“What did he get you again?” Claire asked.
“A Chanel bag and some earrings from Tiffany.” Only Margot could make those gifts sound like a disappointment.
“How dare he,” I teased, trying to make her smile.
She did, but barely. “I’m sorry, you guys. I sound like a spoiled brat, pouting because I didn’t get exactly what I wanted when I wanted it.”
“You’re allowed to be disappointed. It’s OK,” Claire said, rubbing her shoulder. “You guys have been together for a while, and it’s only natural for you to be excited about taking the next step.”
God, Claire was such a nicer person than I was. All I could think was, See? This is what happens when you give someone the power to make you happy—they can use it to let you down, too.
“I just don’t understand why he’s dragging his feet,” Margot went on, dabbing at her eyes. “He says he loves me. He’s good to me. My family adores him; his family adores me. We come from the same world, have the same values, want the same things for our future.”
Babies with little whale pajamas? I thought before I could help it.
“Well, what happened today?” Claire asked.
“It was last night, actually. I was being passive-aggressive and made a comment about being so old on my wedding day my dad would have to wheel me up the aisle, and he got defensive.” Margot shook her head. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have poked at him.”
“I don’t think you were wrong to want to know where things stand, though, Margot,” I told her. “He should be up front with you. But rather than hint around, can’t you ask him flat out what he’s thinking? Or tell him what you’re thinking? That’s not issuing an ultimatum. It’s just being honest.”
“But I’m scared,” she said. “What if his answer isn’t what I want to hear?”
I shook my head—this made no sense to me. Did she want to be deceived? “Why wouldn’t you want to hear the truth?”
“Because it might hurt.” She shrugged helplessly. “What if he doesn’t want me to be his wife, and I just wasted the last three years of my life? What if he tells me I’m not the one? What if he doesn’t think I’m good enough?”
“Then he’d be a total fucking idiot,” I snapped, angry at the thought. “He’ll never do better than you.”
I wasn’t even blowing smoke up her ass, it was totally true. Besides being smart, fun, and generous, Margot had the cool, aristocratic beauty of a Grace Kelly or a Hitchcock blonde. Sure, she’d grown up in a home with an elevator and a private French tutor, and she could be a bit clueless about the ninety-nine percent (the first day we met in ninth grade, she asked me in all earnestness where I boarded my horse), but she made fun of herself all the time. Sometimes she texted Claire and me things like, When a sommelier tries to substitute the 88 Bordeaux for the 89. Please. #MargotProblems
“I agree,” Claire said firmly. “I think he does want to marry you, and he’s just being a guy and putting off settling down. Try what Jaime said—talk to him openly about it.”
Margot touched the hankie to her nose once more just as a waiter appeared at our table.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“We’ll have the charcuterie and fromage,” said Margot, suddenly all poise and confidence, back straight. Letting a stranger see her upset was not her style. “And I’ll have a glass of riesling.”
But after we’d ordered and the waiter left, Margot’s spine curled and she looked distraught again. “OK, I’ll do it. I’ll talk to him. Maybe this weekend.”
“Good girl,” I said. Personally, I thought Margot could do a hundred times better than Tripp and didn’t understand the rush to get married anyway, but if she had her heart set on it, I’d support her. It was sad to me, though, that my gorgeous, classy, normally confident friend was letting a man dictate her self-worth.
That’s what happens when women fall in love, though. They lose themselves. They lose perspective. They lose control over their own happiness.
Thank God I was smart enough to know it.
This arrangement with Quinn was really the best—I had all the perks of being in a couple and none of the heartache…as long as I kept my cool, I’d be OK.
For that reason, I did not check my phone even once to see if he’d texted.
I left Marais around ten, and his car was on the street when I arrived home. Just go upstairs, I told myself as I hurried up the walk. Do not stop, do not knock, do not check your phone.
I was unlocking the front door when he pulled it open. “Hey, you!” He threw his arms around me, pulling me inside, just like he had the day he moved in. “I saw you pull up. Did you get my text?”
“No,” I said, disturbed by the way my pulse was racing. “When did you send it?”
“I don’t know, maybe an hour ago. I kept telling myself not to bug you on girls’ night, but then I couldn’t resist.” He took my wrists, tugged on them playfully. “I missed your face.”
“Just my face?” I made a joke while I tried to get my bearings. If I let him know how happy I was to see him, to know that he’d texted, that was bad, right?
“Maybe I missed a few other parts of you.”
“My brain, no doubt. My dazzling intellect. My sharp wit.”
His eyes flicked left. “Yeah, let’s go with that.”