Chapter 13
Natalie is twenty minutes late, not that I have anywhere else to rush off to.
I’m perched on one of the last two available barstools at Jane Jane. My work bag reserves the one next to me—pretty obviously, I think, but three people have asked if the seat is taken. I’m dying to hear back from Erika, which is why my stomach lurches at the sound of my phone vibrating on the bar.
But it’s only Ian. Hey babe, are we eating together?
Translation: Are you making dinner?
I think we’re eating here, I text back. Order whatever takeout you want.
For all the worried looks and prolonged hugs he gave me before I left this morning, I barely heard from my Very Concerned Husband all day.
I took myself to the movies as a distraction while I waited for word from Erika—some arty mess that’s getting Oscar buzz.
The movie wasn’t the point anyway. I mainly wanted to disappear into the cold, black void of an empty theater, and stuff my face with fake-buttered popcorn and Junior Mints.
It was after five o’clock by the time the movie ended, so I figured I was in the clear to go home. But then Natalie texted about getting drinks, and even she sounds like a better hang than Ian right now so I told him I was going to happy hour with work people. (Good for you! he replied.)
I see her by the door and wave her over. She’s wearing those leggings that look like leather from far away, but up close, they’re really just shiny black spandex.
“Hey, girl!” She leans in to hug me. “Nice job getting a spot.”
She surveys the room while she peels off her jean jacket—no doubt hoping to catch someone checking her out.
“Yeah, I got lucky and grabbed the last two.” (We made these plans too last-minute for me to call in a favor for a table.) “What’s up?”
“Oh, not a lot. Sorry I’m late, I was all the way in Southwest, down on the waterfront, and it took forever to get an Uber.”
I’m pretty sure I know the answer but I ask the question anyway: “What was in Southwest?”
She giggles. Here we go.
“Just a girl I met at the bar last night. Very little chill—she texted me first thing this morning.”
“Ah, something new and different for you.”
She laughs, loudly enough that a few heads turn our way, definitely the goal. The bartender also notices and comes over to take our order. The spicy mezcal thing is on the menu now, so we get a round of those.
“Want any food?” I ask Natalie.
“Oh, no, I’m stuffed. She lives at the Wharf so we ate a late lunch down there.”
I make a face at the mention of DC’s douchiest neighborhood. “She’s not some self-loathing head case, is she?”
“Hell no, you know I draw the line at Republicans,” says Natalie. “She just wanted the water view. I mean, her condo is really nice.”
“You saw her place, then?”
She laughs again. “Yeah, we went upstairs afterwards.”
As the bartender delivers our drinks, it hits me: “Wait a minute, you were at the bar last night? You don’t usually work Mondays.”
“It was a last-minute thing. I had to cover for someone.”
“When did you get home?”
“A little after one.”
“Natalie! Why didn’t you tell me? Fritter was alone that whole time? And now you’ve been out practically all day?”
“Oh my God, Margo. Fritter is fine. He’s only a dog. He sleeps the whole time I’m gone.”
Only a dog.
The rage that I’ve suppressed since Ian called off our house hunt last night simmers dangerously close to the surface. I imagine crushing my cocktail glass against the side of her dumb, blindingly blond head. Instead, I take a healthy slug from it and will the pitch of my voice to stay even.
“But wouldn’t you feel better knowing he was with someone?” I ask. “Eating his dinner on time, and not feeling like his bladder might explode?”
Is she a fucking sociopath?
She rolls her eyes. “You’re always wound so tight, Margo. Didn’t your doctor say that’s why you can’t get pregnant?”
Isn’t that rich—a medical opinion from someone who counts uppers and downers as separate food groups.
The rage is in a full-on tantrum now, thrashing and scratching to be let out.
But before I can unleash it, my mind skips to a future where Natalie has taken back her key and revoked my Fritter privileges, where all I can do is pace around my shoebox on the nights I know she’s working, convinced I can hear him crying two floors above.
Leaving him behind is the only thing I’m dreading about finally breaking out of that hellhole. But I’ll offer to watch him at our new place, on the weekends at least, so he can experience a real backyard.
I take another long drink.
“I don’t mean to overstep,” I say. “I just love that dog, so please, just tell me when you’ll be gone and I’ll hang out with him. I’m always happy to do it.”
She sighs. “I know you are, it just slipped my mind to text you last night.” She pauses to scroll through her phone. When she looks back up, she tilts her head. “If you love Fritter so much, why don’t you guys get your own dog?”
“I would love to, but we’re waiting to find a house first.”
“You really have a whole checklist, don’t you? House. Baby. Dog.” She holds up a finger as she counts off each item. Then, smirking, adds: “Menopause. Death.”
“I guess so,” I say, smiling, refusing to give her the satisfaction of getting under my skin.
“Well, I do appreciate how great you are with him. You’re a natural,” she says. “You really didn’t have dogs growing up?”
“No, not really.”
“What does that mean?” she asks.
My chest tightens.
I was nine when I found Blossom by the dumpsters behind our townhouse.
It was summer and Mitch was supposed to be watching me, but he’d gone to the neighbor’s to play Nintendo.
