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It’s an image of an earring, a black-and-gold Gucci bee with diamond-covered wings. Margaux insisted I wear them earlier today after she dressed me in that lacy shift dress. She said I didn’t have enough sparkle, and she reminded me that she always wore something that glinted or glimmered anytime she left the house.
ROMAN: Is this yours? Found it in the car a little bit ago.
Those earrings weren’t cheap, and they’re a set my sister wears almost weekly.
I reply with a quick, Yes, it is.
For a moment, my breath strangely catches in my throat at the idea of connecting with him again, though I have no business getting excited over such a thing.
ROMAN: I’m seeing Theodora later tonight. I’ll make sure she brings it to the office tomorrow.
My stomach sinks, heavy with disappointment that has no right to exist.
I reply with a simple Appreciate it. Thank you. Then I darken my screen, retrieve my dinner from the microwave, and spend the next twenty minutes trying to peel my thoughts off Roman Bellisario, what is, what isn’t, and what can never be, no matter what.
Settling on the sofa when I’m done, I zone out with some salacious reality TV to keep my mind from wandering down streets it has no business stepping foot onto.
I’ve never considered myself a lonely person. I very much enjoy my own company. And I’ve never been one of those whose entire self-worth is wrapped up in whether they’re currently in a relationship. I have no need for a boyfriend or even a friend with benefits.
My life is pretty amazing without the added complications a romance can bring.
But every few minutes, I catch myself picturing the two of us chatting all things art over wine and candlelight or waltzing into galleries and exhibits arm in arm, or sharing late-night conversations where he lets me peek through the cracks of his perfectly stoic facade.
In a different timeline, maybe that would’ve been us.
Could’ve been us.
I’ve dated off and on since moving to the city, and I’ve had a handful of boyfriends over the years, but not one of them had any interest in art, which always seemed to lead to an inevitable demise. I don’t imagine filmmakers could date someone who doesn’t like movies or musicians could be with someone who doesn’t like similar music or athletes could be with someone who doesn’t like sports. While I’m not an artist per se, it’s the same sort of thing. Common ground is a powerful foundation for any relationship—romantic or otherwise.
The reality star on the TV screen sports a Day-Glo spray tan, shiny blonde extensions curled to perfection, and overlined lips as she talks to the camera about how rude another costar was at her charity dinner.
These are not the things that matter in life—other people’s realities, other people’s lives—but I’ll be damned if they don’t make for the perfect escape from my own.
Two hours later, I’m almost three episodes in and embracing my inner sloth when Margaux gets back.
“Hey,” I call out, muting the TV. “What’d they say?”
The clunk of her keys dropping in the bowl by the door is followed by the soft skid of her designer sneakers against the hardwood floor. With sluggish, steady steps she makes her way to the living room sporting a shell-shocked expression on her sheet-white face.
“What? What is it?” I ask.
“So, um.” Margaux swallows, makes her way to the chair beside me, and slumps down. She looks like she’s going to be sick again, but this time, she’s making no effort to rush to the bathroom. “I’m pregnant.”
CHAPTER TEN
ROMAN
I roll Margaux’s black-and-gold bee earring between my fingertips. On the other side of the kitchen, Adeline and Marabel eat dinner. Between bits of grilled chicken, rice, and untouched steamed broccoli, they debate which of their million Barbie dolls is the kindest and which is the smartest.
“Skipper is the kindest,” Adeline says. “She babysits. All babysitters have to be nice.”
“Which Skipper? The brown-haired one or the yellow-haired one?” Marabel asks.
“That’s a dumb question.” Adeline rolls her eyes.
“Adeline,” I say, keeping my tone stern. “No such thing as a dumb question. Apologize to your sister.”
She presses her lips together before muttering an apology.
“Yeah, but which one?” Marabel asks, clearly stuck on the topic.
“The brown-haired one,” Adeline answers. “The blonde one has the weird haircut, remember? It’s spiky now. It makes her look mean.”
“Oh, yeah,” Marabel says, shoving her broccoli aside. “I forgot you cut her hair.”
Adeline shoots me a look, as if she thinks she’s going to be reprimanded. I ignore it, though. She’s out of her scissor phase for the time being, and all household scissors have been placed far out of her little reach to avoid any future incidents.
“Girls, finish eating, and then it’s time for your bath,” I tell them before checking my phone. Theodora is supposed to stop by any minute. Last Saturday she took the girls to paint pottery, and she insisted on dropping off their kiln-fired finished products tonight on her way to dinner. “If you each have one bite of broccoli, I’ll let you use your bath bombs and glow sticks in the tub.”
