Page 19 of Best Offer Wins
At some point after thirty, my hangovers started to do this—lie cold and still long enough to make me think they’re dead, only to heat back up just when my defenses are down. I close my eyes and take a shallow breath.
“Margo?” Jordana says. “Are you all right?”
“Yep, all good, let me just find the right file here.” I buy some time while I pretend to search my laptop. “Okay, here we go… we have confirmed RSVPs from all the usual local suspects. The crew fromWashingtonianmagazine, the editor of Eater DC, a couple fromThe Washington Post’s dining team.”
I pretend to search for a different file, while beating back another wave of nausea.
“Here we are. Um, on the national side, we’re expecting the food writer fromGQand a senior writer fromBon Appétit.” I glance up from my screen. “I believe both of them are black-wristbanders, right, Jordana?”
She nods.
“Great,” I choke out, my egg-and-cheese-bagel threatening an encore.
I lean away from my laptop, cold sweat percolating through the back of my dress. Jordana is still looking at me. What else can she possibly want?
“And what aboutadvancedcoverage, Margo?”
Jesus Christ, I should’ve made myself puke before I left the apartment.
“Right, just a sec.” I fumble around some more on my computer. Jordana sighs loudly.
“As far as advanced coverage goes, I gave the exclusive first look at the restaurant design toWashingtonian. They’re sending a reporter and a photographer tomorrow at noon, and they’ll publish online Wednesday. And thePostis running their Q&A with Chef online first thing Thursday morning, then in print in the Weekend section.”
Shockingly, Jordana gives a little golf clap. “Thank you, Margo. Not sure why that was such a struggle, but it all sounds excellent.”
I manage a weak smile. As soon as the meeting wraps, I beeline to the bathroom.
The rest of the day gets easier. Jordana goes to lunch with a client at noon, and by three, she’s still not back so I take that as a green light to leave early. When I get to the apartment, I see my Post-it note is gone, and that Ian did, in fact, take most of the leftover chicken to work.
He texts around six:Heading home. Hope we can talk.
I’ve spent the afternoon devising a PR strategy for myself. I’ve decided that anger should be a last resort—it’ll be more effective to play the victim.
When he walks in, red bike helmet still on, I’m on my laptop on the sofa, braless in one of his old UVA T-shirts.
“Hey,” I say softly, eyes still on my screen. I want to make him come to me.
He sighs and hangs up his helmet. “Will you please look at me?”
I do as he asks, summoning the right memory. I think of those bitches sophomore year who made my life hell after my dad’s ridiculous business tanked and the bank took our house. A stinging spreads through my chest. My vision blurs, then clears up as the tears break free down my face. Works every time.
“Jesus.” Ian rushes to my side, drapes an arm around my shoulders while he waits for me to calm down.
“I was really worried about you,” I say through ragged breaths. “Where were you last night?”
“I know, I should’ve called.” I notice him check out my boobs. “I was at Brant’s.”
Figures. Brent with an A, the last bachelor standing of our original DC friend group. Our token sleaze.
“You were at Brant’s until three in the morning?”
“It was stupid. We weren’t even doing anything, really. We wentto a bar for a while and watched the Nats, then we just kept drinking at his place and I passed out on the couch.”
“But I don’t get why you couldn’t even bother to text me back. How was I supposed to know you weren’t dead somewhere? Or in the hospital?”
“I know. I wasn’t thinking.”
I stare into the distance out the window, before turning back to him. “You can’t do that to me again, Ian.” I let my eyes burrow into his. “I love you, and you scared the hell out of me.”
