A few minutes later.
B:Ummm... Hello? Why aren’t you texting me back? I tried to end it & she threatened to slit her wrists. So... give me time. I need to let her down easy.
B:You know you’re the one I wanna be with.
A minute later.
Margot:Like I said, figure it out.
B:Trying
Margot:Get rid of her.
Ten minutes later.
B:Leaving now.
B:Where are you?
My mouth has gone dry snooping through her texts. I’m praying that Brad will text back so she won’t be able to tell I’ve checked her phone. I slide it back toward the charging station, exactly where it had been before. I look up and Margot is heading down the hall, walking toward me. I glance back at the phone, willing it to spring to life, but it’s just a blank screen.
I smile at her and she smiles back as she grabs the bottle of wine.
“Let’s finish this, shall we?” she says, stepping closer to me. She’s cast off her cardigan, and as she leans over the counter to refill our glasses, my eyes drift over her breasts, ample and almost bursting out of her low-cut tank top. Butterflies flurry in my stomach as I inch closer to her.
“Sounds like a fine plan,” I manage to say.
As she pours, I risk a stare, looking straight at her. She brings her glass to her lips and, behind it, flashes me a seductive smirk that reaches her eyes.
I take another sip of the wine. Set my glass down. I’m ready to make my move. I stare into her smoky eyes, slide my hand across the counter, inch my hips even closer to her. She’s still staring at me when the blue-white light from her cell flashes on the counter behind us.
She twists around and grabs her phone. Studies the texts. It doesn’t seem like she’s noticed I’ve read them.
A smile creeps across her face. She exhales, then bites her bottom lip, still grinning. She types a message into the cell, sets it down, and looks up at me.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, walking over to the sink and primping her hair in the reflection of the window. “I thought it was going to be just us. But Brad is on the way.” She adjusts her bra and tugs down on her top, exposing even more cleavage.
“That’s fine,” I say, trying not to show how disappointed I am. “I should be getting home anyway.”
I check the time on the microwave: nine forty-five.
Margot walks over to me, places a hand on my wrist. A shiver courses through me.
“Stay,” she says, her mouth open, her lips supple. “It’ll be fun. Promise.” She winks at me and keeps her hand on my wrist.
“Okay,” I say, staring down at the counter and hoping she won’t notice my face blushing.
She slips her hand away and empties the rest of the wine into our glasses, takes a long sip, and then checks her cell again.
She steps into the entryway and gazes out the window, watching for Brad’sheadlights.
32
NEARLY AN HOURlater, Brad steps through the front door. His thick hair is slick with product, and the armpits of his shirt are ringed with sweat. It looks as though he’s been jogging, and he gives off the spicy, pungent smell of a teenage boy’s cologne.
While we were waiting for him to arrive, Margot returned to her earlier state of fidgeting and distraction: running her fingers through her hair, re-glossing her lips with apple-red lipstick, and anxiously checking her cell.
I had parked myself on the sectional, hoping that she’d settle in next to me, but she live-wired through the great room and kitchen, uncorking another bottle of red and pacing between the two rooms.
