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“This is the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to you since Saturday night,” I say. “So, now I guess.”
Margaux crosses her arms, which only makes her growing bump that much more prominent. Or maybe it’s the nonmaternity dress she’s squeezed herself into. I’m convinced she’s in denial, that she thinks she’s going to wake up one morning and it’ll all have been a dream and things can go back to normal. I’m not sure why else she’d be so against maternity clothes or why she’s trying to fight the inevitable. It won’t be long before she’ll look as if she swallowed a basketball, and last I checked, Gucci and Chanel don’t exactly design for that type of silhouette.
If she plans to continue to hide her growing midsection so as not to risk her promotion, she’s going to have to embrace it, to work with it instead of in spite of it. There are things she can do—the way light and dark colors play with the eye and create illusions. I see it all the time at work on canvases. I’d suggest she utilize these techniques with her wardrobe if she were in a more receptive mindset.
Another time, perhaps.
While Margaux stands here shooting daggers my way, I look at this situation from an alternate angle: Margaux has been in the driver’s seat of her life from day one. She’s always had her pick of friends, schools, jobs, boyfriends, and designer wardrobes. She’s always had the luxury of calling all the shots when it came to every life decision.
Deep down, beneath her tear-filled eyes and shaky voice and accusatory tone, is a woman terrified of living a life commandeered by fate.
To a control freak like her, it’s one of the worst things that could happen.
I only pray motherhood softens her a bit.
If it doesn’t . . . lord help us all—and those two sweet babies.
“I like him,” I say. Lightness blankets my chest with those words. The sensation feels so good I say it again. “I really like him.”
It feels even better the second time around, like breathing forbidden words into existence makes them all the more real.
“I heard you the first time,” she says.
“And he likes me.”
“You don’t say . . .” Margaux does nothing to hide her annoyance.
“I have to tell him the truth,” I say, “about everything.”
“You can’t.” She juts her chin out, asserting what little control she has left into this situation. “You’d destroy any chance I have at ever getting a promotion at Lucerne. Theodora would kill me for lying to her. No—she’d fire me in a heartbeat and have me blacklisted from the industry before I finish packing my office.”
“He’s a person,” I say. “A human. With real feelings. This isn’t some game to him. This is his life. I can’t keep stringing him along and then drop him as soon as you land your new job. I’m sorry, Margaux, but I’m going to tell him this week—the next time I see him.”
My sister blinks, staring up at the ceiling as thick, soggy tears slide down her pink cheeks.
“I wish you wouldn’t.” Her words are terse, pointed, and broken, as if she’s staving off a wave of sobs desperate to escape the back of her throat. “Maybe . . . maybe you can just wait a little longer? Hold off until I get my new position? Then I can come clean about the pregnancy, and we can let him down easy. This way everyone wins.”
“Except Roman. He’s still just a pawn in someone else’s game,” I say.
“No one told you to get attached.” She folds her arms before adding, “I hate that he’s falling for you. Not because I’m jealous or because you two aren’t a good match. But because it was never supposed to happen. It wasn’t part of the plan.”
Ah, yes. Margaux’s master plan.
“I’m sorry, but I’m telling him. It’s the right thing to do.” I take a step closer, reaching out to place my hand on her shoulder. Despite the fact that we’ve reached an impasse, she’s still my sister, and I’m still inclined to comfort her.
She jerks away.
Message received loud and clear.
“Look,” I say, placing some distance between us again. “No one could’ve seen this coming. Roman and I both went into that first date on the same page . . . that we weren’t looking for a relationship. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did. And now here we are.”
Margaux swipes at a tear, keeping her gaze trained anywhere but on me.
“You realize you’re choosing a guy—some guy you barely even know—over your own flesh and blood, right?” She tightens her arms across her chest. “And how the hell am I going to afford raising two babies in Manhattan on my current salary?”
“I’m not choosing him over you—I’m choosing my conscience. There’s a difference,” I say. “And we’ll figure out the financial stuff. I’ll help if you need me to.”
