Man Candy (25 page)

I slept alone that night.

TWENTY-THREE

QUINN

MY CONDO WAS READY. I hadn’t

said anything to Jaime over Valentine’s

weekend, and then it had been so intense

the following weeks, sleeping together

almost every night, that I hadn’t even

thought
about moving out. I told myself

that I was paid up through the end of

February and could take my time moving

to the new place, but when a week went

by and I still hadn’t even called the

movers, I admitted to myself what was

happening.

I was in love with her, and I was

scared to break the spell.

It was like something magical had

happened on Valentine’s Day, and I’m

not just talking about her finger in my

ass.

I mean like
real
magic.

Suddenly she was opening up to me

about her feelings, inviting me to stay the

night, letting me hold her closer, tighter,

longer. Without words, she was telling

me that I made her happy, that she trusted

me, that she cared for me. Sometimes I

even felt like she was on the verge of

telling me she loved me—and I knew I’d

almost said it to her a bunch of times.

But neither of us ever went through with

it.

Just another game of chicken.

But all day, every day, all I thought

about was her—wondering what she

was doing, remembering things from the

night before, anticipating when I’d see

her next, thinking of things I wanted to

do with her, show to her, say to her. It

was almost ridiculous—I felt like a

twelve year old with his first crush. I

couldn’t get enough of her.

Occasionally I felt her pull back

slightly, nights where she left my bed

and went to sleep in her own, times

when she slipped out of my arms when I

would’ve kept holding her, but I

understood her need to keep some

personal space, maintain some distance.

It made her feel safe, in control of her

feelings. And those instances were the

exception, not the rule.

She wanted to be with me more often

now, even if it was just sitting next to me

on the couch while she worked. When an

unusually warm day caused a big

snowmelt, she wanted to take a walk and

even held my hand part of the time. She

listened to me blather on about what

courses to take next term, debate

whether I’d make a good teacher (she

thought I would make a great one), and

fret about what the smartest investments

would be for my savings if I went in that

direction, since it meant I’d never make

the kind of money I’d made modeling.

“Who cares?” she’d said. “You

should do what you’re passionate about,

not what makes the most money.”

I knew she was right, but I was also

trying to think ahead, and Jaime was a

woman who focused on the present. I

had to think about the reality of living,

and hopefully supporting a family, on a

teacher’s salary, unless I kept a hand in

modeling part-time, which would mean

less free time and more traveling. I had

to give it some thought.

And like it or not, I had to move out

of Jaime’s house.

Yesterday, I’d called the movers and

arranged for them to get my furniture out

of storage and deliver it to my new place

on Tuesday, which was two days away. I

was hoping nothing would change, that

we’d be able to make time to see each

other almost as often as we did now. It

would take more effort, since we’d be

separated by more than just a staircase,

but my new building wasn’t really that

far from where she worked. I’d also

been thinking about a little vacation. It

had been such a cold winter—maybe

she’d like to go sit on a beach

somewhere. She’d once told me that was

her kind of getaway.

I’ll talk to her about it tonight
, I

thought as I made dinner for us. If she

seemed upset about my leaving, maybe

the idea of a little sand and sun together

would soften the blow.

My phone vibrated on the kitchen

counter, and I saw her name on the

screen. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hi. How’s it going?” I stirred the

pot of tomato sauce I had on the stove.

“It’s kinda bad here,” she said

quietly, as if she didn’t want anyone to

hear. It was Sunday night and we’d been

planning on dinner in and watching

Netflix, but about an hour earlier, she’d

gotten a call from one of her friends that

there was some sort of emergency, and

she should go to Margot’s house right

away.

“What happened? Is everyone OK?”

“Everyone’s fine physically, but

Margot and her boyfriend broke up, and

she’s a mess.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” I set the

spoon on a paper towel and turned the

heat off under the pasta water. If she was

going to be late, I didn’t want to cook the

noodles yet. “Think you’ll be a while?”

She sighed. “Probably. I totally

understand if you want to eat without

me.”

“I don’t mind waiting. Want to call

me when you’re on your way?”

“OK. I will.”

She didn’t sound like herself, but

maybe she was just worried about her

friend. “Everything OK with you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just sad for her. And

I’m never sure what to say at these

times.”

After we hung up, I occupied myself

throwing clothing and linens into boxes

for the move. I felt like a selfish asshole

even thinking it, but I hoped Margot’s

breakup wasn’t going to fuck with

Jaime’s head.

We were in a good place right now,

but we’d only just gotten here.

TWENTY-FOUR

JAIME

I’D NEVER SEEN Margot like this.

Not once in the thirteen years I’d known

her. She’d always had a boyfriend—we

joked that she was a serial monogamist

—but her relationships had always

ended amicably or she’d been the one to

break things off.

This was something else entirely.

Calm, cool, cultured Margot Thurber

Lewiston was having a very unbecoming

ugly cry on her bedroom floor. Curled in

a ball with a (probably heirloom) quilt

pulled tightly around her shoulders, she

sobbed and howled, her beautiful face

contorted in misery and covered with

tears and snot.

“Margot, come on. It’s going to be

OK.” On her knees at Margot’s side,

Claire patted her back. “Want me to get

you a hanky?”

