Page 76 of Lucas & Melissa Falling in Love
As if in defiance of this thought I take a healthy sip of my scotch. Then I spit half of it back into the glass because this liquid shouldn’t be consumed by anyone outside of a fire-eating circus act.
Margo laughs at me. She says, “Guess I should have warned you this batch is strong.”
“Strong?” I choke the word because my throat is busy forming scar tissue from the burn. “What the hell?” Swiping my hand across my cheeks to clear the streaming tears, I blink. Margo hands me a towel from the bar.
“George is experimenting with the extreme whiskey market.”
“What’s his brand? Skull and crossbones?”
“Stop deflecting. We are going to talk about this. You need to sort through your feelings for Lucas.”
This is as good a time as any to mention his plan to find my birth father. And mother. Funny that my birth mother is always an afterthought. I wonder why, but Margo puts a hand on my back and propels me to a couch. It’s in the middle of the vast living-slash-ballroom, the centerpiece to a comfortable seating area. One of three such conversational seating areas in the mammoth room.
This couch has the advantage of facing the massive marble fireplace, which happens to be lit, so I don’t resist Margo’s insistence that I sit. Slipping my shoes off and pulling my legs up, I lean back and make myself comfortable. Even when I realize I’m drinkless, I don’t move. Falling asleep here wouldn’t be a tragedy.
Margo sits next to me, facing me in a similar pose, feet tucked under her and leaning back against the luxurious cushions. We’re poised for a comfortabletête-à-têteand that gets my nervous juices flowing again. Not that I show it. But now I really wish I had a drink of something.
“Why don’t you want to stay with Lucas? Didn’t he invite you?”
Smirking, I say, “Do bears shit in the woods? He’s a virile man in his prime.” A very virile man at that, but I hold back which isn’t like me at all. And Margo being my best friend since we first discovered men when they were still boys and we were girls, knows I’m holding back.
“Spill it. Not the part about him being virile, although we can go into that another time.” She gives a small wo-ho smile and continues. “I want to know how you two are doing as a couple. I honestly thought—still think—he’sthe onefor you. I was so sure you thought so too.” Of course Margo is disappointed. She’s a despotic romantic when it comes to wanting her friends to findthe one.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get to be my matron of honor one of these days, honey.”
“That’s it? Lucas isn’tthe one?” she looks horrified and I feel my chest tighten.
“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I mean I don’t know.” My mind spins and I’m plotting what to say, but I can’t think. So I do what I never do, I talk without thinking.
“I can’t figure out what Lucas and I have until I figure myself out.”
Margo’s face morphs from disappointment to warm softness and she leans forward, giving me a hug.
“I know.” She whispers and squeezes me once before letting go. “Then it’s a really good thing you’re starting at the bank tomorrow.”
“Lucas hired an investigator to find my birth parents.” I blurt it out. Instead of feeling instant regret, I feel instant relief. Maybe I ought to do more blurting.
Margo’s face lights up with surprise and wonder—probably at what a swell guy Lucas is—until concern creeps in, drawing the corner of her mouth down.
“Really? Wow. You’re all right with it?”
“I’m ecstatic about it,” I deadpan.
Her insta-laugh is edged with nerves.
“Seriously. Do you really still want to meet them after all these years?” she reaches out and touches my arm. I don’t think she even realizes she does it. But I love her for it.
“I have to do it. I need to get rid of all the wondering. All the imagining. I need to stop obsessing over these people who aren’t real to me. They’re like make-believe villains. Or heroes, depending on the day.”
“Sweetie, I didn’t know you still thought so much about them. That was all so long ago, that day you found out.” Margo squeezes my arm harder now. Her smile disappears and I know she’s remembering. How could she forget? I made it traumatic for both of us. For a girl not prone to drama, I rose to the occasion that day and hit it out of the park.
I say, “I don’t think about my birth parents most of the time. But they’re still there, embedded in my psyche, part of my genes, if we want to get technical. And whenever I have doubts about myself, or like when the colossal failure of my real estate development venture happened and I lose the small fortune my phantom grandmother left me because I invested it all in said failed venture, well, then it’s impossible to escape the specter of the unknown birth parents.”
She nods and bites her lip. Then she picks up her martini glass and takes a healthy sip of ginger ale.
“That’s it. I’m getting myself a glass of red wine. It’s a good before-bed drink, I’m told by some aficionados back in Italy.” I lift myself from the sunken couch cushions in a move that would make my yoga instructor proud and walk over to the bar.
“I bet you had some fabulous wine while you were in Italy. I’m sorry—I didn’t even ask you how you liked it there, how you liked Lucas’s family in particular.”
Making quick work of the cork, I pour myself a half goblet of some pinot noir label I don’t recognize. I’m not worried whether it’s good or not because, the fiery glass of scotch notwithstanding, George has nothing but the best stocked in his bar. I take a sweet sip and give George a silent thank-you.
“Nonsense. We covered all that in our phone calls,” I say. I walk back to the couch, set my glass on the side table, and sink back into the plushest cushions I’ve ever experienced. I want to ask her where she got this couch, but she’ll get annoyed either because a) she’s already told me and I don’t remember, or b) she’ll accuse me of trying to change the subject. Which I’m not. It’s my mind gone awry, completely distracted by the unsettled nature of every single thing in my life. My career, my home, my fortune, Lucas.
Everything is unsettled except my friendship with Margo. That’s still rock solid. I lean forward and give her a hug. Not one of those quick air hugs, a real deep down, arms around the back, pulling her into me, heartfelthug.
“Oh, sweetie.” She whispers, hugging me back. She doesn’t ask what the hug is for because she, of course, knows. She reads my emotions like a book in spite of my lack of signals most of the time.
Like Lucas. He reads me too, even better than Margo. And though I just left him—sent him away, to be exact—I miss him, the intimacy we have. We were together for a week straight and now he’s not here at my side. The sudden pang of need for him is like a physical thing, a hollow feeling in my gut that makes me feel empty and sick. I need to hide this from Margo so I hold onto the hug for an extra beat and squeeze my eyes shut, empty my brain, and then take a deep breath. It works enough so I can look my best friend in the eye and not feel pathetic.
