Chapter 10 Ethan #2
Then he met Emma. I know she knows. It’s been a running topic of the family group chat ever since Rachel floated the idea of moving back.
My parents thought it was a great idea. They’d love to spend more time with their only grandchild.
Garrett thought it was a terrible idea because…
well, he’s Garrett. Surly and skeptical by nature, especially when it comes to Silas.
Emma is Margot’s best friend, which is why I have to ask…
“I take it Emma’s told you about Silas?” My voice and my shoulders are both rigid with tension.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the chair she’s assembling, she replies, “Um, only a little.”
“Like what?” I press.
The question comes out a little too harshly. Margot notices and lifts her gaze to mine. She looks every bit as tense as I am when she presses her lips together and contemplates her answer.
“Emma mentioned that you and Garrett had a difficult childhood. She’s never given me a lot of details, but I’ve pieced together that your family had some hard times. It sounds like Silas got caught up with drugs or something along the way.”
I study Margot’s face for a few seconds, searching for any hint that she might know more than she’s letting on. When I’m satisfied that she doesn’t, the tension in my shoulders gives a little and my jaw relaxes.
“That’s the gist of it,” I say. “He’s, uh, never quite gotten his life back together.”
Margot’s eyes hold mine for a fleeting moment then she looks back down at the chair. Her voice is soft when she speaks. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s alright,” I mutter.
Thankfully, she doesn’t press for more information.
Once we’re done with the dining set, we move onto the kitchen then the living room then Sophia’s room. Margot seems determined to make Sophia’s room perfect. She spends a little extra time smoothing out the bedding and fluffing the curtains.
“Your niece is going to love this room,” Margot says, propping the little stuffed penguin up against the pillow.
“I hope so.”
Margot flashes a reassuring smile and looks around. “So, what’s next?”
“All that’s left is the master bedroom.”
Admittedly, this part feels a little weird.
I harbor zero feelings towards Rachel, good or bad.
We’ve been out of touch for two years now.
If anything, we feel like strangers. But setting up her bedroom is a stark reminder of the fact that we are not, in fact, strangers.
She’s my ex-wife. It was a strange situation that got us into that mess, and here we are, in yet another strange situation.
Luckily, Margot provides a welcome distraction, giving me a play-by-play of the messages she’s received since I updated her dating profile. It takes us another two hours to build the dresser, nightstand, and bed. Once we’re finished, we place the mattress on top, and Margot wanders out of the room.
She pops her head back in a minute later and asks, “Where’s the bedding for this room? All I found are a couple of pillows.”
“I didn’t buy any bedding.”
Saying it out loud makes me feel like an asshole. So does looking around the room and seeing how incomplete it is, especially compared to Sophia’s room.
I scratch the five o’clock shadow on my cheek, asking, “Should I have? Bought bedding and stuff for her, I mean.”
Margot looks around then back at me. “I’m sure she’d like to pick out her own stuff. I think it’s fine.”
Still pondering, I nod. Margot’s probably right. She usually is.
Crossing the room, she tosses the pillows on the bed, kicks off her shoes, and plops down onto the mattress.
“What time is it?” she asks.
I glance at my phone. “Three-thirty. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”
“It’s okay, I needed the distraction after that shitty date. I’ll head home in a minute.” Her eyelids close in a slow, sleepy blink.
“Margot, it’s late and you’re tired. Just crash here tonight. You can have the bed, and I’ll take the couch.”
A quiet “okay” drifts past her lips and her eyes close again.
I just said I’d sleep on the couch, but that means clearing a path of boxes and debris first. I’ll do it in a minute, I decide, sliding onto the bed beside Margot.
She shifts a little, making sure I have room.
More accurately, she makes sure there’s a large swath of space between us.
Exhaustion hits hard as soon as my head touches the pillow. I could easily fall asleep right here.
Margot seems to have beaten me to the punch though. I’m certain she’s drifted off until she randomly says, “My old math teacher messaged me on Sip.”
I glance over at her. Her eyes are still closed, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. A strand of dark hair rests over her glasses, and I get a weird impulse to brush it away.
“That’s awkward,” I say instead.
“He was just saying hello and asking what I was doing these days. I don’t think he was trying to hit on me or anything. Sadly, that was the most pleasant conversation I’ve had so far on that app.”
“Do me a favor and don’t date your old math teacher, okay?”
Margot laughs, sending a little ripple through the mattress. She rolls her head to the side and opens her eyes to look at me.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
We hold each other’s gaze a few seconds too long.
Another crazy impulse rises inside me: the urge to kiss her.
I’m not sure where it comes from or when I started thinking that kissing my assistant might be a reasonable thing to do.
All I know is that I shouldn’t. I won’t cross that line with Margot.
She’s too important to me, as both an assistant and a friend.
Dragging my eyes away from her, I try to tread back to familiar waters. We were just talking about her terrible luck on Sip, so I stare up at the ceiling and say, “Maybe I should choose your next date for you. I’ve gotten pretty good at vetting people on that app. You could put my skillset to use.”
Margot doesn’t respond right away, but when she does, I hear the smile in her voice. “On one condition: I get to pick your next date, too.” I risk a glance in her direction, and she shrugs playfully. “It’s only fair.”
“Alright, do your worst.” I say with a laugh, pulling up the app on my phone and sliding it toward her.
Before long, we’re both lying in bed, exhausted but endlessly amused by this weird game we’re playing. Margot is facing me, propped up on one elbow with her legs curled as she scrolls.
“I found someone for you,” I announce eventually.
Margot looks doubtful, and I can’t really blame her. The last guy I jokingly chose for her had a profile that simply said no uggos. This guy is my real pick though. Unfortunately, when I show Margot his profile, she doesn’t seem impressed.
“This guy is basically you,” she quips, arching an eyebrow.
“No, he’s not. He just seems normal and stable. He has a good job.”
What I don’t say out loud is that I think Margot is selling herself short.
She’s smart, funny, and attractive. I know she thinks she isn’t good enough for a guy like this who arguably looks like a J.
Crew model, but if anything, she’s probably too good for him.
She just needs to put herself out there and stop wasting time on weirdos with plastic unicorns and foot fetishes.
“Alright,” she mumbles. “I’ll message him.”
A few seconds later, she announces, “Here’s yours.” When she flashes the profile at me, I’m immediately skeptical.
“She’s too young,” I say.
“She’s twenty-seven. That’s only four years younger than you, and it’s a year older than me. Do you think I’m too young?”
“You’re different,” I say, biting back a cliché remark about how Margot is more mature than most twenty-six-year-olds.
It’s no secret that I usually date older women.
Hell, Margot even knows that my porn history is full of MILFs.
It’s not that I’m exclusively attracted to women who are a few years older, but they tend to be more secure in themselves and what they want.
I can be forthright about the fact that I’m not looking for anything serious, and they won’t take it personally.
We’ll have our fun and go our separate ways.
But I know why Margot picked this particular woman.
I inadvertently picked a guy who reminds Margot of me, so she picked someone who would inevitably remind me of her.
The woman on the screen has dark hair and glasses, though they aren’t as cute as Margot’s.
I can tell from a single glance that this woman would describe herself as quirky, which is a word I’ve heard Margot use to describe herself as well.
“You said you haven’t been clicking with your dates recently,” Margot reminds me. “Maybe you need to try dating someone different than your usual type.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
Margot yawns. Things get hazy after that. I remember dozing off then waking up and telling myself that I need to move to the couch. But the next time I wake up, there’s a hand on my chest and a leg thrown over mine.