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“It’s good to be back.” I dial Margaux as we head uptown.
“Hey,” she answers on the second ring.
“Hi.”
The line is silent, and for a moment, I check to make sure we’re still connected. I guess I was expecting more of a greeting than a neutral little hey . . .
“Did you get the flowers I sent?” I break the silence.
“I did,” she says after a short pause. “Thank you.”
“And the note?”
“That too,” she says, though there’s no hint of playfulness in her voice that leads me to think she’s excited about the do-over I proposed.
After Ubering home with the chocolate cake in tow, Saturday night I caught what little sleep I could get before spending Sunday with the girls. While I know it’s in good taste to touch base after sleeping together, I was hoping the flowers would hold her over until we could talk again—or at the very least, let her know I was thinking about her.
“When can I see you?” she asks.
That’s more like it . . .
“The girls have piano lessons tonight,” I say. “Tuesday night, I have an after-hours conference call with our Australian office. Wednesday night the girls have dance. We could do Thursday? I could see if Harper’s free to babysit?”
“I can’t do Thursday.” Her voice is laced with disappointment. “Friday?”
“Friday works.” I’d already mentally set my Friday aside for her anyway.
“You want to come to my place? We could just stay in? Do something low key?”
“Actually, there’s a hotel two blocks from me. Sweeping views of Central Park. A Michelin-starred restaurant on the premises. A rooftop bar that serves the best old-fashioneds in all of Manhattan. Twenty-four-hour room service . . .”
I haven’t stayed a single night away from the girls in three years, so knowing that I’d be a mere two blocks away would give me tremendous peace of mind and allow me to fully enjoy all the things I plan to do with this woman . . .
“Not that that doesn’t sound incredible,” she says, “but you don’t have to do all of that for me.”
“I know I don’t have to—I want to.” I feel awful for compartmentalizing the other night, for shifting my attention to anything but her when I should have been holding her in my arms. In retrospect, it was a sick move, and she deserves better than that.
I intend to make it right.
“Honestly, the hotel thing sounds amazing, but I’d prefer if you just came here Friday night,” she says.
The half-cocked smile that framed my lips a second ago flattens.
Something is . . . off . . . here.
“Of course,” I say. “Everything okay?”
“It’s just been a . . . stressful day,” she says, with an apologetic breath.
“Let me know if I need to pull Theodora off you. She tends to work her—”
“—no, no. It’s not her,” Margaux says. “We’ll talk Friday, okay? I have to go . . . I’ve got another call coming in.”
With that, Margaux ends our conversation, and I ride home in silence, ruminating on all the things she didn’t say, wondering if I’ll have the patience to wait four more days before she can finally say them.
I don’t know that I can.
Perhaps I’ll pay her a visit at the office this week.
It’s easier to gauge someone’s reaction face to face, rather than over the phone. If she’s excited to see me, I’ll know right away. And if she isn’t . . .
I don’t want to think about that just yet.
Not if I don’t have to.
The idea of going back to what I was before I met her—a melancholic, uninspired shell of a man—holds zero appeal.
I want Margaux.
I need Margaux.
In the short time I’ve known her, she’s breathed more life into my weary soul than I ever thought possible. At this point, she’s as essential as oxygen.
“Everything okay?” Antonio asks. “Awful quiet back there . . .”
I change the subject. “Yeah. The girls good for you at pickup today?”
“Do you even have to ask that?” He rolls his eyes, chuckling. “You know how I feel about stupid questions.”
I repeat my father’s tired old mantra from a lifetime ago. “No such thing as stupid questions, only stupid answers.”
He snaps his fingers. “Was just going to say that.”
We head uptown to a soundtrack of stop-and-go traffic, yacht-rock radio, and small talk.
But in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking of Margaux.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SLOANE
“Did you hear?” My boss, Brenna Tiernan, rushes up to me the second I arrive at the gallery Tuesday morning. Her red hair is particularly wild today, but behind her emerald-green frames, her baby doll eyes are even wilder.
“No . . . what?” I place my purse into my locker in the employee break room before taking a sip from my coffee cup.
“Halcyon . . . is painting again.” A mile-wide smile takes up the entire lower half of her face. She does a little happy dance, the heels of her signature black Louboutins clicking daintily on our marble floors.
