had forgotten the conversation—and the three or so hours following it—entirely. Until the next day, when she and Jenny nursed hangovers with plates of waffles and rehashed Margot’s comment. Lucy let Jenny reassure her she and Daniel were not “predictable” and Margot clearly had no idea what she was talking about.
“Maybe I will take his last name,” Lucy said defiantly, cutting her waffle with more gusto than was required.
“Maybe you will.” Jenny pursed her lips and pointed her fork Lucy’s way, matching her tone.
“I can still be a feminist and take my husband’s name.”
“Damn right you can,” Jenny said.
Lucy put down her fork. “Lucy London.” She repeated it a few more times. “Not bad, right?”
“Not bad at all,” Jenny said. “But I’m probably not the one to ask. Jenny Dickie, remember?”
They laughed so hard that Lucy, who had unfortunately just taken a bite of her breakfast, spit the piece of her waffle right into Jenny’s face, which only made them laugh even harder. Then Lucy went home and told Daniel she was going to take his name, after all.
It was Saturday morning—the day after I learned about Daniel—and I had vowed to move on. Yes, I still felt married. But I wasn’t and so refused to indulge any more in the fantasy because Matt deserved better. I deserved better.
When Jenny told me Daniel had married Margot, I initially felt like one does on a roller coaster when the safety bar slams into your chest on a particularly tight drop. It hurt, a lot, and took my breath away. By the time Jenny finally left my place, after I assured her I was okay and made her promise not to call Matt like she wanted to, I was bone tired and unable to keep up the pretense everything was fine. So I locked myself in the bedroom with a bottle of water and one of Matt’s protein bars and refused to come out. It was juvenile and far too dramatic of a reaction, but I needed to be alone.
I scared Matt enough with my refusal to open the door that he called my parents to come over, and the three of them pleaded with me to let them in. Mom said she was making us a pot of tea, and would I come out to have a cup and chat? I’d shouted at her then, “I do not want a cup of tea, Mom! Stop it with all the goddamn tea, okay?” and then felt terrible when I heard her say to Dad she was going to go put the kettle on regardless, in a shaky voice I wasn’t used to hearing from my mother.
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