“You are?” Lucy asked, spinning out from under her sister’s arm to look at Margot. “Why?” For whatever reason, even in her drunken state, Margot’s opinion mattered a lot to Lucy.
Margot shrugged at Lucy’s surprise. “You seem the type.”
Lucy was immediately offended, despite believing there was nothing wrong with wanting to take your husband’s name...even if she didn’t want to. But Margot’s words stung.You seem the type?Was that a diss or a compliment? Maybe she saw Lucy as confident enough in who she was for it not to matter if she gave up her maiden name.
Jenny murmured something about how she would for sure take her husband’s name, because her last name hadn’t been the easiest to live with.
Alex snort-laughed and said, “I don’t know. ‘Jenny Dickie’ has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
But Lucy decided she was too drunk to sort out what Margot meant, so better to come right out and ask. “The type?” she finally said, turning to Margot. “What does that even mean?”
Margot pushed off the wall, then came to stand right in front of her. “It means nothing. Don’t get worked up, okay?” Then with only a few inches between them, she leaned in and gave Lucy a quick kiss, right on the lips. The move erased any response Lucy might have given, and she found herself slightly breathless. “I should have saidhe’sthe type,” Margot added, smirking.
Daniel’s the type? The type to what? Want his wife to take his family’s name?
They had discussed it, the whole last name thing, after Daniel proposed. And while he admitted he would have preferred them to share a surname, he was fine with whatever she wanted to do. Lucy was about to announce all of this, felt the need to defend Daniel and her feminism, but by the time she pulled herself together, Margot was already walking back toward the stairs. “Come on, ladies. We’re out of booze, and therefore possibilities, up here.”
They stumbled behind her, Lucy touching her lips as she did, which were still slightly tacky from Margot’s gloss. A few shots of tequila later Lucy had forgotten the conversation—and the three or so hours following it—entirely. Until the next day, when she and Jenny nursed hangovers with plates of waffles and rehashed Margot’s comment. Lucy let Jenny reassure her she and Daniel were not “predictable” and Margot clearly had no idea what she was talking about.
“Maybe I will take his last name,” Lucy said defiantly, cutting her waffle with more gusto than was required.
“Maybe you will.” Jenny pursed her lips and pointed her fork Lucy’s way, matching her tone.
“I can still be a feminist and take my husband’s name.”
“Damn right you can,” Jenny said.
Lucy put down her fork. “Lucy London.” She repeated it a few more times. “Not bad, right?”
“Not bad at all,” Jenny said. “But I’m probably not the one to ask.Jenny Dickie, remember?”
They laughed so hard that Lucy, who had unfortunately just taken a bite of her breakfast, spit the piece of her waffle right into Jenny’s face, which only made them laugh even harder. Then Lucy went home and told Daniel she was going to take his name, after all.
12
It was Saturday morning—the day after I learned about Daniel—and I had vowed to move on. Yes, I still felt married. But I wasn’t and so refused to indulge any more in the fantasy because Matt deserved better.Ideserved better.
When Jenny told me Daniel had married Margot, I initially felt like one does on a roller coaster when the safety bar slams into your chest on a particularly tight drop. It hurt, a lot, and took my breath away. By the time Jenny finally left my place, after I assured her I was okay and made her promise not to call Matt like she wanted to, I was bone tired and unable to keep up the pretense everything was fine. So I locked myself in the bedroom with a bottle of water and one of Matt’s protein bars and refused to come out. It was juvenile and far too dramatic of a reaction, but I needed to be alone.
I scared Matt enough with my refusal to open the door that he called my parents to come over, and the three of them pleaded with me to let them in. Mom said she was making us a pot of tea, and would I come out to have a cup and chat? I’d shouted at her then, “I do not want a cup of tea, Mom! Stop it with all the goddamn tea, okay?” and then felt terrible when I heard her say to Dad she was going to go put the kettle on regardless, in a shaky voice I wasn’t used to hearing from my mother.
They all thought I locked myself in the bedroom because I was upset about Daniel and Margot (Jenny had folded with guilt, told Matt what happened at Bobbette & Belle), and Iwasupset, but that wasn’t all of it. I also felt betrayed by Matt, Jenny, my family, because they’d decided they knew better than me about what I could or could not handle. And in a way I was also embarrassed—mortified actually—to be the last one to know.
Eventually I calmed down and fell asleep. And the next morning I unlocked the door and joined the living again. My parents had gone back home at some point in the night and Matt was asleep on the couch, still in his work clothes with his phone lying on his chest. I tiptoed to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, then sat on the coffee table across from him and shook his arm gently.
He stirred, cracked open an eye. Then he bolted upright, his hair a disheveled mess and his button-down shirt twisted and crumpled. “What time is it?”
“Early,” I replied. “About seven.”
He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at me. “You okay?”
I nodded, ready for the inevitable conversation where we’d apologize to one another (me for my theatrical reaction, him for not telling me what he knew about Daniel and Margot), and he would take responsibility for making sure I was okay and I would let him.
But instead he said, “That stunt last night? That was bullshit, Lucy.” He wasn’t concerned about making this easier for me; he wasmad. Then he stood and stretched, yawning wide as he did. “I’m having a shower and then we’re going out. Wear something warm.”
* * *
We walked in silence to our car—a VW Golf with bike racks I had no memory of owning—and aside from him saying, “Running shoes,” when I asked what I should wear on my feet, Matt didn’t even attempt to engage me in conversation. I didn’t try, either, unsettled by this dynamic between us and having no idea where we were going or what to expect once we got there. Eventually he would have to speak to me, but I wasn’t sure what he would say when he did. I considered this might be the beginning of the end. I had pushed him too far, and the idea made me unexpectedly sad. I wasn’t prepared to let go of Matt, even if it might be best for both of us. But what he wanted was out of my control, which was a sobering realization.
