After We Fall

by Melanie Harlow

  “Well, it’s nice that he finally realized what he had,” offered Claire, eternal optimist. “Even if it is a little too late.”

  “Is it too late?” I braved, giving voice to the question that had been on my mind all day.

  It was silent as they both registered what I’d said. “What do you mean?” Jaime’s tone said I know what you mean but you can’t actually mean that.

  “I mean, do you think it’s too late for us?”

  “Fuck yes, I do.” She banged a fist on the bar, and the surface of my drink rippled.

  “Well, hold on. Maybe not,” Claire said wistfully. “I love a good second chance romance.”

  “This isn’t a movie,” Jaime insisted, turning to Claire. “This is real life, and he was a real dick to her.”

  “But people can change,” Claire countered. “Look at you and Quinn. You swore you’d never have a boyfriend, least of all him, but you gave Quinn a chance.”

  “That’s different,” Jaime said testily. “Plus Quinn is insanely good in bed. Tripp was a disaster, wasn’t he Margot?”

  I winced. “I don’t know if I’d say disaster. The sex was just a bit…uninspired. Maybe that’s not the most important thing, though. Maybe there are more important elements in a relationship than good sex.”

  Jaime looked at me incredulously. Blinked. “Like what?”

  “Like common interests,” I said, sitting up a little taller. “And family ties. And a shared history. Shared values.”

  Jaime rolled her eyes. “So your families both sailed here on the Mayflower or whatever. Big fucking deal. If you didn’t want to tear his clothes off when he walked into your house last night, you don’t have any chemistry.”

  I thought about that for a minute. Then I started to laugh at the idea of tearing off those whale shorts and the pink shirt. “We’re just not like that,” I said. “We’ve never been like that. We’re both more…reserved. Conservative, maybe. Would I like better sex? Sure.” I shrugged. “But I’m almost thirty. And maybe I need to worry less about that kind of thing.”

  “Thirty isn’t old,” Jaime scoffed. “And I don’t want to see you go backward, Margot. A year ago you were so unhappy. You’ve made so much progress.”

  “I agree,” I said. “But underneath it all, I’m still the same person. I still want the things I wanted then. I’m traditional, OK? I want a traditional life, the life I grew up with. Husband, house, family.”

  “And that’s OK,” Claire soothed, reaching over Jaime’s lap to pat my hand. “We’re not judging you for wanting those things.”

  “And Tripp gets me,” I said, annoyed because it was true. “The ring he picked out was perfect. He knows my style, my taste. He’s got a good education, a good job, a good family. Those things matter to me more than sex.”

  Jaime refused to give up. “But what about passion? What about that mind-blowing physical connection? Don’t you want those butterflies in your stomach when he walks in the room? That racing pulse when he gets close?”

  “But what if I’m not cut out for that?” I asked, voicing a fear that usually lurked silently in the back of my mind. “What if I’m just not that passionate a person? What if I’m not the type to blow anyone’s mind? Does that mean I have to be alone?”

  “No,” Claire said firmly, shooting Jaime a look. “And if you want to give Tripp another chance, that is completely your choice. We stand by you no matter what.”

  I looked at Jaime. “Will you?”

  “Of course I will.” Her face softened, and she tipped her head onto my shoulder. “I’m sorry. You know I love you, Gogo. I just want you to be happy. If you think Tripp is the one, then go for it. I’ll always be here for you.”

  “Thanks. I’m still thinking it over.” I checked my phone and noticed the time. “Oh, shoot. I better get over to that thing for my father.”

  “A dinner thing?” Jaime picked up her drink.

  “No, just drinks and dessert with some donors who’ve written fat checks to the campaign.”

  “How’s the campaign going?” Claire asked.

  “Fine, I think. I haven’t been involved much since my politics are a bit different than my father’s, but we don’t talk about that.”

  Jaime shook her head. “God, I love your family. Have fun tonight. Will Tripp be there?”

