I bet Ian has access to it at the EPA, but there’s no way I can bring him into this. Everything would be so much easier if he would just get on my goddamn side.Think, Margo.This is a solvable problem. And literally everything is on the line.
No Dottie. No blackmail.
No blackmail. No house.
No house. I will motherfucking die.
In an instant, the answer floods my brain like dopamine. I’ve always performed well under pressure.
I grab my phone off my desk—quickly adding a thumbs-up emoji to a Slack from Jordana with some suggested guests for the media dinner—then fire off a text:Hey, are you downtown today? Can I buy you lunch to say thank you for helping with the IP address?
It only takes Erika a minute to write back:K Street Tavern at 1?
The Tavern is a total dive, but it’s sentimental. In our twenties, Erika and I spent countless happy hours here that devolved into sloppy all-nighters, especially on karaoke Wednesdays. We’d often be back by noon the next day to soak up our bad decisions with a greasy lunch.
She’s already stationed at one of the red vinyl booths, her laptop open, when I arrive. She’s striking, even amid these dingy environs. What must it be like, to go through life looking like that?
“Seriously? They have Wi-Fi at the Tavern now?” I say, as I approach. “Is nothing sacred?”
Erika laughs. “You look awesome. Love that dress.” She gets up to hug me. “And I know what you mean, but at least the seats are all still cracked and half the light bulbs are out.”
“True enough. God, I can’t remember the last time we were here together.”
“I know, kinda fun, right? My team still does happy hours here sometimes, but it’s just not the same. Man, how did we get so old?”
I wish I knew the answer to that one. Time really is a motherfucker—and it has never once been on my side. I have beenracing against something, or toward something for as long as I can remember. Racing to grow up and get away. Racing against deadlines. Racing to make enough money. To start a family. To find the house. To feel like I’ve finally made it. To feel like I can finally just live. Erika and I might be the same age, but she’s already won her race. She’s been right on time for every single thing.
It’s funny, I probably thought I was ahead of her when I started dating Ian. We were here the first time he and Erika met. Wednesday karaoke, but a “celebrity” edition. I came as Britney Spears, in a blond wig and too-tight skirt, and tried way too hard to look sexy for him during my rendition of “Toxic.” Erika did a whole retro thing, teased her hair into oblivion to sing “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” as Nancy Sinatra. It didn’t matter how much midriff I was showing, her performance was still way hotter than mine.
Ian didn’t seem to notice, though. He was all over me that night. And he was great with my work friends, asking sincere questions about the stories they were pursuing and how they ended up at thePost, doing his charming, smiling-from-the-eyes thing. They all loved him, Erika especially. “He’s perfect,” she’d said, when the two of us made a trip to the bar for a round of Red Bull–and–vodkas. “Does he have any single friends?”
Yeah, that night, I’m sure I thought I was finally winning.
Our server approaches now, with two red plastic baskets of grilled cheese and french fries, our go-to hangover cure from back in the day.
“It’s really good to see you without the guys around,” Erika says, before taking a bite of melty American between oily white bread. “They can be so competitive with each other. It’s ridiculous.”
“Oh my God, I know.” I pause to dab some grease from the corner of my mouth. “I’m really sorry about Ian the other night. He gets way too defensive. I’m sure Heath thought he was being an ass.”
She shakes her head in protest, until she finishes chewing. “Youhave nothing to apologize for. I let Heath have it on the ride home. He was totally provoking Ian, as if you guys don’t have enough to stress about. I still can’t believe you haven’t found a place yet.”
There it is—the pity. It stings, but it’s also kind of nice to feel seen. Because she’s not wrong.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “It’s been… a lot.”
“How are you two doing with it? I think I would kill Heath if we were in a one-bedroom.”
I’m too proud to tell her the whole truth—that I don’t like my husband right now; in fact, I may hate him. But a little bit of venting won’t hurt…
“Honestly? He’s starting to drive me crazy,” I say. “The smell of his aftershave gives me a headache. And this morning, when I came out of the bedroom, he was on the couch in the same fucking gym shorts and ripped-up navy UVA sweatshirt that he wears almost every single day, and I swear to God, for a second? I couldn’t even see him. He was just a big navy-blue blob, sweating onto my sofa. I am just so sick of looking at that damn sweatshirt, you know?”
Erika, her eyes wide, nods sympathetically, but I can tell she’s trying to suppress a smile. We both lose it at the same time. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe. I needed this.
“That sounds awful. Really,” she says, wiping away tears. “But at least you have the tight quarters as an excuse. Heath and I live in four thousand square feet and he still annoys the shit out of me half the time.”
I don’t know if she’s only saying that to make me feel better, but it does.
“Don’t kill all my hope,” I say, still catching my breath. “I’m counting on liking my husband again once we move.”
