Chapter 13
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Imet Margie Hoya on the day I moved into the USC dorms.
We’d been assigned as roommates and hit it off right away.
I’d heard horror stories about being matched with your polar opposite, but that wasn’t my experience at all.
We were besties from the moment we met.
We considered rushing a sorority together, but decided we were too good for the Greek system.
I remember Margie saying, “We’re two pretty girls. We don’t need to pay a damn sorority to get dates with guys. The Trojan men will be knocking down our doors regardless.”
“That’s why I love you, Margie Hoya.”
We lived together our sophomore year as well, and Margie had been right. There was no shortage of USC males who came a-knockin'.
We went through a lot of Trojans, if you know what I mean.
Plus, some of the men were in fraternities, so we were invited to those parties even though we weren’t in a sorority. We had the best of both worlds.
What I loved most about Margie was that she didn’t judge me. I knew that I wasn’t a saint, but that didn’t matter to her. Once she’d chosen me as her ride-or-die, it was like I could do no wrong.
If I did a little cocaine at a party, she didn’t give me a lecture. If I cheated on a guy I was dating, she didn’t tell me what a terrible person I was.
Probably because she was no saint herself. But more on that later.
We didn’t live together during our junior or senior years, but we were still best friends, and we often lamented not just having roomed together all four years.
We stayed close after graduation as well.
It helped that we both decided to stay in Los Angeles. I remember saying that I was committed to staying in the City of Angels, and I bet that’s at least part of the reason that Margie stayed as well.
She worked as a paralegal at a local law firm, and kept saying she was going to apply to law school. She should have done it when we first graduated from USC, but she’d needed the money and had interned at the law firm during her senior year.
Paralegal work paid pretty well, and she could afford to pay the bills, but it wasn’t the same as being a lawyer. I told her every year to take the plunge and apply to law schools.
Each year that passed, it became less likely.
Not that I was one to talk. Since graduation, I’d kind of been a lost soul. At least, that would be the way to describe it if you were being diplomatic. The truth was that I was lazy and not overly motivated to start my time in the real world.
Eventually, the rubber met the road, and I was running out of money, so I went out and applied for jobs. It turns out that being a USC graduate—along with being a pretty girl—made it relatively easy to find a job in LA.
I was hired as a personal assistant to a former USC quarterback, who couldn’t make it in the NFL, so he got a job at a public relations firm.
I can hear you. Why would I take a job as an assistant if I’d just graduated from USC? Surely, there must have been something better out there.
Two reasons. One, I didn’t like working hard. Never have, never will. And two, this job paid well. To me, it was the best of both worlds. A chill job that paid reasonably. I eventually got used to it, and before I knew it, I’d worked there for almost four years.
There was one added benefit. Margie was only two blocks from me, and we got to have lunch together almost every day during the week.
One day, I’d broached the idea of going to that weekend’s USC/Notre Dame game, and Margie gave me a quick, “Hell yeah, I’m in.”
Margie sat next to me at the game.
We convinced two other girls to join us, but I looked at them more as acquaintances. I’d never had that many real girlfriends. Margie being the exception. She always looked out for me.
Case in point: she noticed well before I did that David was looking at me.
“This guy can’t stop staring at you,” she whispered to me.
“You’re crazy.”
“He looks like he’s rich.”
“Shut up,” I said.
At halftime, David and his group left pretty fast, but when they returned for the second half, he sat in the seat right next to me. As usual, Margie was right.
As David and I started dating, Margie became my confidant.
I’d tell her the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Not that there was any ugliness early on.
But there was some good. David was rich. Margie had been right about that. She gloated when I told her. She knew I didn’t love my job, and the idea of being a rich housewife appealed to me.
Margie was always a lot of fun, so David’s group of friends loved having her around. David’s best friend, Chip, even took a shot at her, but Margie brushed him off like the little fly he was—her words, not mine.
When David and I tied the knot, Margie was an easy choice for my maid of honor, and she delivered a sweet, sentimental speech. At least, I thought so.
She knew everything about me and could have gone scorched earth if she wanted, but she went the sweet route, which was a nice counterpoint to Chip, whose speech was all over the map and elicited quite a few groans.
Apparently, David had quite a trip to Tijuana.
Did I care? No.
But would I use it against him if we ever got in a fight? Absofuckinglutely.
Fast forward a few years.
David and I were now in our third year of marriage. People often talk of the seven-year itch, but I was already experiencing it in year four.
I knew I was to blame. David was a good man. I’d married well in that regard. He wasn’t some scumbag.
But he hadn’t exactly been a thunderbolt at the beginning of our relationship, and that’s not something that improves over time. If anything, he got more boring.
I’d developed a wandering eye—or maybe it had always been there—but never acted on it. I knew that would mean an instant divorce from David. He’d added a stipulation in our prenup that if I cheated on him, I’d get nothing.
So I stayed faithful.
Well, at least until Eddie.
Which brings me to how we met.
It involved a certain conversation I had with Margie.
David surprised me and said he’d procured an invite for me to a Happy Hour for young female entrepreneurs. That’s the word he’d used. Procured. What a douchebag.
While April’s Coffee Shop wasn’t exactly Martha Stewart Living, I did still qualify as an entrepreneur.
“This could be a good way to meet a few women and get the word out,” David had said.
