I swan downstairs the next morning and into the kitchen. My sister’s leaning over the counter eating a bowl of cereal and Marsaili is leaning against the sink drinking a tea in a black and white, silk blend skirt from Ecru that sits above her knee and it feels horribly inappropriate, because I don’t want to see a forty-five-year-old’s knee.
“Morning,” Bridget smiles, dressed in head-to-toe Gucci—the sky blue, tech-jersey tracksuit. Must stay calm. Don’t react. Don’t frighten the wild thing who’s finally well-dressed away from the nice clothes… I blink a few times, probably look like I’m having sort of brain malfunction as I recalibrate my reaction to a hearty nil.
“You look nice,” I tell her and she looks down at herself, doesn’t even vaguely acknowledge the compliment.
“Where’d you disappear off to this week?”
I shrug demurely.
“Your phone was off.” My sister squints at me.
“Oh, yes.” I sigh. “I stayed overnight somewhere unexpectedly.”
“Oh.” She nods, getting it. “So you were with BJ.”
I frown.
“Where’d you go?” Bridge asks, shovelling Coco Pops into her mouth.
“Dartmouth,” I tell her, my nose in the air.
She pulls back confused. “Dartmouth?”
“To the house?” Marsaili clarifies. “Why?”
I open my mouth to say something and find myself not quite sure what to say.
I wave my hand through the air dismissively. “Long story.”
They both do different variants of nodding and seem dramatically disinterested in me and I feel cross about it. They go back to talking about something on Graham Norton last night, and he’s a good friend, I’m terribly fond of him but I’m wearing the logo-jacquard stretch-knit and leather knee boots from Fendi which are cute as fuck, and I’m looking impossibly bright-eyed because I’m sleeping so well because I’m sleeping with my boyfriend, which is the spectacular news they don’t even know about yet and I can’t get a fucking look in.
I clear my throat to get their attention. They glance back over at me, not looking dreadfully thrilled.
“Do either of you want to ask me anything?” I give them a dazzling smile.
“No,” Marsaili says, indifferent. “Not really…”
“Nothing?” I frown. She shakes her head. I frown again. “Nothing at all?” Bridget gives me a weird look. “Nothing about… my… time away?” I ask, lifting my neck and scratching it in a tragically unergonomic way, exposing a—
“Is that a hickey!” My sister lunges towards me, knocking over her cereal and grabbing my neck, inspecting it. “Is it?” she yells again, looking at my face.
I do a tiny nod.
Her eyes go wide. “From BJ?”
I nod again.
And then she squeals and turns wide-eyed to Marsaili. “A hickey from BJ!”
Marsaili rolls her eyes a little, hardly thrilled but barely angry. “And what about Tom?” Marsaili asks from the sink, sipping her tea in a very controlled manner.
I sigh a little bit. “I ended it with him yesterday.”
Bridget frowns a little. “How was he?”
“Okay.” I press my lips together. “Quite gracious about it all, really—”
Mars nods. “He’s a good man.”
Bridge gives her a stern look, then grabs my hand. “So is BJ.”
Marsaili nods diplomatically. “I didn’t say he wasn’t.”
“Are you happy for me?” I ask Marsaili, smiling.
“That you got a hickey from your ex-boyfriend?” She gives me a little smirk and rolls her eyes. “Thrilled.”
Bridget scowls at her and pulls me into the dining room and sits us down at the table.
“So how did it happen?” She leans in. “When did it happen? Where? How many times—”
“Um. How—” I consider the question. I hate lying to her. “Fluke?” It’s hardly true, but what else could I say? “Same time, same place?” I offer as a companion answer. She nods, accepting it. “When?” I tug on my ear, mindlessly. “The day before yesterday. Where—?” I press my hand into my mouth, cheeks going pink. “Under the willow tree? By pond.”
Her eyes go wide.
“What if Mr. Gibbs saw you!” she asks, horrified.
And I can’t help but laugh. I give her a tiny shrug. Besides, Mr. Gibbs has seen so much more than that. I take a big breath, then breathe it out.
“And how many times…” I grimace, then shrug hopelessly.
She smacks my arm. “Minx!”
I roll my eyes.
Then she thinks to herself for a moment.
“What about the questions he won’t answer?”
“It was nearly three years ago now—”
“Yeah, but,” she sighs, “it was a big deal. He’s not given you any closure.”
And she’s right. He hasn’t. He seems like he never will. And I think a bit of me might wonder why forever, but will I let that wondering rob me of being with him anyway?
I don’t know what answer I’m looking for anymore. And maybe he’s right?
How much could knowing who he slept with change now anyway?
It’s done. It happened already and just once.
And maybe I am too stupid and fucked up in love to think straight, but it seems silly to me, suddenly, to throw away what BJ and I have because he had sex with a random girl at a party once when he was drunk.
I shrug at my sister.
“What closure could he give me more than loving me how he does?”
“Magnolia,” she says, sitting back, surprised. “How very enlightened of you.”
I give her a smug smile.
“You know, you’re going to have to choose to forgive him some days,” she tells me.
“It’s not always a feeling, forgiveness.”
“I know,” I tell her, though I didn’t.
Fuck.
Oh well.
“And this is official?” I nod matter-of-factly. “So when’s the world finding out?”
“Later, I’m sure.” I smile. “We’re going to stay at the Mandarin tonight—”
“Cute.”
“And we’re meeting everyone at The Rosebery beforehand for some cocktails.” I give her a little smile. “They don’t know yet, just Henry.”
“Can I come?”
I blink at her, surprised. “You want to come out with me and my friends?” She nods. “Voluntarily?”
She nods again.
My jaw drops into a delighted smile. “Of course!” I frown. “Are you dying?”
“Uh—” She frowns. “Not presently, no.”
I stand up, walking to the door.
“Okay, I’m going to get ready—”
“Do you think he’s going to propose tonight?” my sister calls, excited.
I let out a laugh. “I really don’t.”
“But when he does propose,” Bridget says, thinking aloud, “you’ll get married at the Mandarin Oriental, won’t you?”
I give her a look like I haven’t thought about this myself a million times before. “Maybe?”
“Who will be your maid of honour—me or Paili?”
I give her a look. “We just started dating.”
“Yeah,” she says, “but he’s the one.”
