My phone rang with an unidentified number, and I debated answering. It was around seven at night in the middle of the workweek, which was still considered to be working hours in my life.
Despite being in the middle of answering several work emails, I was trying to get in a few sets of pushups on my living room carpet. I picked up the phone because maybe it was an offer on the building I was trying to sell. I had a warehouse I’d acquired in one of my dealings that I was trying to unload.
“Hello? Grantham here,” I said.
“Hi, Mr. Grantham. It’s John Wiley. John, at the Oak Bar,” the poor kid said, stumbling over his words. “Wesley’s buddy.”
“I know. What’s shaking?” I said, trying to calm poor John’s worries.
“You told Wes to give you a ring if we ever saw the pretty lady around town. Said she was going through a tough time. She’s here.”
I started pacing in front of my window, ignoring the lights twinkling in the distance as I ran through worst-case scenarios of all the possibilities of what the fuck could actually be happening.
I’d just had a drink two nights before with Paul from the office at the Oak. Wes had asked me where my new lady was, and I’d said, “She’s at home.” I’d thought about saying more, but only added, “Life isn’t easy for her.”
An unspoken current ran between us. Without words, he let me know he’d seen her wedding band—maybe it was the tiny glint in his eye. Plus, he was a bartender, for God’s sake. They saw everything in their job, and were more accurate than a therapist.
“Like I said,” I’d told Wes, “things are tough for her. If you ever see her out when you’re working, or even when you’re out on your own, let me know.”
I couldn’t really identify why, but I felt like the shitstorm Margo lived in was going to blow up into an F4 tornado. She’d insisted she was making progress, but I didn’t believe it.
In the end, I knew there would be some aimless seeking of relief. I remembered my mom hitting the dating scene hard, like it was a full-time job and she was gunning for an end-of-year bonus. It was as if she’d been a captive cat who’d been let loose and went wild on the town, feasting on garbage and scraps. Predictably, that’s exactly the type of men she met. Scraps. And that wasnotfucking going to be the case with Margo.
Now, if I was hearing correctly, the woman I was irrationally falling for was at the same bar we’d shared two separate evenings at, and she didn’t let me know she was going. Visions of what might be happening skirted across my mind, none of them good.
“She’s pretty lit up, has some guy falling all over her ...”
“What did you say, John?” I’d been so caught up in my own damn head, I had to ask him to repeat himself.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bug you. She’s just pretty lit up, and some guy—”
“No, no. You’re not bugging me. I’m on my way. Make sure she stays there and doesn’t go anywhere with that prick. Christ, make sure she doesn’t even go to the bathroom,” I said quickly and then hung up.
Snatching my sweater from the couch, I pulled it over my head and grabbed my keys. Not bothering with the elevator, I took the stairs to the garage, trying to pound out the anger burning through me.
A rush of colder air smacked me in the face when I burst into the garage. While it had a welcome calming effect on the dark mood flooding my veins, I reminded myself I had a coat in the car, and put it on before I got in.
Why do I care?I predicted a blowout when I got to the bar that would ripple out onto the sidewalk.
I stormed into the Oak from the side door. I’d parked out front, but rather than walk through the lobby of the hotel, seething and snarling, I took the moment to walk around the outside of the building to clear my head.
As soon as Margo spotted me, she squeaked out, “Mick.”
“Margaret,” I said curtly.
The sad look that filled her eyes told me she noted that I didn’t use her nickname. I was too mad at her to be my usual self, full of intimacies and cute greetings, but also cautiously optimistic that nothing horrible had happened.
After taking in the scene, I stared at Margo and waited for her to say something, knowing full well my feelings for her were over-the-top, and my reaction to this unwarranted.
“Pardon me,” the guy hitting on her had the nerve to say.
Well, he could just shut right the fuck up.
“Pardon yourself,” I spat out, throwing his words back at him.
Then I couldn’t help myself. Staring him down, I asked, “You in the business of picking up taken women?” With my back to Margo, I watched him reach for his credit card and slap it on the bar.
Good boy, I thought, and then he had to go and ruin the moment.
