my summer and then signed the letter 'Warmly, Margot,' a closing that, oddly enough, seemed more cool and sophisticated than warm. I had only ever signed letters with 'Love' or 'Sincerely' but made a mental note to try 'Warmly' on for size. It would be the first of many things I'd copy from Margot.
I worked up the courage to phone her the next afternoon, clutching a pen and pad in my hand to be sure I didn't miss anything, such as a suggestion that we coordinate our toiletries-keep
The phone rang twice and then a male voice said hello. I assumed it was Margot's father, or perhaps it was the gardener in for a tall glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. In my most proper telephone voice, I asked to speak to Margot.
'She's over at the club, playing tennis,' he replied.
'May I take a message?' he asked. His Southern accent was subtle, only revealing itself in his
I hesitated, stumbled slightly, and then shyly introduced myself as Margot's roommate-to-be.
'Oh, hey there! This is Andy. Margot's brother.'
And there it was.
Andy went on to say that he went to Vanderbilt, but that his best friend from home was going to be a senior at Wake Forest, and he and his buddies would be sure to show us the ropes, share their insight about professors and sororities, keep us out of trouble, and 'all that good stuff.'
I thanked him, feeling myself ease somewhat.
'No problem,' Andy said. And then, 'So Margot's going to be excited to hear from you. I know she wanted to discuss bedspreads or curtains or something… I sure hope you like the color pink.'
I replied with an earnest, 'Oh.
It was a fib that would be recounted for years to come, even working its way into Andy's toast to me at our rehearsal dinner, much to the delight of Margot and our closest friends, all of whom knew that although I had my feminine side, I was far from a girly-girl.
'Well.
I smiled and thought, no matter what else unfolded with Margot, she had a very nice brother.
As it turned out, I was right about both Andy
Our backgrounds, too, couldn't be more different. Margot lived in a huge, beautiful home on several acres of gorgeous, tree-lined property in the wealthiest part of Atlanta-an estate by any measure. I grew up in a small ranch with Brady Bunch-orange kitchen counters in a blue-collar part of Pittsburgh. Margot's father was a prominent attorney who also served on the board of several companies. My dad was a salesman-selling unglamorous goods like those projectors for mind-numbingly boring filmstrips that lazy teachers made you watch in elementary school. Margot's mother was a former beauty queen from Charleston, with a Babe Paley-esque fashion sensibility and fine, elegant bones. Mine had been a no-nonsense junior-high pre-algebra teacher before she died of lung cancer, even though she had never smoked, the day before my thirteenth birthday.
Margot had two older brothers, both of whom adored her. Her family was the Southern WASP equivalent of the Kennedys, playing touch football on the beach at Sea Island, taking ski trips every winter, and spending occasional Christmases in Europe. My sister and I spent our vacations at the Jersey Shore with our grandparents. We didn't own passports, had never been out of the country, and had only been on an airplane once.
Margot was a cheerleader and former debutante, brimming with the brand of confidence that belongs to wealthy, well-traveled WASPs. I was reserved, slightly neurotic, and despite my strong desire to belong, far more comfortable on the sidelines of things.
Yet despite our differences, we became best friends. And then, years later, in what would make a perfect documentary-style couch story, I fell in love with her brother. The one I just
But a lot of things had to happen before I married Andy and after that letter from Margot arrived in the mail. A
three
Where are you now?' Leo asks.
I inhale sharply as I consider my answer. For one beat I think he means the question in a philosophical sense-
But as I start to say some of this, I realize what Leo is actually asking me. He means
The question rattles me in the same way you feel rattled when someone asks you how much you weigh or how much money you make or any other personal, probing question you'd strongly prefer not to answer. But, in refusing to answer it outright, you're afraid you'll look defensive or rude. Later, of course, you replay the exchange and think of the perfect, politely evasive response.
But, there in the moment, I always clumsily blurt out the answer. My true weight. My salary down to the dollar. Or, in this case, the name of the diner where I am having coffee on a cold, rainy day.
Still, Leo answers quickly, knowingly. 'Right,' he says, as if this diner had been a special hangout of ours. Or, worse, as if I were just
Sure enough, Leo says, 'Good. I'm coming over. Don't move.' Then he hangs up before I can respond. I flip my phone shut and panic. My first instinct is to simply get up and walk out. But I command myself not to be a coward. I can handle seeing him again. I am a mature, stable,
So instead I set about eating my bagel. It is tasteless-only texture-but I keep chewing and swallowing, remembering to sip my coffee along the way. I do not allow myself another glance in the mirror. I will not apply a fresh coat of lip gloss or even check my teeth for food. Let there be a poppy seed wedged between my front teeth. I