He wasn’t wrong, but there was a hidden message in it. David didn’t think I had enough female friends. There was Margie, and that’s about it. Plus, I knew he wasn’t her biggest fan. I guess I can’t blame David. I was married to him, and yet, she was my closest confidant.
But he was right about the happy hour. It could help get the word out about my struggling coffee shop.
And he genuinely wanted “April’s” to be successful. Yes, part of that was because he bankrolled the whole venture, but more importantly, he wanted me to be happy—me to be successful.
Even though our marriage was starting to show cracks and fissures, he still wanted it to work. He still loved me after all.
Hey, at least one of us was in love.
I invited Margie to the happy hour.
I didn’t want to be surrounded by all these motivated, cutthroat Los Angeles women without having my bestie by my side. No one paid it any mind when she walked into the bar with me. It’s like we were two entrepreneurs walking in together.
We were asked to fill in a name tag with our name and business. My was easy. April. April’s Coffee Shop. Margie went with Margie, Retail Entrepreneur.
Margie said she was a retail entrepreneur to anyone who approached her.
When asked what kind, she’d say she was starting an online store for upscale women’s shoes with a very famous woman. If the person doubled down and asked for the website’s name, Margie would say it was top secret and that she couldn’t tell anyone.
“I don’t think Taylor would want me telling anyone,” she’d add.
It was apparent she was referring to Taylor Swift.
I had to turn around to suppress my laughter. We both had a wicked sense of humor.
Margie and I ducked outside at one point.
I was so out of my league, and she could sense it. These women were genuine entrepreneurs, starting a variety of wild businesses.
One woman had built a company that helped supply water to children in Uganda. One woman was working with online retailers to donate the change from any purchase—the cents left—to help start homeless shelters.
Puke and puke.
And when they inevitably asked me what I did, I’d have to tell them that I’d merely started a coffee shop. At one point, when I saw “Uganda woman” on the other side of the bar, I started telling people that we were donating fifty percent of our proceeds to refugees in Uganda.
Everyone ate that shit up.
“So, how’s David?” Margie asked when we got to the patio.
We were alone, and Margie lit up a cigarette.
I don’t know if it was the two glasses of wine or the fact that my coffee shop was constantly being upstaged, but a cigarette sounded good. I’d smoked off and on during college, but rarely anymore. I might have three cigarettes in a month, and never around David.
“Give me one of those,” I said.
She handed one over and lit it. I inhaled a long drag and surprised myself by not coughing.
“Fuck, I forgot how good these things could be.”
“Especially after a little wine.”
“You can say that again.”
“You ignored my question,” Margie said.
“What was it?”
“Well, that doesn’t bode well. I asked how David was.”
“Oh, yeah, him.”
Margie gave me that stare that I’d seen way too often in college. Usually, when I’d grown tired of a boy. This was different. That boy was now my husband.
“You haven’t been married yet. You don’t understand,” I said.
“Don’t use that weak-ass excuse. You’ve only been married three years. You’re not exactly Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn.”
“Who?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Yes, I’m kidding. I know who Kurt Hawn and Goldie Russell are.”
Margie laughed at my dumb joke. She always did. That’s why I loved her.
“David helped you get April’s Coffee Shop off the ground.”
“I know. But he still makes me open at five a.m. and doesn’t allow me to hire many employees.”
Anyone else would have called me on my selfish, ridiculous take, but Margie just smiled.
“Maybe he’s just being a smart businessman,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“He’s been promoted like three times since we got married. He’s got a shit ton of money, and he never wants to spend it. Especially on me. What’s the point of having it if you don’t spend it?”
“Maybe he’s gotten rich because he’s become good at saving it."
“Whose side are you on anyway?” I asked and took another deep drag of my cigarette.
“I’m always on your side. You know that. I’ll change the subject. How’s the sex?”
“Shit, I’d rather talk about April’s Coffee Shop.”
“That bad?”
“More boring than bad.”
“How so?”
“He’s not adventurous. Missionary is supposed to be a position, not an edict.”
Margie laughed, so I kept going. I should have just shut up.
“I’d love the occasional Hall Pass,” I said. “A strapping man who knew how to please a woman. Maybe use some handcuffs at some point.”
“Kinky.”
“I’m only telling you this because you’re my best friend. There’s literally no one else in the world to whom I’d mention this.”
“Your secret is safe with me, April.”
“So you don’t know any strapping men who carry around handcuffs?”
“Besides cops, you mean?”
I laughed. “Let’s forget we had this conversation.”
“Like I said, your secret is safe with me.”
The wine must have affected me more than I thought. Once again, I kept talking when I should have shut up.
“I mean, I liked David. I really did. But I’m not going to lie.
One of the reasons I married him was because he had money.
Shit, you know that. And now, it’s like we don’t have it.
Our house is okay, but he could afford so much nicer.
We never travel anymore. I thought I’d be spending my summers in San Tropez.
Instead, I’m opening my stupid coffee shop at five in the morning. ”
“Tell me how you really feel.”
“Very funny.”
“Ask for a divorce.”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
“Oh, April,” Margie said and smiled.
She stubbed out her cigarette. I still had a little to go.
“You can go inside,” I said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Okay.”
She walked back inside, and I said to no one in particular, “Or maybe I’ll get lucky, and David will just drop dead.”