CHAPTER 9
Joe
It took more self-discipline than I’d ever used in my life, but I took Berry’s advice, and I didn’t call Cate. It was torture. I told myself that the feeling would pass, but I couldn’t put her out of my mind. I found myself looking for her in the city. Ideally, I wanted to see her in the flesh, but I scoured billboards, sides of buses, and subway placards, too. Once, I even picked up a Vogue magazine, flipping through the pages, hoping to come across her photo.
About a month later, Margaret and I went to The Odeon for dinner. Just after we finished eating, I got up to go to the men’s room. After I’d taken a few steps, it crossed my mind that the check might come when I was gone, and I hated for Margaret to pay for anything. I didn’t make much more than she did, and her trust fund was likely the same size as mine, but my mom had ingrained in me never to let a girl pay. So, I turned back to the table, removed my wallet from my back pocket, and handed it to her, telling her to use my credit card.
“I can get this one, Joe,” she said.
But I shook my head and insisted. Big mistake. When I got back to the table, I saw her face and instantly suspected what had happened.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, hoping that I was wrong.
But Margaret cleared her throat and said, “I swear I wasn’t snooping…. I was looking for your credit card—”
I nodded, believing this. My wallet was a mess, just like my desk, my apartment, everything in my life. I braced myself as she held up that damn business card. “But I found this.”
I nodded, reminding myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“What is it?” she said.
“It’s a makeup artist.”
“Why do you have a makeup artist’s card?”
I swallowed, telling myself not to lie, that the cover-up is always worse than the crime. “It’s a guy I met on the beach. He was at a photo shoot,” I said.
She stared at me a beat, then flipped it over and read aloud: “Cate Cooper.”
My stomach fluttered hearing her name, but I said nothing, waiting.
“Who is she?” Margaret finally asked, answering the question I’d wondered in the prior weeks about whether Cate was famous. I guess this was my answer, though not necessarily conclusive. Margaret was often clueless about pop culture.
“She’s…a girl…who was with that makeup artist….”
Margaret nodded, staring into my eyes. She was never one to be jealous or suspicious—not even of Phoebe, whom we’d crossed paths with at a recent event—but she seemed to be both now. Or maybe it was just my guilty conscience.
“Did you ask for her number?” she said.
I hesitated, then told the truth, once again. “Yes,” I said.
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know…. She was nice…cool…you know….” I said, now completely flustered.
“Is she a model?” Margaret asked, looking so hurt.
“Yes,” I said. “But I never called her.”
She nodded slowly, as if taking this fact into consideration. “And when did you get this number? A long time ago?”
It felt like a trap. If I got it a long time ago and still had it, that didn’t look good. If I got it recently, that, too, was a problem. Once again, I went with the truth. “It was that weekend you were at a conference, and I was in the Hamptons with Berry.”
“Was Berry with you? When you met her?”
I shook my head.
“Does she know you got this?”
“Um…yeah,” I said. “I mentioned it.”
“And what did she say about it?” she said, the questions now rapid-fire.
“She told me not to call her.”
“She didn’t approve?”
I nodded, my face getting hotter. “What does it matter what Berry thought? Or when I got the card? The point is, I didn’t call her—”
“Then why do you still have this? In your wallet?”
I shrugged and told her I didn’t know.
She stared at me for what felt like a long time, then put the card on the table, with the “Cate” side up. She looked at it for a few seconds before sliding it across the table at me.
“Well, it’s not too late,” Margaret said.
I shook my head, picked up the card, and tore it in half, feeling a strange pang.
Margaret was stone-faced for several seconds before she took a deep breath and said, “Look, Joe…I don’t think I can do this.”
“Do what?” I said.
“Be with you.”
I laughed nervously and said, “Because of a girl’s phone number? Who I didn’t even call?”
“Because of a lot of things,” she said. “It’s just too much…. Being with you…it’s too hard.”
“Wait. Is this about the Post?” I said, referencing the article they’d just run listing “Five things you might not have known about Margaret Braswell.” All five facts were positive—or at least neutral—but she still loathed the attention.
“Yes and no…I’m just not very good at this….” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes, you are,” I said. “The press loves you.”
“Until they don’t,” she said—which was pretty damn insightful, par for the course for Margaret. She paused, then said, “Joe…I know you’re going to run for office one day…and the attention on you will only get more intense….”
“No way,” I said. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want that?”
She stared at me, her expression changing. “Okay, Joe. Tell me…what do you want?”
“I’m fine being a lawyer,” I said. “For now.”
“For now,” she echoed, as if I’d just confirmed her point.
I started to say something defensive, but stopped myself, doubling down. “Yes. For now. I mean…I don’t think I have to have everything mapped out in my early thirties, do I?”
She took a deep breath, as if gathering all her reserves. “Here’s the thing, Joe. I don’t think you know what you want. Or who you want.”
