Chapter 7 #2
I pretend to search for a different file, while beating back another wave of nausea.
“Here we are. Um, on the national side, we’re expecting the food writer from GQ and a senior writer from Bon Appétit.” I glance up from my screen. “I believe both of them are black-wristbanders, right, Jordana?”
She nods.
“Great,” I choke out, my egg-and-cheese-bagel threatening an encore.
I lean away from my laptop, cold sweat percolating through the back of my dress. Jordana is still looking at me. What else can she possibly want?
“And what about advanced coverage, Margo?”
Jesus Christ, I should’ve made myself puke before I left the apartment.
“Right, just a sec.” I fumble around some more on my computer. Jordana sighs loudly.
“As far as advanced coverage goes, I gave the exclusive first look at the restaurant design to Washingtonian. They’re sending a reporter and a photographer tomorrow at noon, and they’ll publish online Wednesday.
And the Post is running their Q&A with Chef online first thing Thursday morning, then in print in the Weekend section. ”
Shockingly, Jordana gives a little golf clap. “Thank you, Margo. Not sure why that was such a struggle, but it all sounds excellent.”
I manage a weak smile. As soon as the meeting wraps, I beeline to the bathroom.
The rest of the day gets easier. Jordana goes to lunch with a client at noon, and by three, she’s still not back so I take that as a green light to leave early. When I get to the apartment, I see my Post-it note is gone, and that Ian did, in fact, take most of the leftover chicken to work.
He texts around six: Heading home. Hope we can talk.
I’ve spent the afternoon devising a PR strategy for myself. I’ve decided that anger should be a last resort—it’ll be more effective to play the victim.
When he walks in, red bike helmet still on, I’m on my laptop on the sofa, braless in one of his old UVA T-shirts.
“Hey,” I say softly, eyes still on my screen. I want to make him come to me.
He sighs and hangs up his helmet. “Will you please look at me?”
I do as he asks, summoning the right memory.
I think of those bitches sophomore year who made my life hell after my dad’s ridiculous business tanked and the bank took our house.
A stinging spreads through my chest. My vision blurs, then clears up as the tears break free down my face. Works every time.
“Jesus.” Ian rushes to my side, drapes an arm around my shoulders while he waits for me to calm down.
“I was really worried about you,” I say through ragged breaths. “Where were you last night?”
“I know, I should’ve called.” I notice him check out my boobs. “I was at Brant’s.”
Figures. Brent with an A, the last bachelor standing of our original DC friend group. Our token sleaze.
“You were at Brant’s until three in the morning?”
“It was stupid. We weren’t even doing anything, really. We went to a bar for a while and watched the Nats, then we just kept drinking at his place and I passed out on the couch.”
“But I don’t get why you couldn’t even bother to text me back. How was I supposed to know you weren’t dead somewhere? Or in the hospital?”
“I know. I wasn’t thinking.”
I stare into the distance out the window, before turning back to him. “You can’t do that to me again, Ian.” I let my eyes burrow into his. “I love you, and you scared the hell out of me.”
I rehearsed that last bit before he got home, tested out a few different versions—“I fucking love you” (too dramatic), “You scared the shit out of me” (starts to sound gross when you say it over and over).
I felt pretty confident about where I landed, but I didn’t expect this—his eyes are damp.
He’s fully crying by the time he pulls me in for a hug.
“I love you, too,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I feel terrible about those things I said. I shouldn’t have called you … that.”
I mean, it’s not like he used the C word, but fine. More than fine! I pull back from him. This is the hard part, but I remind myself it’s for a greater cause: “I’m really sorry, too, Ian.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and kisses me.
“We have to talk about the house, though,” I say, gently steering us toward the point.
He sighs and wipes his eyes.
“I didn’t lie, Ian. It’s true that we’ve had trouble conceiving, and who knows? We might want to adopt one day. Please, just come with me on Wednesday night—you’ll really like Jack, I promise, and Penny is so cute. It’s really not that big a deal.”
He shakes his head adamantly. “I’m just not comfortable with this.”
“But why? People write sappy letters with their offers all the time. We’ll just get to make our case in person. And if they say no, I will let it go.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, standing up and heading into the kitchen, “this just feels way over the line.”
Maybe it would’ve been better if he had used the C-word.
“Ian, the whole market is over the line,” I say. “People are doing all sorts of crazy shit. I saw a woman on TikTok who offered to let a seller name her baby!”
He smirks—progress. “That can’t be real,” he says.
“Well, either way, at least I’m not that nuts.”
He laughs!
“Seriously,” he says, smile fading, “I don’t think this is healthy. You know all this stress isn’t good for you.”
“Right, and this could finally be a way to put an end to it! You said yourself that you loved that house, Ian. It’s perfect for us. You can’t deny that.”
He leans against the fridge, arms crossed, staring at the floor.
“You heard what Heath said the other night,” I add, wondering how I didn’t think to leverage that asshole sooner. “He couldn’t believe how lucky he and Erika got. Well, maybe it’s our turn to finally get lucky. I mean, if anyone deserves a break, it’s you, not him.”
Another long sigh snakes out of him. When he finally meets my gaze, I hold my breath.
“Fine,” he says, after an eternity. “But if this doesn’t work, we’re waiting for it to come on the market just like everybody else.”
I spring from the sofa and run to give him a hug. “Absolutely,” I say, “that’ll be the only thing left to do.”