I’d been riding my bike around the parking lot, the July sun blasting down, then radiating back up from the blacktop.
I was drenched in sweat by the time I heard it—a small but forceful bark. She only did it once.
I threw down my kickstand and ran over to the two smelly green bins.
She was between them, a matted dark-gray mop that reminded me of Toto from The Wizard of Oz.
A crow was eyeing the Burger King wrapper she held beneath her front paws.
I shooed away the bird and squatted down, instantly recognizing something of myself in those uneasy eyes.
“Come on, it’s okay,” I whispered, holding out a hand.
She gave it a lick, then let me scoop her up.
I bathed her with dish soap—we’d learned in school that they sometimes did that for animals who’d been in oil spills—and fed her leftover chicken from a Tupperware in the fridge.
We fell asleep together in my bed and didn’t wake up again until my mom got home from work.
Blossom (yes, like the TV show) started barking as soon as she heard the door.
“Margo?” My mom raced into my room, wearing the frantic expression I’d last seen when my dad caught her hiding T.J. Maxx bags in my closet. “Oh my God, Margo. Where did you get that?”
I told her the whole story, then made the strongest case I could think of: “Mitch never hangs out with me when you go to work, even though you tell him he has to. And I never know when Dad will be here or not. A dog would keep me company.”
Blossom had done her part, snuggling against my mom when she sat on the edge of my bed, the khaki pants she wore for her hotel front desk job so heavily starched they barely creased. She mindlessly began to stroke Blossom’s fur, extra soft from the bath.
“Margo, you know we aren’t allowed to have pets here,” she told me gently. I remember feeling surprised by how sad she looked. “Plus,” she added, “who would take care of her during the day once you go back to school?”
I was not a kid who cried very often, but in that moment, a dam broke. I could hardly form words between my snotty, heaving sobs. I was such a pathetic mess that my mom started crying, too.
She watched me for a minute, chewing her rosy bottom lip.
“All right, Margo, we don’t have to decide right now.
” She wiped the tears from the underside of her chin with the back of a hand.
“When your dad gets home, let’s say a friend from school had to go on a trip, and her family asked us to take care of Blossom while they’re away.
I’ll explain it, and you just agree with me, okay? ”
I’d never loved her more.
“Margo, are you okay?” Natalie frowns at me from her barstool.
“Yeah, fine.” I clear my throat. “I just mean that I never had a dog of my own when I was a kid. I took care of one for a while, though. For a friend.”
The bartender comes over to ask if we’d like another round. Natalie starts to order, then catches my disapproving look. She rolls her eyes. “Sorry, never mind,” she tells the bartender. “I have to get home to let the dog out.”
She’s frosty on the walk back to the apartment, so when I spy the Prius parked down a side street, I’m glad for the out. “You know what, Nat, I have a quick errand to run, and my car’s right there.” I gesture toward it. “I’ll see you later.”
There’s only one place I can think to go. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stay away forever. That house is a part of me now. And I only need to see it for a second. Just to know that it’s still as perfect as I remember.
Traffic is a mess, so the sun is nearly gone by the time I make it to Grovemont. When the house is in view, I slow to a crawl, debating whether I should risk pulling over. But the front windows are dark. They’re probably still cleaning up dinner. They’ll never notice me from all the way back there.
I park across the street, shutting the car door as softly as I can.
From the sidewalk, beneath the canopy of the big maple, I can see through the window just to the left of the front door.
I can make out the curve of the arched opening into the kitchen, backlit by the happy routine taking place just beyond it.
A slender figure—Jack—glides past the island.
A softness swells inside of me as I imagine a high chair pulled up to it, squishy little hands leaving fingerprints behind on smooth marble.
Wonder what they ate tonight. Did they use the breakfast nook or the deck table? Did they take turns sharing the highs and lows of their days? I’ve always wanted to do that with my own family. It’ll be our dinnertime ritual.
I wonder if they talked about me and Ian. Have they explained to Penny what happened with us?
A rustling overhead draws my attention upward—only a squirrel. But as I follow its dark outline around the branches, my heart nearly stops. The light in one of the windows on the second floor, Curt’s office judging by the location, has blinked on. A lone eye watching the street.
How long has it been like that?
I lower my face toward the ground and turn back to the Prius. In a few fast strides, I’m behind the wheel. When I sneak a look toward the house, the light is off again. But I have no way of knowing if someone is on the other side of the blackness.
I don’t hear the text arrive at first because the vibrating of my Sonicare fills my whole head. But once I switch it off and spit out the toothpaste, my phone dings again.
It’s Erika.
Sorry, the day got away from me. The IP address came from 20057. Georgetown.
Georgetown? I thought Georgetown’s zip code was 20007. I run a quick Google search and feel my breath catch.
“Oh my God,” I say aloud.
“What, babe?” Ian calls from the bedroom, where the SportsCenter theme is starting up.
“Nothing,” I reply. “Just a dumb email from a client.”
It’s after eleven o’clock, but I’m suddenly wide awake. Erika didn’t mean Georgetown, the neighborhood. She meant Georgetown University. The school has its own zip code.
Ellipsis must have been another faculty member. Or a student. I can work with this.