  I put a twenty on the bar and finished off my drink. “Not sure. But I know Deuce is a major donor, so it’s possible. How do I look?”

  They glanced at my sleeveless navy blue sheath, which I wore with nude heels and my favorite pearl necklace. My blowout was smooth, my nails were manicured, my legs were shaved. My lipstick would be reapplied in the car, since my grandmother had taught me never to apply cosmetics in public.

  “Perfect,” said Claire. “Very Grace Kelly.”

  Jaime nodded. “Classic Margot.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” After giving them each a kiss on the cheek, I walked out the back to the parking lot.

  As I drove to the large private home on a gated street in Grosse Pointe where the fundraiser was being held, I had a strange feeling in my stomach. I can’t say it was butterflies exactly, more like a gut instinct that something in my life was about to change. I get a similar feeling when I cut more than an inch off my hair at the salon, like I’m sort of scared but also sort of exhilarated.

  After pulling into the drive and handing my keys to the valet—who gazed longingly at the pristine, powder blue 1972 Mercedes my grandmother had given me last year when she finally decided to stop driving—I entered the house.

  The strange feeling intensified when I saw Tripp standing to my right in the cavernous living room. It was so large, even the nine foot Steinway in one corner didn’t seem out of place. Sofas, chaises, and love seats were arranged in several conversational groupings, and the furniture, drapery, and even the rug had that faded, slightly shabby look that old money homes have. The look that says, We’re terribly wealthy but we don’t get rid of anything with a day’s use left in it, and we don’t like things that are shiny and new.

  I saw my father shaking hands with someone near the fireplace and my mother nursing a G & T, probably her third, on one of the sofas, but I headed toward Tripp, doing my best to will that edgy feeling into butterflies. He was chatting with a group of women near the window, and they were clearly enthralled by whatever he was saying. As I got closer, he took a step back, and I saw that he wasn’t alone. Amber was there too, wearing a dress that nearly fit, and she was holding out her left hand toward the little group, as if she were showing off a—

  Oh no.

  Oh no, he didn’t.

  He couldn’t have.

  He wouldn’t even.

  But he had.

  And the ring on her finger was the exact same one Tripp had proposed to me with last night.

  “It was, like, so romantic,” she was gushing. “He came over in the middle of the night. Said he just couldn’t wait any longer because he knew for sure I was the one.”

  I nearly gagged. Backing away unseen and shaking with rage, I found the bar and ordered a martini. (One good thing about people with old money, there’s never a shortage of good gin.)

  In a daze, I took my drink out onto the terrace, where my older brother, Buck, spotted me and roped me into schmoozing with a bunch of men in suits whose names I forgot immediately. All I could think of as I stood there, drinking and half-listening to them banter about politics and boats, was what an asshole Tripp was. He must have gone right from me to her last night. What the fuck was wrong with him?

  Eventually the men wandered off to refill their scotch glasses, and Buck turned to me. “What’s with you? You were totally mute during that conversation, and your expression makes Muffy’s Resting Bitch Face look downright pleasant.”

  “Sorry. I was thinking about something.”

  He grinned cockily before tipping back his whiskey on the rocks. “Let me guess. Tripp’s engagement? Don’t let it bother you.”

&nb
sp; “Why not? It sort of makes a fool of me, doesn’t it? Everyone knew we broke up because I wanted to get married and he didn’t.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tell him about last night yet.

  He took another swallow and shook his head. “He still doesn’t. But Deuce changed the conditions of his inheritance because he’s such a fuck-up with the gambling. He owes like three hundred grand or something. And if he wants the money, Deuce said he has to quit dicking around, get married and settle down.”

  My jaw dropped. Quit dicking around and get married? That sounded way too familiar. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. I heard it today from some guy who works for Deuce and heard him talking to the lawyers about it.” He laughed. “What an asshole. You dodged a bullet, as far as I’m concerned.” He clinked his glass to mine. “Cheers.”

  Fuming, I tipped back the rest of my drink. “Excuse me.”

