The Life Lucy Knew

“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?

11

“You know, I’ve never had sex in the water,” Lucy said to Daniel, shifting her body between his legs and leaning back against his chest, the hot water in the bathtub pushing up the sides, threatening to spill over the edge. There were pink rose petals floating on the surface of the water, the heady floral scent enveloping them, seeping into their pores. Two glasses of red wine, nearly empty, were on the tub’s ledge. Daniel wrapped his arms around her, kissed the side of her face, her outstretched neck. She shivered and goose bumps prickled across her exposed arms.

“Really?” he murmured, still nibbling her neck. “How did I not know this?”

She shrugged against him. “You don’t know everything about me,” she said, smiling back at him. “I still have some secrets.”

“I’m sure you do,” Daniel said. “This revelation is giving me so many—” He stopped talking to take his mouth lower, onto the delicate skin of her collarbone. Lucy closed her eyes, felt the way his body changed under hers and wished they had more time.

In about an hour a room full of their closest friends and family would toast their engagement with champagne and far-too-pricy appetizers, and choosing this bath over quick showers had already guaranteed they were thirty minutes behind schedule. “So, so many ideas.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” Her heart beat quickly. She knew they needed to get out of the bath and into party clothes, but she didn’t want to. Not quite yet. Lucy moved one of Daniel’s hands lower, until it sank under the water and settled between her legs. “Maybe something like this?”

“Exactly what I had in mind,” Daniel murmured, moving his hand with precision, the gentle pressure and warm water a delicious combination. She sucked in a breath, opened her legs wider so they pressed against the sides of the bathtub, her left kneecap connecting hard with the overhanging faucet. Later, visible because of her above-the-knee cocktail dress, a crescent-shaped bruise would form on her knee, but the pain barely registered now because of what Daniel was doing to her. “I think this will get us in a more celebratory mood, don’t you?”

She couldn’t speak, was too focused on what was building between her thighs, throughout the rest of her body. As his fingers became more purposeful, she arched against him and moaned, no longer caring about the water that now splashed over the edge of the tub. Afterward, she lay breathless against him, eyes closed. “You were right,” she murmured. “I definitely feel like celebrating now.”

“Good,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. “But if we’re already late, why not a few minutes more? We could do something about your bucket list right now.” He slapped his palm down on the water’s surface gently, causing a few ripples. “We have water, and I’m sort of an expert.”

“An expert?” Lucy laughed, twisted her neck so she could look at him. “Besides, I’m not sure I’d call it a bucket list item, and we don’t have room in here for that.”

He looked down at their naked bodies filling every spare inch of the bathtub. “I’m willing to give it a try if you are.”

“Hmm, tempting, but I have a feeling we’ll end up regretting that decision. The last thing we need tonight is a pulled muscle.” She kissed him, and though she was still in the afterglow of the orgasm, she was also beginning to feel the pressure of the ticking clock. “I’d say we have about three minutes before we have to shift into panic mode.”

He groaned, laid his head back against the tub’s ledge. “Do we have to go?” He sounded like a petulant middle schooler being told to hurry because the school bell was ringing soon.

Lucy sat up and turned to face him. “Yes, we have to go. If we didn’t show, I’m not sure which mother would kill us first.”

He laughed, deep from his belly, and then grabbed her in a hug from behind. “Definitely yours.”

“You’re probably right,” she said. Lucy’s parents were fairly laid-back, liked to refer to themselves as “free range”—and that had been mostly true during Lucy’s childhood. She and Alex were allowed to play outside on the street even after it got dark, were expected to do their own laundry and make school lunches, and they never once complained about the state of Lucy and Alex’s bedroom. But along with turning the lights off when you left a room, their mother was militant about lateness. Once, Alex had slept in the day they were driving to Boston to visit their cousins and wasn’t in the car at the predetermined time—7:00 a.m. sharp—and so their mother had put the car in Drive and left fifteen-year-old Alex at home, even as Lucy cried (she was only nine and couldn’t imagine how Alex could survive the four days alone).

Lucy disentangled herself from Daniel and stood in the tub, shivering as she grabbed a towel. She plucked a few of the pink petals that clung to her wet skin, then patted her body dry before bending at the waist to wrap the towel around her hair. Daniel was right behind her, planted a kiss on the goose-bumped skin on her shoulder before grabbing his own towel and aggressively rubbing it against his arms and legs, like he was trying to exfoliate with it. “I will never understand why you use your towel for your hair when you’re so clearly freezing,” he said.

She was already applying body lotion, starting to warm up now that she was dry. “One of life’s great mysteries.”

He laughed and wrapped his arms around her body as they locked eyes in the mirror. Lucy gave him her most serious look. “Daniel, stop. We do not have time.” She glanced at her phone on the vanity. Mom was going to blow a gasket. “We’re already going to be late.”

