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“I don’t want to keep leading him on,” I say.
“Then don’t.” She blinks once, like it’s that easy. “Just be neutral. We’ve talked about this a hundred times.”
“It’s not that simple . . . I like being around him . . . and he wants to see me again . . .” I’m not sure where I’m going with this. “If things were different, if this were real, I think we’d have a connection.”
“Oh, come on.” She laughs, eyes rolling hard. “You’ve met him, what, all of three times? Sure, he’s rich and attractive and maybe he plays the poor-widower-single-dad card pretty well, but don’t act like you’ve suddenly met your soulmate after three mediocre dates. Let’s be real.”
Two dates.
Technically.
One of which was mediocre.
The other of which was . . . promising.
Rising from her chair, I slide the zipper down the side seam of this skintight dress, shrug out of it, and carefully lay it across the foot of her bed. I don’t recognize the designer label, but knowing Margaux, I’m sure it wasn’t cheap.
“You can go on the next date,” I say, knowing full well that she won’t. It’d be too risky at this point. He could easily bring up something we talked about on a previous date, and if she looked like a deer in headlights or said the wrong thing, this whole charade would come crashing down. Not to mention the fact that she’s pregnant and starting to show. She could dress carefully, but there’s always a chance the fabric might pull the wrong way, or he might catch a glimpse of a round belly that wasn’t there the last time he saw me.
“Sloane,” she calls after me as I head to my room.
I change into pajamas before making a beeline to the bathroom to wash this makeup—and effectively this night—off my face.
“Sloane.” She knocks on the door, her voice muffled by the wood that separates us.
I take her earrings out and place them next to the toothbrush before turning the faucet to warm and grabbing my face wash. The bottle feels lighter than usual, a sign that Margaux has likely been helping herself.
You’d think after twenty-seven years, I’d be used to her self-centeredness by now, but lately it’s growing more out of control by the second . . . much like her ever-expanding baby bump.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is lower than before, with no hint of a tease in her tone. While there’s no way to know if she’s truly sorry or if she’s simply apologizing so we won’t spend the rest of the weekend avoiding one another is beyond me. “Open the door, please.”
I finish washing up first, taking my time as I dry my face on a fresh hand towel. It wouldn’t kill her to be inconvenienced instead of being the inconvenience-r for a change.
When I’m done applying my nighttime moisturizer and serum, my damp reflection stares back at me in the mirror with heavy eyes, like a live portrait of a woman straddling two lines she never wanted to straddle in the first place.
She’s as dewy as she is conflicted.
“Sloane-nuh,” she says again, this time dragging my name out into two syllables.
“Yes?” I open the door and fold my arms.
“I think it’s sweet that you care about him,” she says. “And I know I’m asking a lot from you.”
She gathers a deep breath as she braces her arm against the doorframe.
“I just . . . I really, really want that promotion.” Her left hand slides over her small belly. “Correction: I need that promotion. Now more than ever.”
Living in one of the most expensive cities in the world, I don’t even want to imagine the cost of childcare—or anything else that comes with raising kids.
Alone, to boot.
But while Margaux has my sympathies, so does Roman.
I can’t imagine how hard it must be for him to put himself out there after suffering the worst kind of loss imaginable . . . only to get his heart broken all over again.
Maybe I shouldn’t flatter myself.
Maybe he’s simply biding his time with me, wetting his whistle, getting his bearings back after being out of the game for so long.
But maybe not.
Because while I’ve tamped down my excitement to nearly undetectable levels in his presence, I can’t help but notice the glint in his eyes or the way he steals a look at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
I also can’t help but notice the electric charge passing through me anytime we touch.
Or the way my stomach somersaults whenever he cracks a rare and elusive dimpled smile.
There was a moment earlier tonight when we were discussing art galleries that my mind flashed to a brief what-if scenario, picturing the two of us together.
Roman and Sloane—not Roman and Designer Imposter Margaux.
My flash-in-the-pan reverie fades in a millisecond when I remind myself that it’ll never be an option for us. I can’t go on pretending I’m my sister indefinitely. And if he ever finds out the truth, he’ll feel betrayed.
