Chapter 5 Margot
Margot
It should be awkward to sit across from Ethan on Monday morning.
I should feel weird about sitting in the exact chair where I had an emotional breakdown in front of my boss then got so drunk that I had to stay not just one, but three whole nights at his house because he’s the closest thing I have to a friend here in Denver at the moment.
I should feel awkward or embarrassed or… something.
Instead, I feel nothing at all. It’s as if all of my competing emotions tripped the emergency shut off switch in my heart, and now I’m just going through the motions of existing.
Friday night was rough, but by Saturday evening, I was actually feeling a little better.
Still angry and hurt but not devastated.
A glimmer of hope for the future had already started shining through.
Just a tiny pinhole of light, but it was something to latch on to.
Something to focus on through the darkness.
Then I saw what Jeremy did to my books.
I meant what I said to Ethan last night—it’s not actually about the books. I can replace them. Well, most of them anyway. Some were signed; others were special editions that will be impossible to find.
Still, it wasn’t seeing all those books shredded on the floor that broke me.
It’s imagining Jeremy shredding them all.
It’s the fact that he had already hurt me so deeply, but that wasn’t enough for him.
I don’t understand why he needed to inflict more pain.
Maybe because he didn’t get the reaction he was expecting, or maybe because he realized that he just really enjoyed hurting me.
It doesn’t really matter why though. The end result is the same: I can’t stop blaming myself.
I should’ve known this would happen. I should’ve recognized the signs.
There were things that didn’t add up, lies that I might have willingly overlooked.
I held onto who Jeremy was rather than admitting who he’d become.
My cute, kind of dorky college boyfriend had turned into another shallow, egotistical finance bro, exactly the type of guy we used to make fun of back in school.
Over the years, he’d become cocky and irritable.
He blatantly checked out other women in front of me while I pretended not to notice.
Things he always said he loved about me became points of contention in our relationship.
Why couldn’t I wear contacts instead of glasses?
Why was I so sarcastic all the time? Why didn’t I wear something nicer to his company party?
(Even though I bought a new dress for the occasion which he seemed to like well enough until he saw all the other guys’ dates in low-cut, form-fitting dresses.)
It's not my fault that Jeremy cheated, but it’s my fault that I didn’t see the writing on the wall. Or in this case, the writing scattered all over my bedroom floor.
It takes me a minute to get out of my head and realize that Ethan has stopped talking. His hazel eyes are fixed on me, searching for something. An answer, maybe. What was the last thing he said?
I glance down at the notes that I’ve been mindlessly scrawling on a notepad in my lap. The last one reads seafood salad.
That’s it.
Just seafood salad.
Did we have that for dinner last night? No, that doesn’t seem right. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything at all in… a day? Maybe longer.
Tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, I keep my eyes cast down and my pen ready as I guess wildly at the meaning of the words. “How much seafood salad do you want me to order?” It’s probably for a lunch meeting or something.
For several long seconds, it’s completely silent. I glance up at Ethan, who’s frowning at me with concern etched all over his face.
“Seafood salad?” he repeats.
Right, of course. There’s no way that Ethan North eats seafood salad, not with a body like his. In fact, I’m pretty sure no one eats seafood salad anymore—with any sort of body.
“Margot,” Ethan says my name gently, “Do you maybe want to take a personal day?”
I shake my head. “No, I need to keep working. I need the distraction.”
Ethan lets out a slow but steady sigh, clearly summoning all of his patience before he speaks. Then he motions to my notepad and asks, “Can I see that real quick?”
I’m not sure why he wants to see my notes, but I slide the small notepad across the desk to him anyway. He studies it for a moment, tongue prodding at the inside of his cheek, then looks up at me.
“Are you sure?” Ethan asks, reaching up to scratch his temple. “Because these notes are, uh… not up to your normal standards.”
When he flips the notepad around and slides it back across the desk, I realize that I’ve written and underlined the word business at the top of the page, followed by the words revenue, Greg, and seafood salad.
“We didn’t talk about seafood salad. And who’s Greg?” he asks.
Even though I’m sure Ethan is tempted to laugh, his prevailing emotion seems to be concern.