  I set the empty martini glass on a passing server’s tray and went directly to the bar to order another. Locking myself inside the first floor powder room, I took a gulp of my drink, set it down, and leaned on the marble vanity. I breathed heavily, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Scolding myself. Hating myself.

  You fucking idiot! Of course he didn’t want you! He told you last year he didn’t! He just wanted his money and you were the ticket. You ridiculous, stupid, gullible woman, thinking of giving him another chance.

  But I hadn’t. Thank God I hadn’t. Except now I was filled with gin and frustration and rage—with Tripp, with myself, and even with Amber, for being so blind to his deceit. For once, I wished I was the kind of person to unleash my feelings in public, to go out there and publicly shame him for what he’d done, call him out on his slimy desperation and his lies, expose him for what he was. I wished it so hard I was shaking.

  But I couldn’t.

  That is, I couldn’t until I discovered Tripp and Amber holding court in the dining room, regaling yet another crowd of bystanders with the romantic story of their surprise engagement.

  “He didn’t even want to get married before me,” she bragged. “Did you, honey?”

  “I sure didn’t, baby doll.”

  Baby doll. What an asshole. I set my third empty glass down on the floor—at least, I think it was the floor. Levels of things were a bit hazy at this point.

  “I guess it just took finding the perfect woman to make me change my mind.” He gazed at Amber with wretchedly fake adoration. “And when you find her, you know.”

  Perfect woman. I think I snorted at that, because a few people turned around and looked at me. But I ignored them, looking over the desserts laid out on the table and sideboards, pretending to search for the perfect after-dinner treat.

  “The ring’s gorgeous,” someone said.

  “Isn’t it?” Amber said delightedly. “He had it custom made for me.”

  Custom made for her. My hands started to shake as my eyes alighted on a silver tray of scones. I wrapped my fingers around one and eyeballed the possible trajectory.

  “That’s right.” Tripp kissed the back of her hand. “Just for you.”

  A second later, I hurled the first scone, which missed its target—his smug face—and hit him in the chest.

  Startled, he looked up just about the time the second scone pinged off the chandelier and landed at his feet. “What the hell?”

  People started looking around, some getting out of the way. Good thing, because the third scone knocked a vase off the table, and it crashed to the floor at Tripp’s feet.

  He finally made eye contact with me. “Margot, what the hell are you doing?”

  I wound up and launched another. “Three years!” I exploded as it beaned him on the forehead. Finally! I tried again, but that one curved toward Amber, who ducked out of the way. “Three years I put up with your boring golf stories and your pants with the little whales on them and your tiny clueless dick!”

  A titter went through the crowd. Tripp was stunned motionless, and I took the opportunity to pelt his chest with another scone.

  “Ouch!” he said, which I found hilarious. “Stop throwing things! And my dick isn’t tiny! Or clueless!”

  “Yes, it is!” I flung another one at him, but he was moving now, so I missed him completely and it bounced off the wall. “You don’t know the first thing about a woman’s orgasm! I used to have to get myself off after you took me home, asshole!”

  I heard muffled laughter as I threw the next scone, which tipped over a skinny pillar candle that, unfortunately, happened to be lit. It burned a hole in the white tablecloth before someone nearby blew it out.

  “Margot, have you lost your fucking mind?” Tripp yelled from across the table, hands in front of his face like I was throwing grenades, not scones.

  “Maybe,” I seethed, reaching for another one but feeling nothing but an empty tray. “Maybe I have, because I was going to tell you tonight that I’d decided to think about your shitty proposal.”

  Tripp’s face went white.

  “What proposal?” Amber asked, looking from him to me.

  I opened my mouth. Watched him squirm. It felt fantastic.

  “Margot, please. Don’t do this.” His eyes begged me for mercy. “You’ll embarrass us both. Let’s talk in private. I have a good reason for everything.”

