“See you soon?” I ask, with more pleading in my voice than I had intended.
“Sure, see you around,” she says briskly, with a shallow smile.
19
JACK IS SLOSHINGwater over the sides of the bathtub, slapping the surface of it and drenching Graham in the process.
I’m down the hall in my office nook, perched behind my laptop, but I can hear the clopping sounds of water and Jack and Graham’s bright giggles.
I’m nursing a glass of merlot, taking small, peppery sips and watching the sunset flame behind the row of pines in our backyard. I tap the mouse, bring up Facebook.
I’m just starting to scroll through my news feed when Graham, towel in hand, ducks his head in the door.
“Want to help with bedtime? He’s almost finished with his bath.”
“Gimme a minute,” I snap, a bite to my voice. “I’m paying bills,” I lie.
He slinks down the hall. I feel guilty and should hop up and apologize, but I resume scrolling.
It’s one of the first posts I see. From Margot.
Happy hour is the best hour!
And along with her status update is a photograph of the four of them: Margot in a flouncy blouse with short shorts; Tina right beside her, all grins and twinkling eyes, grasping her wineglass; Jill leaning against a barstool, her arms folded across her waist; and Callie with her hand parked on a hip, sneering at the camera. In triumph at me, I think.
A pit forms in my stomach, like an expanding pancake, and to my surprise, hot tears prick my eyes. I’m obviously out. I must be. Done and finished already as a member of the Hunting Wives. After only one week. I feel stung and a little betrayed by Tina, who seemed so genuinely nice. I grab my phone and hammer out a brief text to her.
Had so much fun the other night. Just curious (and I know this might sound a tad ridiculous) but I have to ask: did Margot seem peeved the other night because I left Rusty’s early?
The Facebook post is from an hour ago. Tina might still be with them but I can’t help myself.
A moment passes and I’m mindlessly scrolling through the rest of my news feed when my phone chimes.
I wouldn’t worry about it. If she was, she’ll get over it eventually.
I guzzle the rest of my wine, twirling the stem of the glass between my thumb and middle finger. So, Margotisupset. Tina, the diplomat, dodged my question outright but in doing so, also answered it.
The room is now dark and I sit in the sickly glow of my laptop, my vision softening around the corners from the wine. I snap my laptop shut, pad down the hall, and slink into our bedroom. Graham is turned on his side, away from me. He’s reading over his latest bid, his face crimped with focus, and I creak into bed and hug a pillow to my stomach.
I don’t like feeling this way. This pinched state of agony waiting to hear back from Margot. I don’t like what it’s doing to me. When, for instance, did Ibecome a shrew who snaps at her kind husband? I need Rox here to slap some sense into me.
I stare at the wall. My eyes follow the groove of crown molding near the ceiling, and I hear Erin’s voice in my head from the night of the garden party:Be careful. Margot Banks is not a nice person.
Erin. Sweet and uncomplicated Erin.
I slide my phone off the nightstand, text her.
Dinner Friday night? Our place or yours. Up to you if you’re interested! I’ll roast a lamb with rosemary from the garden and roll out the Slip ‘N Slide for the kiddos.
I power my cell back off without waiting for a reply and curl myself around the pillow again. Tomorrow, I’ll get the rest of the plants in the ground, including some transplants from Erin’s garden. She’s all into the food-as-medicine thing and has given me some dandelion greens (supposed to cleanse the liver) and some Chinese sweet potatoes (the leaves taste like spinach but don’t leave that slimy film over your teeth).
I’ll write a blog post, snap some more photos of the garden, make a chicken potpie for dinner with a crust made from scratch.
Slinging a foot over Graham’s warm leg, I feel myself drifting off tosleep.
20
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
