Angela Cline commented on your post.
Same post.Love this little man.
But it was the third notification that drew heat to my face, made my heart flutter.
You are now friends with Margot Banks.
Margot Banks. She of the famed Banks family in East Texas. Oil money dripping out of their ears and pouring back for generations.
Last week, I finally caved and sent Margot a friend request after a few months of trolling her pics on Facebook. Her profile is set to private, but I would click through photos of her—pics she was tagged in by our mutual friends, like Erin, for instance—and find myself entranced.
I took a sip of my latte and felt the warmth spread through my chest; now that we were friends, I began scrolling through her photos.
There was Margot at an upscale restaurant, raven hair perfectly coiffed. Cut just above the chin line. She’s leaning back in the booth, slender legs toned and scissor-crossed. Her candy-apple-red lips are slightly parted, as if in invitation. Heavy-lidded, smoky-gray eyes with a hint of smirk in them. Bedroom eyes, as Graham would call them.
I clicked on another photo: Margot draped in a glittering red evening gown. At a charity ball or some such event for the Junior League, no doubt. She’s backlit. Her chiseled shoulders are bare, her olive skin flawless. She wears the same smirk, as if mocking the camera.
Next, I hopped over to her updates, scrolled through her posts. Landed on one dated from last Tuesday, from the local wine bar. The post read:Tuesday happy hour at Chino’s—SO fun.I scrolled farther back and saw a similar post from the previous Tuesday, took out my phone, and texted Erin:
Up for happy hour tonight?
A second hadn’t even passed and she was already typing back. Erin, always there, solid and dependable and as eager as a teenage boy on prom night.
Woo-hoo! YESSSS.
Her response was followed by a champagne glasses emoji. I typed back the thumbs-up, which usually wraps up her text-a-thons.
—
I SWIPED BACKto Margot’s photos, clicked on yet another one. Margot on her front lawn wearing a black wrap dress, her arms draped around two children who look as if they’ve stepped from a Renoir painting.
My eyes were drawn to her plunging neckline with a pinch of cleavage. A single diamond dangled from a chain and rested just above her breasts. I zoomed in and, to my absolute horror, Facebook asked me,Who do you want to tag?
I panicked and closed out. I felt like I’d been caught watching a dirty movie. The latte screamed in my bladder, and I stood and went to the bathroom and checked the time. I realized an hour had passed.
I’M WELL INTOmy second glass by the time Erin arrives, dressed in frumpy browns and blacks, harried and disheveled, a bead of sweat licking her hairline.
“Sorry I’m late!” She sinks into a chair and swings her mom-bag down next to her. She’s wearing clunky sandals, and suddenly I’m a bit embarrassed to be seen with her. But it’s better than being alone. Plus, I like Erin. Truly. She’s reliably cheery with a toothy grin and childlike energy. And I hate myself for thinking like this, for judging Erin this way, but a decade spent in the lifestylemagazine business has me hardwired toward shallowness. It’s something I’m keen to shake off, to leave behind me.
The waiter saunters over to take our order.
“Split a bottle?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am!” Erin beams.
We order chardonnay, the brand they have on special for happy hour, and Erin launches into a ragged monologue.
“I SO needed this! Mattie was a complete tyrant today,” she says, tucking a lock of cowlicked hair behind an ear. Mattie—short for Matilda—is Erin’s five-year-old daughter, and she’s a spitfire, an adorable brunette with ringlets of hair framing her face. I love her.
“She started in on me this morning with wanting to wear a miniskirt—and you know that’s not gonna happen—and she was so keyed up by the time we hit school that I wanted to stab my eye out with a butter knife!”
Erin serves on the board for a bunch of civic stuff—the children’s museum, the local library—and her husband, a teddy-bear type, works from home building websites. Erin’s able to stay at home, too, doing volunteer work and raising Mattie.
The waiter stops by and refreshes our glasses. Erin is becoming more animated with each glass of wine and drones on and on. I nod in the correct places, but find myself unable to listen. I keep eyeing the street for Margot, slyly checking my Facebook feed on my phone.
Before I know it, though, more than an hour has passed and the night sky is turning to ink all around us. There’s no sign of Margot and I’m more disappointed than I should be.
One
