Is he playing misogyny bingo or something?
“Yeah, let’s hear it, Indiana!” I’m clapping now, like a lunatic. “You can take the boy outta middle America!”
“I am not listening to this.”
Ian grabs his keys and wallet off the shelf by the entry and picks up his gym shoes without stopping to put them on. He slams the door so hard the walls shake. Some Sunday morning entertainment for our neighbors.
He’s never called me a bitch before. And we have had some other epic blowouts.
The last time he stormed out like this, we were living in the rowhouse. That time, he slammed the door with so much force the latch jammed and we had to call a locksmith to fix it. It was August 2020, and pouring so hard it sounded like the rain was inside.
I’d just given Ginny the go-ahead to list.
“Do you remember that I live here, too?” Ian asked, as he paced back and forth, fingers entwined in his hair. “I don’t understand why you think you can decide this without me.”
“I don’t think that at all.” I was looking up at him from the same gray couch—from Room & Board, one of our first grown-up purchases—my legs folded into a crisscross. “You’re the one who said when interest rates fell below three percent, you’d be ready to sell, and now they have. So, I was simply relaying to Ginny what you already told me.”
If I’d learned anything from my parents’ fucked-up marriage, it was that making the other person think they’re in control when they’re really not is often the easiest way to win a fight. But Ian would not back down.
“We’re in the middle of a pandemic, Margo, and you’re almost guaranteeing that we’ll wind up in some apartment building, with two hundred other people touching the door handles and the elevator buttons and blasting their droplets or whatever all over the goddamn place. I’m just asking for more time to think about it.”
“Well, I’m willing to wear a mask and wash my hands for a couple months if it means we can make a mountain of cash, then turn around and buy a nicer house than we ever imagined because the banks are practically giving away mortgages.”
“Don’t you remember when you thought this house was nice?”
That had made me laugh—which of course made Ian madder—because at that very moment, I had no doubt our basement was flooding. We’d made a lot of improvements by then, mostly thanks to Ian’s dad flying in from Indianapolis to help. But the basement required a real waterproofing contractor, and we’d resisted spending the money.
“Be real, Ian,” I said, “we probably have two inches of standing water below us.”
“This placecouldbe enough, though,” he said. “We could keep fixing it up. We would at least be safe here until there’s a vaccine.”
“And when’s that going to be?” I asked. “We don’t have forever. We’re trying to start a family now, right? Unless you don’t care about that anymore.”
“Jesus, Margo, do not hold that over my head. I’m not saying no. I just need to think about it some more.”
By that point, I was out of patience.
“Okay, well maybeIneed to think some more about the baby.”
I didn’t mean it, of course, I just needed a conversation-ender. Ian’s mouth dropped open. After a beat, he started to say something, then thought better of it and turned to leave. I saw him grab a mask but not an umbrella, heard the explosive bang of the front door. A couple hours later, he showed up soaking wet, knocking on the back door because he’d broken the front handle.
“Fine,” he said, when I let him in. “Let’s list it.”
I couldn’t have known then that we’d end up in the apartment for eighteen months. But even if I had, I wouldn’t have done anything different. Because now that I have a real in with Jack, I’m certain this whole excruciating ordeal will have been worth it.
Ian can slam doors and call me names, but he will be at that dinner on Wednesday, bells fucking on. He’ll come around, like he always does. We may be in a rough patch now, but he is the most dependable person I’ve ever known. He gets it from his parents. They’ve been devoted to each other for over forty years. They’d die if they knew their son called me a bitch. Especially his mom.
Maybe I should make her roast chicken tonight. It might do Ian some good to think about her.
I tap out a text:Hey Debbie, hope you’re having a nice weekend! Can you remind me what type of white wine you use for your chicken?
Hi honey!she writes back.Usually sauvignon blanc, but anything dry will do. Just call if you need me.
Now I send another text to our neighbor Natalie to ask if she wants to tag along to the farmers market. Really, I only care about seeing Fritter—her scruffy black-and-white muppet of a rescue dog. Natalie says they’re in, so I head down to meet them in the lobby. The communal areas here all have that generic, organic-modern vibe going on—matte black light fixtures, fake fiddle-leaf fig trees—and they always smell vaguely of artificial citrus because the building pumps in a “signature scent.” God, I am so sick of living here.
Natalie’s apartment is two floors above ours. I met her and Fritter on the roof deck not long after Ian and I moved in. I’d been looking for a quiet place to work on a sunny fall day. She’d been on the phone with her divorce lawyer.
“Hey, Nat. Wow, your hair!”
