When we get home, she doesn’t want dinner. She doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t even want help carrying that sad bag of clothing to the guest room.
So, I watch her disappear up the stairs, hoping that a good night’s sleep might fix whatever’s broken inside of her.
5
Margot
It should be awkward to sit across from Ethan on Monday morning. I should feel weird about sitting in the exact chair where I had an emotional breakdown in front of my boss then got so drunk that I had to stay not just one, butthreewhole nights at his house because he’s the closest thing I have to a friend here in Denver at the moment.
I should feel awkward or embarrassed or… something.
Instead, I feel nothing at all. It’s as if all of my competing emotions tripped the emergency shut off switch in my heart, and now I’m just going through the motions of existing.
Friday night was rough, but by Saturday evening, I was actually feeling a little better. Still angry and hurt but not devastated. A glimmer of hope for the future had already started shining through. Just a tiny pinhole of light, but it was something to latch on to. Something to focus on through the darkness.
Then I saw what Jeremy did to my books.
I meant what I said to Ethan last night—it’s not actually about the books. I can replace them. Well, most of them anyway. Somewere signed; others were special editions that will be impossible to find.
Still, it wasn’t seeing all those books shredded on the floor that broke me. It’s imagining Jeremy shredding them all. It’s the fact that he had already hurt me so deeply, but that wasn’t enough for him. I don’t understand why he needed to inflict more pain. Maybe because he didn’t get the reaction he was expecting, or maybe because he realized that he just really enjoyed hurting me.
It doesn’t really matter why though. The end result is the same: I can’t stop blaming myself.
I should’ve known this would happen. I should’ve recognized the signs. There were things that didn’t add up, lies that I might have willingly overlooked. I held onto who Jeremy was rather than admitting who he’d become. My cute, kind of dorky college boyfriend had turned into another shallow, egotistical finance bro, exactly the type of guy we used to make fun of back in school.
Over the years, he’d become cocky and irritable. He blatantly checked out other women in front of me while I pretended not to notice. Things he always said he loved about me became points of contention in our relationship. Why couldn’t I wear contacts instead of glasses? Why was I so sarcastic all the time? Why didn’t I wear something nicer to his company party? (Even though I bought a new dress for the occasion which he seemed to like well enough until he saw all the other guys’ dates in low-cut, form-fitting dresses.)
It's not my fault that Jeremy cheated, but it’s my fault that I didn’t see the writing on the wall. Or in this case, the writing scattered all over my bedroom floor.
It takes me a minute to get out of my head and realize that Ethan has stopped talking. His hazel eyes are fixed on me,searching for something. An answer, maybe. What was the last thing he said?
I glance down at the notes that I’ve been mindlessly scrawling on a notepad in my lap. The last one readsseafood salad.
That’s it.
Just seafood salad.
Did we have that for dinner last night? No, that doesn’t seem right. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything at all in… a day? Maybe longer.
Tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, I keep my eyes cast down and my pen ready as I guess wildly at the meaning of the words. “How much seafood salad do you want me to order?” It’s probably for a lunch meeting or something.
For several long seconds, it’s completely silent. I glance up at Ethan, who’s frowning at me with concern etched all over his face.
“Seafood salad?” he repeats.
Right, of course. There’s no way that Ethan North eats seafood salad, not with a body like his. In fact, I’m pretty sure no one eats seafood salad anymore—with any sort of body.
“Margot,” Ethan says my name gently, “Do you maybe want to take a personal day?”
I shake my head. “No, I need to keep working. I need the distraction.”
Ethan lets out a slow but steady sigh, clearly summoning all of his patience before he speaks. Then he motions to my notepad and asks, “Can I see that real quick?”
I’m not sure why he wants to see my notes, but I slide the small notepad across the desk to him anyway. He studies it for a moment, tongue prodding at the inside of his cheek, then looks up at me.
“Are you sure?” Ethan asks, reaching up to scratch his temple. “Because these notes are, uh… not up to your normal standards.”
When he flips the notepad around and slides it back across the desk, I realize that I’ve written and underlined the wordbusinessat the top of the page, followed by the wordsrevenue,Greg, andseafood salad.