“I must’ve misheard,” I say a little too defensively, leaning forward to snatch my notepad off the desk.
I take a deep breath and fight back the same tears I’ve been suppressing all day.
Once I’m relatively certain they won’t start streaming down my face, I look up at Ethan again.
“Look, I know I’m being sad and weird and sort of useless right now, but I want to stay here.
I need something else to do, even if it’s just…
this,” I hoist the notebook up pathetically.
“If I go home, I’ll just sit there and cry.
I know that’s lame, and maybe you don’t understand because you don’t do relationships or whatever… ”
“Margot, I get it,” Ethan says, cutting me off. “Of course you can stay. I just need to know that you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
The words lack conviction, but Ethan accepts them anyway. Maybe it’s because our workspaces are separated by a big glass wall, so he knows he can keep an eye on me if I stay here at work.
There’s no point in continuing our meeting, so I make my way back to my desk. Throughout the day, I feel the warmth of Ethan’s gaze on me through the pane of glass, checking to make sure that I haven’t burst into tears or mistakenly ordered a huge vat of seafood salad.
Obviously, I’m in no fit state to do any real work, so I tidy my desk then my inbox. I browse the internet for furniture and start a spreadsheet of all the things I need to buy to replace what Jeremy took.
Financially, it’s going to be a stretch.
Jeremy wanted a nice apartment close to downtown.
I agreed to split the astronomical rent, even though I would have been just as happy with a cheaper place out in the suburbs.
Paying the rent on my own will be difficult, but not impossible.
When the lease is up in a few months, I can find a more affordable place.
By the end of the day, I’ve made a spreadsheet of furniture prices, created a new personal budget, and contacted my landlord, who already changed the locks for me and removed Jeremy’s name from the lease.
What I haven’t done is anything resembling actual work. Feeling guilty, I try my best to focus on a few minor work-related tasks.
At five-thirty, Ethan emerges from his office, looking annoyed. “What are you doing?”
“Working,” I say without looking up from my screen.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ethan pinch the bridge of his nose. “Margot, I’ve watched you document the price of every mattress within a fifty-mile radius over the last eight hours. I think you can probably call it a day now.”
I cringe inwardly and mutter, “Sorry.”
I always knew Ethan could see my computer monitor through the glass wall; I just didn’t realize how clearly he could see it. Sometimes I forget that nearly everyone on the planet has better eyesight than I do.
Ethan rests his hands in his pockets and shakes his head, looking slightly amused.
“It’s fine, Margot. I’ve never seen you so much as take a personal phone call at work.
Even if you sat there and did nothing but read alien porn for the next week, you’d waste less time than most people around here.
You don’t need to feel guilty, but you also don’t need to stay late frantically trying to crank out work to make up for today. ”
For the first time all day, I feel a tingle of some emotion in my chest. It’s so fleeting that I can’t even identify it before it slips away. It could be gratitude or embarrassment or just simple amusement. But in its wake, that tiny pinhole of light opens back up.
“Are you staying late?” I ask Ethan.
It’s not unusual for us to work until eight or nine o’clock on Monday nights to catch up from the weekend. I worry that if I leave now, he’ll stay until midnight just to compensate.
Ethan hesitates. He lifts a hand from his pocket and rakes it through his hair. As usual, it falls right back into place. I wonder how my hair looks. Terrible, probably. I’m not sure I bothered to look at myself in a mirror before leaving the house this morning.
“I’ll finish up some work in my home office tonight,” Ethan finally says. Translation: he still has a lot of work to do, but he knows I’ll insist on staying late if he does. “We could order some Thai food for dinner first,” he adds.
The pinhole of light widens a little, its warm glow breaking through the fog. A tiny guiding light illuminating a single emotion: hunger. It’s not much, but it’s more than I’ve felt all day.
***
Tuesday is a little easier. I get some actual work done and eat leftover Thai food for lunch at my desk.
Most importantly, I start to feel things again. Not the full force of them, just a nudge here and a trickle there. A few more pinholes of light burst through the darkness, and I can almost see a way forward.
Almost.