“I have to tell you something,” Jenny said, shaking cinnamon into her latte, her eyes on her mug. We were at my favorite café, Bobbette & Belle, only a few blocks from my place, indulging in a lunch of salted caramel macarons and raspberry scones with clotted cream, and milk-whipped coffees. Caffeine had proved to be an asset for helping with my concussion headaches, so the two shots of espresso in my latte practically felt medicinal.
I stopped slathering the clotted cream onto the warm scone and looked up at her as prickles of anxiety filled me. I had no idea what she was about to tell me and for a moment considered maybe it had nothing at all to do with me. How glorious that would be! To not be the center of attention. But then she said, “And I don’t think you’re going to be happy about it,” and I knew for certain I was wrong—it had everything to do with me, after all.
“What’s up?” I asked, trying to appear stress free as I continued layering the cream onto my scone. Relaxed, like whatever she had to tell me would be just fine. I took a bite and chewed, waiting.
“So, I know you’re thinking of getting in touch with Daniel,” she said, now stirring the cinnamon into the frothy milk. She took a sip and the milk left a thin foamy mustache above her upper lip. “And I think that’s great. Brave, even.”
Hmm. Brave? “Okay. And?”
“And here’s the thing,” she said. But then she stopped and looked at me worriedly.
Now I was irritated. “What is it, Jenny? Spill it. You’re making me nervous.” And she was, my heart rate up and my palms sweaty.
“He’s married, Lucy.”
It was as though she’d sucker punched me. Even though no one had ever slammed their fist into my gut—as far as I could remember—this had to be what that felt like.
“Oh,” I managed, trying to catch my breath. The first shock waves dissipated and then I felt stupid. Naive for not having considered such a scenario. Why wouldn’t Daniel be married? We were approaching thirty; this was when people coupled off in a more permanent way. And we hadn’t been together for over four years. Of course he would have met someone else and fallen in love.
Jenny was speaking fast now, clearly wanting to get it all out as quickly as possible. It made me dizzy, trying to hold on to all the details as they arrived rapid-fire from her. “He got married two years ago. I wanted to tell you. Said we had to tell you. But, well, it was suggested maybe you weren’t quite ready to hear that.”
I wondered, flickers of anger moving through me, who had made that suggestion.
“And honestly, we all thought things would have settled by now. That you would have, you know, remembered everything.” She cringed at this last part, tried to say it quietly as though my memory lapses were less significant if discussed in hushed tones.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” I finally said, hating how high and squeaky my voice was. “To be honest, I’m an idiot for not considering that.” Do not cry, Lucy. Do not cry. I dug my fingernails into my palm, relished the pain there because it shifted my focus from the pain elsewhere.
“No! Don’t say that,” Jenny said, grabbing my one hand still resting on the table. “How could you have known? I should have told you.” Her mouth turned down in a scowl. “It wasn’t right to keep it from you for this long. I’m sorry.”
I let her hold my hand, pressed my other hand harder against my stomach as I tried to take a few deep breaths. “So, who did he marry?”
Is this what it feels like to be cheated on? A sense of sickness spread out from my belly, threatened to take over my whole body. It was quickly followed by the trifecta of doom, embarrassment and regret for any decisions that had led me to this place. Whatever I was experiencing in this moment, I never wanted to feel it again.
“Yeah, so, here’s the other thing.” Jenny gently squeezed my hand a few times. “He married Margot. Margot Hendricks. Well, I guess she’s now Margot London. Unless she didn’t take his name. She probably didn’t take his name. She was kind of a dick about it at your engagement party. Remember?” Jenny looked stricken, her eyes scanning my face as she watched me take in the news. “I’m so sorry, Lucy. I know this has to be a massive shock.”
My breath came out in a rush, along with my words. “He married Margot? Our Margot?”
“Yes,” Jenny said with a sigh. “Our Margot is now his Margot.”
I had met Margot Hendricks at university, in social studies class. Though we’d never been close the way Jenny and I were, she was someone I had looked up to. An outspoken feminist who didn’t only give lip service but actually showed up at protests and marched and made her voice heard. She spoke three languages fluently, thanks to her Swedish mother and Spanish father, and talked of becoming a professor before one day joining the United Nations. Whip smart as she was, Margot Hendricks never made you feel like you were anything but equal to her, even though we all knew she was the brightest of our group. And most relevant to this particular conversation today in the café, she never—in the four years we were at school together—had a boyfriend or even a whiff of a relationship.
We had stayed in casual touch after graduation, when I went to work and she started grad school, and she had come to Daniel’s and my engagement party—but that was the last time I remembered seeing her.
“Were we still friends?” I asked Jenny. Margot seemed someone I would have stayed in touch with, even if only through happy birthday posts and the occasional liking of a photo on social media. At least until she married my ex-fiancé.
Jenny shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” I asked, frustrated by this noncommittal answer. “Or no?”
“No. You are not friends. As far as I know.” Jenny and I had been best of friends since we were eighteen years old, and I spoke to her nearly daily. She would know if Margot and I had stayed in contact.
“Are you friends with her?” She shook her head slowly. “And you still don’t know why Daniel and I broke up?” Was it because of Margot? I wondered.
Jenny looked surprised, her eyes widening—my tone clearly suggesting I thought she might have omitted that truth, as well. “I swear to you, Lucy, I don’t know why.”
I nodded. The headache was back and I needed to go home. But I continued to push my brain, trying to grasp on to memories of Margot. How had she ended up with Daniel? They had known each other only casually, and only because he and I were dating.
What the hell had happened, to all of us, since then?