“Do I now?” Jealousy bubbled up inside me, which was ironic considering Margo was a married woman.
“Ha.” She chuckled. “He’s a widower, nothing to be worried about, other than he has no clue what to do with a tween girl.”
“That makes two of us,” I joked, and Margo’s smile vanished.
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “But Priss is my world.”
“As she should be. I don’t ever want to take that away from you. Not ever.”
Her smile reappeared, and she talked a little more about this Dale character needing help with TikTok. I tried to follow along, but truthfully, other than LinkedIn, I didn’t do much social media.
Our server arrived with some food, and Margo looked confused.
“I ordered us the tasting menu,” I told her. “So we could talk more and worry less about what we were eating. Is that okay?”
Suddenly, I felt like an oaf. Margo didn’t need someone making decisions for her.
“Sounds great,” she said, rolling with it.
“It’s basically a little of everything on the menu,” the server said and left us to eat.
Margo reached across the table to pick up an edamame, looking happy with the selection so far. “You know, Priscilla was very taken with you. She commented that we could be happy like you.” Keeping her gaze on the table, she seemed ashamed to admit how much this pained her.
“I don’t know much about teen girls, but I do know about the situation Priscilla’s in, and I’m sure she knows more than she’s let on. She’s going to be okay.”
“I hope.”
For the rest of the evening, we didn’t discuss heavy stuff. We laughed and lingered over a lot of sushi. I learned a shrimp tempura roll was a weakness for Margo, and we ordered an extra roll.
She stuck to her one glass of wine, opting for a Pellegrino afterward, and I didn’t pressure her. It wasn’t an act. Despite falling for a married woman, I was a good guy.
At a few minutes after nine, Margo said she had to head home.
“Of course,” I told her, handing my Amex to the server.
After I settled the bill, we stood, and I couldn’t help my hand grazing her lower back as we walked out of the restaurant. I wanted to touch her a lot more.
Outside, waiting for her car to be brought around, it couldn’t be helped when I leaned in and whispered, “Fuck, I want to kiss you.”
It was the slightest gesture, but Margo leaned into me, whispering back, “Next time,” as her Volvo appeared.
I rushed to hold the door for her myself. After tipping the valet, I told her, “Text me when you’re home safely.”
Margo nodded. “Thank you. This was a lot of fun. A perfect night.”
Then she drove off to her house she shared with her abusive husband and daughter, and I wondered what the hell I was getting involved in.
Mick
Iwasn’t expecting to hear from Margo after sushi.
Although I’d laid it out there, I expected her feelings would continue to shrivel and close in on themselves. She was a scared bird sharing a house with an angry fox.
But none of this meant my near constant thinking about her came to a stop. The day afterward, I texted her.
That was fun. Thank you.
She didn’t respond for a few hours, which didn’t bother me like it would a younger guy. I was knee deep in the restaurant negotiation. I’d fallen for the broken-down Italian chain Jamie sold me on, or maybe it was his stories of his twins and the pig that won me over. I didn’t know much anymore.
