The words hit me straight in the chest. Not like a punch, more like a weird, slow churn that spreads outward. My fingers tighten around the phone, and my mouth goes dry.
“A date,” I repeat. The words sound more like an accusation than I intend.
Another beat of hesitation. “Yeah, just someone I matched with online. He seems nice.”
I should say something—wish her luck, gently tease her, something. But only one word comes to mind:No.
Obviously, I can’t say that. This is what we both agreed to. One night. No strings. No expectations. No complications.
So why does my chest feel like it’s having a major medical complication over this situation? My heart is doing this irritating, uneven thing. I decide it’s a heart attack before finally relenting and calling it what it really is: jealousy. It’s plain, simple, ugly jealousy that’s twisting my chest into knots. The emotion is as unfamiliar as it is unwelcome.
I wonder who this guy is. Where he’s taking her. If he’ll touch her the way that I did. If she’ll let him…
“Right. Well. I hope that goes… well.” My tone is oddly combative with an inexplicable British accent that comes out of nowhere. I’ve never even been to England.
“Are you okay?” Margot asks after a few seconds.
“Of course.”
Damn. British again. What the hell is wrong with me?
Margot’s voice is quieter than usual when she speaks again. I can picture her sitting at her desk, dropping her head slightly and cupping her hand around the receiver to muffle her words from the rest of the office. I wonder what she’s wearing today. If her hair is up in a bun or loose around her shoulders.
“Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. You just caught me off guard with the hot date comment, and we agreed—”
“Margot, it’s fine,” I reassure her. “You don’t owe me an apology or an explanation.”
“Okay,” she says slowly, her voice tense. “I’ll go check on the design group and ask Stacia to call you.”
“Thanks. Have fun tonight.”
She hesitates. “Okay, I will.”
We hang up. Try as I might to mean the words I just said, there’s still just one word stuck in my throat. Actually, two words:abso-fucking-lutely not.
21
Margot
Istir my drink for the third time, watching the lime wedge do slow laps through the ice.
Across the table, Tyler is explaining his fantasy football league in painstaking detail. I’m so beyond lost that I don’t even know what questions to ask. I nod or smile whenever it feels appropriate, but mostly I’m just trying to keep my expression from going completely blank.
More importantly, I’m trying to keep my mind from wandering back to Ethan. It’s not an easy task, but it’s a very necessary one. And truthfully, it’s the only reason I’m on this date tonight.
One glance at Tyler’s profile told me that we have absolutely nothing in common. The three hobbies he listed were football, going to the gym, and chilling. I’m clueless about two of those things and skeptical that the third actually qualifies as a hobby. But he seemed nice enough. His messages were polite and included full, intelligible sentences—a rarity on dating apps, I’ve learned.
“So, that’s pretty much my draft strategy,” he concludes, taking a sip of his IPA.
“Oh, that’s…”a lot of words I didn’t understand“… interesting.”
He grimaces. “Sorry, I tend to talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“Well, I tend to talk too little when I’m nervous, so I guess we’re a good match.”
This, of course, is not true. Luckily, Tyler flashes a strained smile across the table that assures me he is also aware that this is not a love connection. But I don’t really need a love connection at the moment; I need a distraction.
As predicted, my heart has been all tangled up with unwanted emotions ever since Ethan and I slept together. It doesn’t matter how much I try to remind myself that he was just doing me a favor, much like picking up lunch or lending me a phone charger. I don’t want things to be weird between us now, and I certainly don’t want Ethan to think he made a mistake. I need to prove to him—and to myself—that I’m perfectly capable of moving on.