, chaises, and love seats were arranged in several conversational groupings, and the furniture, drapery, and even the rug had that faded, slightly shabby look that old money homes have. The look that says, We’re terribly wealthy but we don’t get rid of anything with a day’s use left in it, and we don’t like things that are shiny and new.