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“I don’t understand . . .” I manage a handful of words. “The date was awful. We had zero chemistry. Neither one of us attempted to flirt. I don’t even know if he smiled once the entire time. If that’s his definition of a great time, then—”
“—you realize if he wants a second date, you’re going to have to be the one to go on it, right? God forbid he brings up some teeny tiny detail from Friday night and I look like a deer in headlights.”
Sinking into the sofa cushions, I have half a mind to pray they swallow me whole.
“This makes no sense,” I say. “I was devoid of a personality that night.”
Margaux blinks, like she doesn’t believe me.
“Why would I want to hit it off with the guy who had me fired? Why would I jeopardize your promotion anyway?” I come to my defense again.
With a groan, she pushes herself up from the chair, treks to the kitchen, and uncorks a bottle of red wine. After filling a stemless glass nearly to the brim, she takes three generous sips before returning to the living room.
“Fine,” she says. “I believe you, but I’m just . . . this isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.”
“Has he texted you yet?” I ask.
“Yes, actually. About five minutes ago.”
That explains her sour mood the second she walked in the door . . .
I’m not well versed in the art of modern dating, but a guy who texts within hours of getting your number rather than playing it cool and giving it a day or two must want to see her again.
Er, me.
He wants to see me again.
“Give him my number,” I say. “Tell him the number he has is your work cell, and tell him my number is your personal cell.”
“Yeah, because stacking lies on top of lies is always a good idea.” She takes another substantial drink of wine.
“Do you have a better idea?”
Margaux answers with a delayed, hopeless shrug.
“That’s what I thought,” I say. “Nothing about this makes any kind of sense. Friday night he said he wasn’t ready to move on, that he was still grieving his wife. I told him I was too career focused to have a dating life. We were on the same page . . . then he walked me home.”
“He walked you home? You never mentioned that.” Turning toward me, her eyes widen, bewildered almost. “You don’t walk someone home after a boring date. No one does that. You go your separate ways like normal people.”
“His driver was unavailable or something,” I say. “And it wasn’t like he meant to walk me home. We were walking in the same general direction and ran into each other at a crosswalk . . .”
“At any point did he say anything that made you think he wanted to see you again?”
“Never,” I say. “But he did get kind of weird at the end of the night . . . when he saw my key chain. The Halcyon one.”
Margaux scrunches her face. “What are you talking about? What key chain? What’s Halcyon?”
“Halcyon is this obscure artist who had this flash-in-the-pan moment several years back . . . Roman was upset that I knew about Halcyon but didn’t say anything when he talked about being an art major. I think, anyway. It was weird. Also it was a Halcyon piece that cost me my job.”
“Do you think he’s onto us? Do you think he knows you’re my sister and you’re the one he had fired all those years ago?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so? And I never told him anything about having a sister, let alone being an identical twin. There’s no way. But he did say I looked familiar. Has he ever been into the office?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“This whole thing is such a mess. I’m screwed. It’s all going to backfire, I know it is.” She takes another drink before shaking her head. There’s a far-off look in her eyes, but not the good kind. I imagine she’s envisioning every worst-case scenario she can all at the same time. “This is really, really bad. Like I don’t think you comprehend—”
“—no, it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be. It’s not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world. We just have to think outside the box.”
“Me thinking outside the box is what got us into this mess in the first place.” Leaning against the arm of her chair, she rests her chin against the top of her hand. “For the record, I’m not upset with you . . . I’m upset about the situation. I know you were just helping me out, and I adore you for that. I just . . .”
“If he texts me, I can always tell him I’m not interested in dating?”