“That’s not true, Margaret,” I said.
She stared back at me.
“I want you,” I said, at that moment meaning it.
Margaret shook her head. “You don’t know who you want because you don’t know who you are. The whole world thinks they know you…but you don’t even know yourself.”
I could tell she wasn’t trying to be mean—Margaret was never mean—but her words still cut me.
“I’ll figure that out,” I said. “Soon. I promise I will, Mags. You can help me.”
Margaret shook her head, looking so sad. “I don’t think I can help you, Joe.”
I forced a smile. “Wait. Are you saying I’m a lost cause?”
Margaret didn’t take the bait. “No. I’m saying that you have to do this on your own. For yourself. It has to come from within.”
“Okay. Yes. You’re right,” I said. “It will come from within. I’m close to a breakthrough here….”
“Good,” she said. “I really hope that’s true.” Her eyes filled with tears, which killed me. I can’t stand when any girl is sad, but seeing Margaret cry was the absolute worst.
“Don’t cry, Mags. Please,” I said. “Just give me a little more time. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Joe,” she told me. “And I always will. But I can’t do this anymore. I need to move on. I’m sorry.”
—
I know I could have fought to keep Margaret. I could have gone out and bought her a diamond ring the very next day. She would have said yes. I know she would have. At the very least, I could have smoothed things over, reassured her, bought myself a little more time. Instead, I just let her quietly slip away, acquiescing to her decision. In doing so, I likely only proved her theory about me not being in control of my own life. Once again, I had chosen the path of least resistance.
My mom was devastated and also angry, accusing me of suffering from Peter Pan syndrome. But I insisted that it had been Margaret’s doing, almost convincing myself of the same. Then, about a week later, Margaret came by to pick up the things that she had left at my place. We arranged for her to do it when I wasn’t home, but somehow the press caught on and stalked her as she loaded bags into the trunk of her car.
In the photos, she looked distraught—like she’d been crying for days—which confirmed everyone’s narrative that I had broken her heart. Deep down, I knew they were right, and I’d never felt so guilty—way too guilty to track down the very girl who had upset Margaret in the first place.
—
Almost a year later, Margaret called me out of the blue. My stomach lurched a bit hearing her voice, and I felt that weird emotion you have when someone you once knew so well now feels like a stranger.
After catching up for a few moments about our families and jobs, she told me that she had some news—and she wanted me to hear it from her first.
“Okay,” I said, expecting her to tell me she was moving out of the city, something I knew she had wanted to do. Maybe she was even returning to Africa. “What’s up?”
“I’m engaged,” she said.
“Engaged in what?” I asked, confused.
“Engaged to be married, Joe.”
I was stunned, and for some reason, my pride felt a little hurt, too. But I played it off, pretending to take it in stride as I asked her who the lucky guy was. Did I know him?
“Yes. You know him.”
“I do? Who is it?”
“Toby,” she said.
I only knew one Toby, and there was no way she was marrying that guy. A classmate from Harvard, Toby Davis was brilliant but socially awkward as hell. “Toby who?”
Margaret sighed, then said, “Our Toby.”
“He’s not my Toby,” I said with a laugh, trying to cover for the fact that I was feeling territorial.
“Joe. Stop it.”
“Okay. Sorry,” I said. “But wow.”
“Wow what?” she said, her voice uncharacteristically challenging.
“I’m just surprised….” I said, knowing I was being a little unkind. “We used to make fun of him. How he followed you around like a puppy dog.”
“Well. We were wrong about him…. He’s amazing…and doing really exciting things,” she said.
It felt like a dig, especially when she launched into this whole spiel about his PhD in molecular biology and his dream of finding a cure for cancer.
“Well. I guess we were right about one thing,” I quipped, doing my damnedest to be a good sport.
“What’s that?” she said.
“That dude really is smarter than me,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound bitter.
She didn’t refute my statement, which made me feel worse—and even more stupid. I also couldn’t help feeling that I’d been duped into thinking that Margaret loved me more than she really had.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Totally. This is great news. Congratulations, Mags.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
“Give Toby my best as well. He’s a very lucky guy.”
“Don’t, Joe—”
“What? It’s true. Good for him.”
“Okay, Joe,” she said with a sigh. “I just wanted you to know—and hear it from me—”
“Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, Margaret. I appreciate it….”
“You’re welcome.”
“So, have you set a wedding date? Will I be invited?” I said with a nervous laugh.
“No date yet. And I don’t know about the invite….” she said. “Toby wants us all to be friends…but I’m not sure I can do that—”
“Yeah. Well. Either way. This is great news. Really great. I’m glad you’re happy.”
“Do you mean that, Joe?” she said.
“Of course,” I said, my tone softening.
“How about you? Are you happy?” she asked.
“Oh, you know me,” I said with a laugh. “Happy enough.”