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Sliding my hands in my pockets, I put a little bit of distance between us.
If my mother were here, she’d tell me good things take time and are always worth the wait . . . which is exactly what she told me before she married Jacques “the French Slim Shady” DuBois. I was pointing out their insane age difference, and that was her response—that she waited sixty years to find the right person, and he was worth that wait.
But I digress.
“You know, I—” Margaux begins to say something only to be cut off when one of her high heels gets stuck in a sidewalk crack. She lurches forward, her arms outstretched in an attempt to break an inevitable fall. At the last second, I catch her, hooking my hand in the bend of her elbow and pulling her toward me.
“You okay?” I keep a hold on her as she steadies herself.
“I knew I shouldn’t have worn these shoes tonight.” Her cheeks are flushed, but she has no reason to feel embarrassed. This stretch of sidewalk has been in disrepair for years now. There must be throngs of people tripping and falling here on a regular basis. “But yes, I’m fine. Maybe you should call Antonio, though?”
We’re easily more than two miles from her place, a jaunt I can’t imagine would be comfortable in those sky-high stilettos.
I shoot Antonio a text, and he sends back a near-instant reply. Per usual, he was ready and waiting.
“He’s ten minutes away,” I tell her.
We find a bench nearby, sandwiched between a couple of newspaper racks. Margaux takes a seat, resting her purse on top of her crossed legs. I steal the spot next to her, draping my suit coat across my lap and soaking up what remains of our night together.
I thought it would feel different . . . the prospect of moving on.
I thought I’d hate it. I thought guilt would suck every last ounce of enjoyment out of the entire process.
Margaux, so far, has proved me wrong on all fronts.
“We could still make it to the Landry if we hurry,” she says, nodding in that direction.
“Another time.”
“You sure?” She glances up the street, then back to me.
“I was trying to impress you, but you made it clear that the Landry is less than extraordinary.” I’m teasing, of course, but I keep a straight face.
“Really?” Margaux leans back, her chin tucked. “You know you don’t have to do that . . . you don’t have to impress me, Roman.”
My name on her lips is like honey and glass, smooth and sweet and natural, and I realize this might be the first time she’s ever actually said my name out loud in my presence.
A black SUV turns onto the emptied-out street that belonged only to us just a moment ago. The closer it gets, the clearer I see Antonio’s silhouette behind the wheel. In an airtight instant, I find myself wishing he weren’t so timely for once. If only he’d have caught a handful of red lights or hit a traffic jam on his way here.
“That’s us,” I say, rising before extending my hand to help her up.
Her fingers are soft and delicate against mine as she stands, and she doesn’t let go until we get to the car.
The ride home is silent, mostly, save for the classical radio station Antonio is playing on low volume. I stifle a yawn. While it isn’t exactly late, most nights I’m in bed by now. After I put the girls to sleep, I spend an hour or two tending to things around the house, getting clothes situated for our morning routine, running a load of dishes or laundry, and carving out a little time for myself in the form of a stiff drink and a book . . . or whatever strikes my mood that night.
Various street- and stoplights paint colorful shadows on the glass as we make our way through the city. When Margaux’s not looking, I steal a couple of glances her way, studying her like I’d study a painting on exhibit at the MoMA. Riding beside me, her legs crossed at the knee and her hands resting on top of one another, she watches out her window with glistening eyes and a breathless sigh on her lips. She’s a portrait of quiet elegance, approachability, and sophistication.
I’ve still yet to pick up on that chatterbox side of her Theodora insists is there; then again, some people need more time to warm up to people.
At the end of the day, this is merely our third time together.
We’re hardly better than strangers.
Antonio arrives at Margaux’s building, pulls into a spot, and climbs out before Margaux has so much as unbuckled her seat belt. He gets her door and helps her out. I step onto the pavement, straighten my shirt collar, adjust my tie, and meet her on her side of the car.