“Want a pillow?” I offered from

where I sat on Margot’s bed. The

expensive sheets were all untucked and

twisted as if she’d thrown a violent

tantrum on her bed and then rolled right

off it onto the hardwood floor. She had a

rug beneath her, but still—she couldn’t

have been very comfortable.

Not that she cared about comfort.

She didn’t answer either one of us, just

kept crying and crying, her slender body

shuddering pitifully beneath the quilt.

She was nearly hoarse from wailing, but

nothing we said had consoled her so far.

My own throat was tight—I’d never

felt so helpless. Truth be told, I wasn’t

good at this. I didn’t know what to say

because I’d never been in her position.

Even my shittiest breakups in college,

before I’d sworn off relationships,

hadn’t done this to me. I hadn’t cried

like this since—

Quinn.

It suddenly struck me that the way

Margot was carrying on reminded me of

the way I’d cried the night I’d told Quinn

I loved him and he’d laughed at me.

Turning off the warning bell in my

head, I got down on the floor with a little

square pillow embroidered with the

words Like Mother, Like Daughter. I

looked at it for a second before putting it

down near Margot’s face.

“Here, Gogo. Put your head on this.

You’re going to have a terrible headache

as it is.”

Nothing. More choked sobs.

“Margot, honey, talk to us.” Claire

tried to lean down and make eye contact,

but Margot’s puffy eyes were shut tight.

We still didn’t know exactly what

happened. After getting her text asking us

to please come to her house as soon as

we could, we’d rushed over and found

her like this. She’d nodded yes when we

asked if something had happened with

Tripp, but we had no other details.

Exchanging a worried glance with

Claire, I stroked Margot’s hair. Usually

blown out to smooth, shiny perfection,

right now it looked and felt like it might

contain a couple bird nests. Maybe a

squirrel corpse or two.

“OK then, cry it out,” I said,

realizing that there was no stopping this

train. “We’ll be right here when you’re

ready to talk.” I lay down on the floor

too, curling up on my side, hands tucked

under my cheek.

“Yep.” Claire lay down on the other

side of her and patted her shoulder.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

A few minutes ticked by, and

Margot’s sobs slowed, then quieted.

Finally, she took a long, shaky breath.

“OK.” She exhaled. “OK. I think I need

some whiskey.”

“You got it,” I said, hopping to my

feet. I might not be good at soothing a

broken heart, but shooting whiskey?

That
I could do.

I hurried down the steps of Margot’s

beautiful townhouse and pulled a bottle

of Two James Grass Widow Bourbon

from a kitchen cupboard. Tucking it

under my arm, I grabbed three little

glasses from another shelf and headed

back up.

When I reached her bedroom,

Margot was sitting up against the bed,

blowing her nose in a tissue. Claire sat

next to her, holding the box.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” I

said, setting the glasses down and sitting

cross-legged, facing them. I opened the

bottle and poured about an inch into each

glass, handing one to Margot and one to

Claire. Setting the bottle aside, I picked

up mine and we all took a sip.

Margot sighed. “God, I need this.”

She tipped her glass back again,

finishing the contents.

“Easy, hon,” Claire warned.

I picked up the bottle and poured her

some more. “So easy.”

It almost made her smile. “Fuck, you

guys. My head.”

“I can imagine,” I said. Her eyes

were so red and puffy, I didn’t know

how she could see. “Want to tell us what

happened?”

She sipped again before talking.

“Probably exactly what you think. I

brought up getting engaged last night at

dinner, and he changed the subject. I

tried again when we got back here, and

he went home with a headache. I tried a

third time this morning after brunch, and

he finally admitted he’d been putting off

telling me something for a while because

he didn’t want to hurt me.”

“What did he say?” Claire asked.

“That he changed his mind. He

doesn’t want to get married.”

“Doesn’t want to get married
now
?

Or ever?” I wondered.

Margot nodded. “That’s what I

asked. And he said definitely not now,

and maybe not ever.”

“Well, what the fuck?” I frowned.

“Why did he lead you to believe

otherwise for the last three years?”

“I asked him that too. He said people

change.”

“Within a few months?” Claire

snapped. “He just asked you about a ring

in December!”

“I know,” Margot said before a big

swallow of bourbon, “but now he says

he’s perfectly happy with the way things

are and he doesn’t want anything to

change.”

Happiness is always a for-now

thing
, I heard myself telling Quinn the

night I laid out the rules for him.

But don’t you think it’s possible to

know that something or someone would

always make you happy?
he’d asked.

Lately the question had begun to

haunt me.

“That’s bullshit.” Claire sat up taller.

“So he just wants you to wait around

until he decides
he’s
ready for things to change?”

“Basically.” Margot shrugged, her

eyes filling. “But there’s no guarantee

he’ll ever want things to change. He

refused to make any promises.”

So what?
I thought.
Promises, like

rules, could be broken.
But I said

nothing.

“God, I want to punch his smug chin

right now,” Claire said. “I’m sorry, but I

hate his chin. The way he points it at

people.”

“It’s OK, I hate it right now too.”

Margot drank a little more. “And the sex

lately has been bad, you guys.”

“Really?” I blinked at her.

She nodded. “I don’t know why,

exactly. It seemed perfectly fine for three

years and then it just got—I don’t know.