The sun-soaked dining room filled with women of all ages, sitting at long tables adorned with pink and yellow tulip bouquets. Margot sumptuously dressed in a white sundress dotted with red poppies, her expression exuding an air of boredom.
The comments section was ripe with the usual:
Fun, fun, fun!
Lovely day, Ladies!
And also sprinkled with some religious comments:
We serve an awesome God!
He is risen!
Then Margot’s:
Yes, fun. But if one more person in this godforsaken town tells me to have a blessed day, I’m going to commit ritual suicide.
I nearly spit my wine out reading that, I laughed so hard.
This very thing had actually become an in-joke between me and Graham. “And how many times wereyoublessed today?” he began to ask me shortly after we moved here.
“Was it this rabidly religious when you lived here before?” he asked me.
No, no it was not. It seemed that in the past twenty years, the town had gone full-tilt-boogie fanatical. Jesus signs in front yards. Perfect strangers inviting us to their Sunday church services under the guise of “being led by the Lord to ask” us.
So when I read Margot’s comment, she felt simpatico.
I found myself looking forward to checking Facebook to try and catch posts she was tagged in. And thinking about her more and more, wondering about her life, which seemed so much bigger than my own. And yes, digging her name out of the phone book and locating her house. It wasn’t envy, though; I didn’t want to be her.
It was so much more than that. I wanted to benearher. For her to notice me, too. The idea of it took my breath away. It became powerful and even consuming.
7
Saturday, March 17, 2018
WE’RE BACK HOMEnow and I’m carrying an almost-asleep Jack to his bedroom, his warm face lolling on my shoulder, his thumb plugged into his mouth.
We’ve been at Erin’s all afternoon for a barbecue for Saint Paddy’s Day. Just the six of us: Erin, Ryan, and Mattie; Jack, Graham, and me.
Mattie is two years older than Jack—but they get along great and Jack doesn’t mind Mattie bossing him around, fussing over him. I think he craves the attention. They chased each other around the backyard while burgers sizzled on the grill. Graham and Ryan sipped craft beers while Erin and I shared a bottle of prosecco.
Their house is a funky 1960s ranch, all endless dark-paneled halls and a sunken living room, the windows lined with pots of houseplants in varying stages of germination.
I love it. Precisely because of its unhipness. It’s refreshing, relaxing.
As the men talked sports and Jack and Mattie started a water gun fight, Erin and I stumbled into the house to refresh our wine. I was leaning againsther linoleum counter in the kitchen, admiring the collage of photos on the wall, when I saw a flyer pinned to her fridge.
MINT JULEPS FOR THE MUSEUM
A Garden Party
Hosted by Mr. and Mrs. Roger Banks
Tuesday, March 20th, 6:30 p.m. at their estate
710 Castle Hill
“What’s this?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. There was no way, of course, I was going to tell her about my ridiculous online crush on Margot.
