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“Yes, these things are uncommon . . . typically occurring in less than one out of a hundred women using an IUD,” Dr. Bitner says, “but they can and do happen. One thing to keep in mind is you have options, but regardless of what you decide, it’s imperative that we remove the device immediately to prevent any potential infections or complications.”
Margaux swallows hard before nodding.
I remain by my sister’s side as Dr. Bitner completes her exam and the subsequent removal. When it’s all over and we’re checking out, I order an Uber so Margaux doesn’t have to walk home in discomfort of any kind—emotional, physical, or otherwise.
Once back at our apartment, we spend the rest of the day watching reality TV and pretending like both of our lives aren’t about to change in ways we never could have anticipated . . . more Margaux’s life than mine, but there’s no way I’d let her do any of this alone.
I think of Rupert’s words from earlier today, about how everything always works out, even when you don’t think that it will.
I want to believe him.
I have to believe him.
This is all going to work out, and everything’s going to be fine.
It has to be.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROMAN
“Be good, girls, and listen to Miss Grace.” I drop the girls off at dance class Wednesday evening shortly after five o’clock, and then I linger for a few moments to watch them warm up in their little pink leotards and leg warmers. Their cheeks are rosy from smiling so big, and their eyes are lit as they cling to Grace’s side.
I’ve noticed they do that lately—cling to people.
Women, to be specific.
While there are plenty of men raising kids on their own, many of them raising daughters, I can’t help but worry if I’m giving my girls everything they need except the one thing they don’t have . . . a mother figure. They have Theodora, of course, but she plays more of a “cool great-aunt” role in their lives. It’s not the same.
I’d never date a woman for the sole purpose of having an extra set of hands or someone to relieve me of my parental responsibilities, but perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing if someone came along who naturally fit into that role in our lives. Of course no one could ever fill Emma’s place in our hearts, and there’s no denying there’s a deep, dark void where she used to reside. There’s also no denying that the older the girls get, the more they’re going to need the kind of guidance I’m not equipped to give them.
The idea of moving on—whatever that entails—sends a sour jolt of nausea down the back of my throat, like my body is rejecting the mere notion of such a concept.
I steal one last look at my girls before heading to my waiting car outside. They’ll be here for the next two hours—first ballet, then jazz, then tap lessons. While I’d normally sit in the back seat of my idling SUV and check work emails to pass the time, I picked up those framed paintings for Margaux earlier today, and I might as well deliver them now.
My driver, Antonio, opens the passenger door the second he spots me strolling outside.
“Where to?” he asks a minute later.
“Just a second.” I pull up Margaux’s personal cell number and press the green button.
She answers on the third ring.
“Hey,” she says, breathless. Was she running to the phone? Did she just finish a jog or fitness class? And why the hell do I care what she was doing anyway?
“Margaux.” I collect myself. “I have those paintings. You home right now? Thought I could drop them off.”
I’m met with dead silence—not exactly the response I was expecting given her reaction at the studio the other day.
“Um, yeah,” she says. “I’m home.”
“Is it okay if I bring them by?” I ask to confirm, seeing as though she’s somewhat hesitant. “Unless you have other plans . . .”
My mind immediately wanders to a scenario in which she’s going on a date with someone else or having another guy over. Not that it matters. She’s free to date whomever she chooses. But the idea of her spending her Wednesday night with some faceless other man sends a twinge of . . . something . . . to my chest.
“Sure. Yes. Of course,” she answers, a little less breathless than before. “Just, um, give me a little bit. Just got home from work.”
Sinking into the buttery leather of my seat, I exhale, more relieved than I should be at this revelation.
“It’s rush hour traffic, so it’ll be a bit,” I say.
“I’ll be here. I’m in apartment 2C. I’ll buzz you in when you get here.”
I send her address to Antonio’s phone, and he taps the navigation button. The guidance begins, though I doubt he needs it. He’s been driving this city for the past thirty years and knows every corner and crevice like the back of his hand.
