Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Totally. Although I have to admit, I’m more of an indoor girl myself these days, even when I run. New York winters must’ve turned me off to the great outdoors or something.”
I nod, setting my empty glass on the bar. “Nothing wrong with that. When I’m in New York I try to spend as much time as possible indoors. Mostly in restaurants, because I love to eat.”
“You’re a foodie, then.”
My chest lifts at the possibility we’ve finally hit on something we have in common. “Big time, yeah. You?”
“Not really.” She laughs again. “But I do enjoy a good cocktail.”
“Me too. Although my biggest vice is my sweet tooth. Only place that seems to satisfy it is this little bakery in my building uptown. You should try it—it’s called Drury Lane.”
And continually thinking and/or talking about a girl who’s completely off-limits is called stupid. I was always book smart, but common sense never was my strong suit.
“I actually gave up sugar last year. Hence the tequila soda.” She holds up her drink. “Apparently tequila is the alcohol with the least amount of sugar.”
What would Greer say to that? She’d probably laugh. Say something like sugar is life!
“Wow,” I reply, doing my best to shove these fucking thoughts about Greer aside. “Good for you.”
“Wasn’t easy, but I feel so much better. So much lighter, you know?”
“I bet.”
Silence swells between us as we sip our respective drinks. Margaux is still nursing her first cocktail. I switched to water.
Should I bring up Lizzie? Or is that too heavy for first-date conversation?
Who the fuck knows.
“I’m sorry I’m so painful,” I blurt. “Guess I’m a little rusty.”
“Rusty?”
“Yeah. I haven’t been on a date in . . . a really long time.”
She lets out a relieved breath and smiles. “Phew. I thought it was just me. I haven’t been on a date in a while either—I feel like I’m the one who’s painful. Should we start over?”
“Yeah.” I meet her eyes. “Yeah, I like the sound of that.”
“Hi, Brooks.”
“Hi, Margaux. How’s Charlotte treating you?”
She searches my gaze. “Better now. What have I missed since I’ve been gone?”
The rest of the date actually goes pretty smoothly. We order fish. Salmon for me, tuna for her. We catch up on a little of everything. Our parents (hers bought a beach house in Litchfield). Our high school classmates (her best friend recently had her second boy). Our jobs (we both like them, despite being in stressful seats).
Mom calls me as I’m paying the bill. I send it to voicemail.
Margaux gives me another hug in the parking lot. This one is less awkward. She tells me to call her, and I say I will.
“By the way.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t sure how to bring this up, but I’m really sorry about Lizzie. I miss her.”
Sliding a hand into my front pocket, I manage a tight smile. “Thanks for that. I miss her too.”
“Until next time, then.”
“Until next time.”
I wait until she’s in her car to climb into my own. I wouldn’t say sparks flew tonight, but I enjoyed her company. It did feel good to use muscles I haven’t in a while. Any other night, I’m the guy at the bar who’s looking to get laid. Tonight, I was the charming date. Tried to be, anyway. From the way Margaux let our hug linger a beat too long, I’d say I wasn’t a total disaster.
On the drive home, I call Mom.
“Hey, honey! I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
The hope in her voice makes my stomach hurt. “Nope. Just heading back uptown.”
“How’d it go with Margaux? Your dad said y’all were meeting at Bricktop.”
“It went all right.” I make a left onto Providence Road. “It was good to catch up.”
“Oh, she was such a sweetheart back in high school. I’m so glad you were able to get together.”
“Me too.”
A beat. “Did y’all talk about Lizzie at all?”
Unlike Dad, Mom does bring up my sister. Not much, granted. Not enough. But to be fair, both Mom and Dad grew up in families that didn’t acknowledge feelings, much less talk about them.
At least Mom has sought out help. I know she’s been in therapy because she encouraged me to go too.
Pretty sure Dad never made that leap. I’m not surprised.
“We did, yeah.” I run a hand over my face. “I like that she didn’t avoid the subject. Would’ve been easier for her, you know?”
“I know. Are you all right, honey?”
“This time of year—it just sucks, Mom.”
“I know,” Mom repeats, quieter this time. “I’m sorry. I really am. I wish . . .”
A beat of horrible silence.
My chest tightens. Mom is probably thinking about what I am right now. What might’ve been if Lizzie hadn’t died. What she’d be doing. Who she’d be with. All the things she missed out on by leaving us so young.