In a flash Daniel whipped off his towel and pulled her toward the bedroom, then tossed her, laughing, onto the bed. The towel fell off her head and the wet strands of hair stuck to her back and shoulders. “Seriously, we don’t have time!” But her protests were lost in her laughter as Daniel jumped into bed beside her, snuggling both of them under the duvet.

“If we’re already going to be late...” he said, grinning, his own damp hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes.

Lucy thought once more of her mom’s inevitable irritation, and of their friends who would be standing there waiting for them to arrive—the champagne perfectly chilled and ready to pop—then said with a sly grin, “What’s another few minutes?”

* * *

They arrived at the Thompson Hotel, where the engagement party was being held, nearly an hour late. It was hard to say which mother was angrier, though after some discussion they decided they had been right with the earlier guess. While Daniel’s mom was visibly displeased—telling because she was the stoic sort who rarely showed emotion—she did express relief they weren’t hurt after they said their taxi driver was in a fender bender (which did not happen, but was completely plausible).

But Lucy’s mother would have none of this excuse. She was onto them the minute her younger daughter opened her mouth—Lucy had never had much luck trying to feed her mother anything but the truth, so should have known better. But at least she didn’t call them out on it in front of everyone. Merely narrowed her eyes before saying, “Well, how awful. I’m so glad it wasn’t more serious.” Dad hugged Lucy tightly, while Daniel’s father, a personal injury attorney, had a dozen questions for his son about the accident and what happened. Luckily Daniel’s mother shut that down quickly, reminding everyone they were here for a party and the champagne had been waiting long enough, and Obviously everyone is fine, so let’s get on with things.

And despite lamenting the social gathering—Daniel was raised on a regular diet of parties and events thrown by his high-society parents and had developed a severe aversion to anything requiring black tie—Daniel relaxed as soon as he got a couple of drinks in him. They danced and sashayed among friends, chatted politely with their parents’ acquaintances and extended families, and by midnight only a handful of die-hards remained, including Lucy and Daniel, Jenny, Margot, Alexis and her current beau, Allen, who was a performance artist (Lucy had to laugh watching Mrs. London attempt to understand what it was he did for a living).

Jenny, Margot, Alex and Lucy kicked off their shoes, then stole a full bottle of top-shelf Scotch and a glass off the bar and headed up to the rooftop, giggling drunkenly as they did. Lucy poured the glass full to the top and it was passed down the line while they leaned against the rooftop’s ledge, enjoying the warm night and the very expensive booze Daniel’s parents were paying for.

“So, Mrs. London,” Jenny said, after a big sip from the communal glass, “when’s the first garden party?” The rest of them broke into sloppy laughter, and Lucy snorted.

“Screw you, Jenny,” she said, taking a sip straight from the bottle. The Scotch warmed a path right to her belly. “There is only one Mrs. London, and she’s downstairs.”

Margot raised a brow. “You’re not taking his name?”

“Of course she isn’t,” Alex said, grabbing the bottle of Scotch and taking a swig. She wiped her mouth with her arm and hiccuped. “We’re Sparks girls. Forever and ever, right, Luce?” She threw an arm around her little sister and kissed her on the side of the head.

“I’m sort of surprised.” Margot swirled the remaining finger of Scotch in the glass before tipping it back.

“You are?” Lucy asked, spinning out from under her sister’s arm to look at Margot. “Why?” For whatever reason, even in her drunken state, Margot’s opinion mattered a lot to Lucy.

Margot shrugged at Lucy’s surprise. “You seem the type.”

Lucy was immediately offended, despite believing there was nothing wrong with wanting to take your husband’s name...even if she didn’t want to. But Margot’s words stung. You seem the type? Was that a diss or a compliment? Maybe she saw Lucy as confident enough in who she was for it not to matter if she gave up her maiden name.

Jenny murmured something about how she would for sure take her husband’s name, because her last name hadn’t been the easiest to live with.

Alex snort-laughed and said, “I don’t know. ‘Jenny Dickie’ has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

But Lucy decided she was too drunk to sort out what Margot meant, so better to come right out and ask. “The type?” she finally said, turning to Margot. “What does that even mean?”

Margot pushed off the wall, then came to stand right in front of her. “It means nothing. Don’t get worked up, okay?” Then with only a few inches between them, she leaned in and gave Lucy a quick kiss, right on the lips. The move erased any response Lucy might have given, and she found herself slightly breathless. “I should have said he’s the type,” Margot added, smirking.

Daniel’s the type? The type to what? Want his wife to take his family’s name?

They had discussed it, the whole last name thing, after Daniel proposed. And while he admitted he would have preferred them to share a surname, he was fine with whatever she wanted to do. Lucy was about to announce all of this, felt the need to defend Daniel and her feminism, but by the time she pulled herself together, Margot was already walking back toward the stairs. “Come on, ladies. We’re out of booze, and therefore possibilities, up here.”

They stumbled behind her, Lucy touching her lips as she did, which were still slightly tacky from Margot’s gloss. A few shots of tequila later Lucy 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.

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