Chapter 30
Natalie knocks around ten o’clock Sunday morning to pick up Fritter, leftover eyeliner still smudged across her lids.
“Wanna do a movie night tonight?” I ask, handing over Fritter’s leash. “I’ll bring the snacks.”
“That sounds amazing,” she says, “but I’m supposed to see this guy.”
Fuck.
“Oh, okay, no big deal,” I say in a tone that conveys the opposite, casting my eyes downward.
“Hey, is everything okay?” she asks, taking a half step into my apartment.
I meet her gaze just as a row of warm tears begins to well.
“Oh my God, what’s going on?” She comes all the way inside, shutting the door behind her.
“It’s really embarrassing”—I sniffle—“but I think Ian might be having an affair. I could really just use a friend right now.”
Something like hunger flashes in her eyes before her mouth, still faintly pink from last night’s lipstick, falls open as she assumes the appropriate level of dismay. “Oh no, sweetie! What makes you think that?”
“He’ll be back from the gym soon, so I can’t talk about it now,” I say, certain she won’t be able to hold out much longer for the juicy details.
“God, you poor thing, come here.” She brings me in for a squeeze. “You’re obviously coming over tonight. I’ll reschedule with the guy.”
“Really?” A couple of well-timed tears break free as I pull away, smiling at her gratefully. “You’re the best, Nat. I’ll come up after dinner, probably around eight or so.”
“Ugh. I don’t know how you can sit through a meal with him.” She lets herself out. “I’ll see you later.”
I lock the deadbolt behind her, then grab what I need. I stand frozen just inside the door, waiting silently for my cheating, piece-of-shit husband. Within a few minutes, he’s jiggling the handle, wondering why he can’t get in.
“Margo? Are you there?” he calls from the other side.
I brace myself, not moving a muscle.
“Babe?” he tries again. “It’s me. Let me in.”
I take a deep breath. Then I do as he says.
When I show up at her apartment just after eight, Natalie frowns and pulls me into another pitying hug. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
Fritter trots over and sniffs at my knee, waiting for Natalie to release me so I can give him his usual scratch.
Once she lets go, I bend to greet him, then move into the kitchen, peeling off my cross-body purse and setting down a grocery bag of snacks.
I extract a mostly full bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, holding it up for her.
“Will you drink this? It probably only has another day or so till it starts to turn, and obviously”—I pat my belly—“I can’t finish it.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she groans, already retrieving a wineglass from a cabinet by the stove. “You can’t even drink right now! How are you even surviving?”
I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t really know.”
“Well, go make yourself comfortable and tell me everything.” She gestures toward her pink velvet sofa, taking a sip of the wine, then swirling it around in the glass. “Can I get you something? Sparkling water maybe?”
“I’m fine for now, thanks,” I say, choosing the end next to Fritter.
Natalie settles in on the opposite side, folding her legs onto the cushion and turning toward me. “So,” she fixes me in a ravenous gaze, “I’m dying to know, what tipped you off?”
I’m not about to give her the satisfaction of knowing the real story, so I’ve crafted a much lamer one.
“His DMs. What else?” I laugh dryly. “His laptop was open to his Instagram messages when I got back from the open house yesterday. Which seemed weird, since as far as I know, he’s hardly ever on Insta.
” I pretend to compose myself. “He was in the shower, so I had a minute to scroll through. Turns out he’s been messaging a ton with some woman from his law school class.
I didn’t have time to read all of it, but it’s flirty—a lot of joking about how they used to hook up at UVA…
” I take another pause. “Sorry, it’s hard to talk about. ”
Natalie narrows her eyes, struggling to hide her disappointment.
“Okay,” she says, “what else did you find?”
“That’s it. That’s all I had time for.”
“So, not even a dick pic? Or any evidence they’ve met up in person?”
“Well, no … Ugh, I can’t even imagine Ian sending a dick pic.”
Predictably, her face lights up at a chance to twist the knife.
“Oh, trust me, girl, they all send them, especially the bored husbands. Literally no one is more obsessed with documenting their dicks—snoop a little more in those DMs, I bet you find a National Geographic’s worth of erections.”
“Jesus, Nat.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m only trying to help,” she continues, downing another gulp of wine. “Take it from me, the sooner you realize marriage is a sham, the sooner you can have a real life.”
Ah yes, the very fulfilling existence that only fuckboys from Tinder can provide.
“It’s a little more complicated than that, given—you know.” I nod down at my belly.
“Oh shit, yeah, I totally keep forgetting you’re pregnant,” she says, and I feel the inferno spreading through my veins. “Well, that’s even more of a reason to figure this out now. Ian’s only gonna get worse once the baby’s here and you’re even less interested in fucking him.”
I imagine lunging across this tacky couch and clawing my nails across her face. Instead, I run them through Fritter’s wiry fur and remind myself that I only have to play nice for a little while longer.
“Do you mind if we just pick a movie?” I ask, eyes pleading. “I could really use a break from all this drama.”
“Oh my God, of course, sweetie.” Natalie unfurls herself from the sofa and heads back into the kitchen with her empty glass. “Whenever you’re ready to talk more, just know I’m here.” She holds my gaze, turning down the corners of her mouth in fake sympathy.
Mercifully, we’re less than an hour into Bad Moms when her eyelids begin to droop. You’d think a bartender would be smarter about pacing herself, but she’s already finished the wine. Once she dozes off, I creep back into the kitchen and pull the latex gloves from my crossbody bag.
The heavy silver wrench is still in the toolbox beneath the sink, right where I found it yesterday.