Page 59 of Man Candy (After We Fall 1)
But I stayed grouchy through the rest of the work day and didn’t even bother to go home and change before meeting Claire and Margot, because I didn’t want to take the chance of running into him. First, I wanted him to think I didn’t care that much about seeing him tonight, and second, I didn’t trust myself not to ditch the girls and rip his clothes off the moment I saw his face.
It was Margot’s turn to pick the spot, and she chose Marais, an upscale French restaurant in Grosse Pointe with an elegant bar and lounge that wasn’t exactly formal, but still likely to be full of crusty people like Tripp in coats and ties. I did like the cheese selection, though, which they wheeled out on a cart and gushed over before slicing portions onto a plate for you. I didn’t give a shit about artisanal goats, but I had to admit it was all pretty tasty, served with bread and crackers and honey. They had a great wine list too.
I forgot all about my bad mood when I entered the bar and saw my friends sitting next to each other in a huge velvet booth, Margot visibly upset and Claire’s hand on her arm.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, sliding onto the bench across from them.
“It’s nothing,” Margot said, fighting for composure. “A fight with Tripp.”
“About what?”
“You’ll think it’s dumb.”
“Margot, no, I won’t.” I sat forward with my elbows on my knees, leaning toward her. “Talk to me.”
She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief out of her purse. Claire and I exchanged a surreptitious smile—Margot was the only woman we knew who actually carried little white hankies in her purse, monogrammed with her initials. We sometimes teased her about stuff like that, but this wasn’t the time.
“It’s just—I thought we were really getting closer to an engagement. He’s dropped hints here and there, and he knows it’s what I want. He even asked me before Christmas about what sort of ring I’d like, so I thought maybe it would be a Christmas gift. But it wasn’t.”
“What did he get you again?” Claire asked.
“A Chanel bag and some earrings from Tiffany.” Only Margot could make those gifts sound like a disappointment.
“How dare he,” I teased, trying to make her smile.
She did, but barely. “I’m sorry, you guys. I sound like a spoiled brat, pouting because I didn’t get exactly what I wanted when I wanted it.”
“You’re allowed to be disappointed. It’s OK,” Claire said, rubbing her shoulder. “You guys have been together for a while, and it’s only natural for you to be excited about taking the next step.”
God, Claire was such a nicer person than I was. All I could think was, See? This is what happens when you give someone the power to make you happy—they can use it to let you down, too.
“I just don’t understand why he’s dragging his feet,” Margot went on, dabbing at her eyes. “He says he loves me. He’s good to me. My family adores him; his family adores me. We come from the same world, have the same values, want the same things for our future.”
Babies with little whale pajamas? I thought before I could help it.
“Well, what happened today?” Claire asked.
“It was last night, actually. I was being passive-aggressive and made a comment about being so old on my wedding day my dad would have to wheel me up the aisle, and he got defensive.” Margot shook her head. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have poked at him.”
“I don’t think you were wrong to want to know where things stand, though, Margot,” I told her. “He should be up front with you. But rather than hint around, can’t you ask him flat out what he’s thinking? Or tell him what you’re thinking? That’s not issuing an ultimatum. It’s just being honest.”
“But I’m scared,” she said. “What if his answer isn’t what I want to hear?”
I shook my head—this made no sense to me. Did she want to be deceived? “Why wouldn’t you want to hear the truth?”
“Because it might hurt.” She shrugged helplessly. “What if he doesn’t want me to be his wife, and I just wasted the last three years of my life? What if he tells me I’m not the one? What if he doesn’t think I’m good enough?”
“Then he’d be a total fucking idiot,” I snapped, angry at the thought. “He’ll never do better than you.”
I wasn’t even blowing smoke up her ass, it was totally true. Besides being smart, fun, and generous, Margot had the cool, aristocratic beauty of a Grace Kelly or a Hitchcock blonde. Sure, she’d grown up in a home with an elevator and a private French tutor, and she could be a bit clueless about the ninety-nine percent (the first day we met in ninth grade, she asked me in all earnestness where I boarded my horse), but she made fun of herself all the time. Sometimes she texted Claire and me things like, When a sommelier tries to substitute the 88 Bordeaux for the 89. Please. #MargotProblems
“I agree,” Claire said firmly. “I think he does want to marry you, and he’s just being a guy and putting off settling down. Try what Jaime said—talk to him openly about it.”
Margot touched the hankie to her nose once more just as a waiter appeared at our table.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“We’ll have the charcuterie and fromage,” said Margot, suddenly all poise and confidence, back straight. Letting a stranger see her upset was not her style. “And I’ll have a glass of riesling.”