  I had no desire to talk to him in private ever again, and I already knew about his fucked-up “good reason”. But he was right—if I told the truth about last night, I’d be embarrassed too. I’d just announced that I’d come here willing to consider his proposal, which had been a sham anyway.

  Glancing down, I spied the cherry pie, slipped my palm beneath it, and briefly considered one final, humiliating heave. Someone in the crowd gasped.

  But I looked at Tripp again and felt a surge of power, which prompted a return of my self-control. My dignity. My manners.

  I was Margot fucking Thurber Lewiston, and I had class. No one could take that away from me.

  Gathering my tipsy wits, I assumed a cool expression and stood tall. “Actually, I never want to talk to you again. Enjoy your evening, everyone. Lewiston for Senate.”

  As I walked out, I heard him say. “Jesus. Crazy bitch.”

  I know what you’re thinking.

  I should have fucking thrown the pie.

  Three

  Jack

  I couldn’t sleep.

  Not like it was a surprise. I didn’t sleep well in general, but August was always the worst. I was lucky to get a couple hours a night.

  “It’s the heat,” my sister-in-law Georgia had said last week. “Why don’t you come sleep at our place for a few nights?”

  “Better yet, put air conditioning in that old cabin,” my younger brother Pete had put in. “Wouldn’t cost much to get a window unit.”

  It wasn’t the heat.

  “Maybe it’s the light,” Georgia had said last year. “Maybe if you tried going to sleep with the light off, you’d relax more.”

  But I needed the light. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t even breathe until the sun came up.

  I tried not to get mad when my family members told me what to do or tried to solve my problems with simple solutions when the real issue was something so complicated, they’d never understand. But I wasn’t always good at thinking before speaking or controlling my temper.

  Just yesterday I’d let loose on Pete for sneaking up on me from behind while I was repairing a fence along the property line in the woods. In hindsight, throwing him to the ground while screaming at him for being a “cocksucking motherfucking asshole with shit for brains” was probably a little out of line, but damn it—he knows better than to tap me on the shoulder when I don’t know he’s there. The whole reason I don’t listen to music while I work is so that I can stay aware of my surroundings. I don’t like to be taken by surprise.

  The only person who ever understood that about me was Steph. A few years ago, my family planned a surprise party for my thirtieth birthday, probably because they knew I’d
say fuck no to any kind of social event that required talking to people, and Steph made sure to tell me every detail ahead of time. She’d tried and tried to convince my brothers and parents it was a terrible idea, but they’d insisted that “getting out of the house” and “celebrating my life” would be good for me.

  I only went because Steph begged me to. At first, I’d been furious and refused to consider it, but then she told me how my mother and aunt had flown up from Florida, and my sister-in-law had made cassata cake, and my niece Olivia had learned how to play “Happy Birthday” on the piano just for me. It was hard to resist Steph when she really had her heart set on something, plus she’d given me this really amazing blowjob in bed that morning.

  She knew all my weaknesses.

  Lying there in the dark, I twisted my wedding ring around my finger.

  Three years.

  It seemed impossible it had been that long. Her glasses were still on her nightstand, her clothes still in the closet, and I still expected her to be there when I rolled over in our squeaky-springed old bed wanting to tuck her little frame against mine.

  And then, in other ways, it seemed like forever since I’d heard her singing in the shower, or watched her get ready for bed, or lost myself inside her body. She’d always made me go slow at first, claiming she was worried about my size, even after we’d been together for years. Probably she said that just to flatter me (it worked every time), although she’d been a tiny little thing, with curves in all the right places. I’d never minded the fifteen extra pounds she insisted she had to lose—in fact, I loved them, loved the way her body was soft and mine was hard, the way those curves felt beneath my hands and lips and tongue, the way she’d wrapped herself around me. It had felt so good to take care of her.

  Fuck, I missed sex. I missed everything.

  “You need to get out there again,” said my oldest brother, Brad, because he knew everything. “Let me introduce you to April, the new realtor at the agency. She’s hot, and I think you’d have a good time. Or at least get laid.”