Page 31 of Caught in a Storm
Her phone buzzes. Rebecca Yang again. She considers answering but doesn’t. When Rebecca’s name disappears, her daughter’s pops up again with a new text.
Are you ignoring me?
Margot sees the video file again, attached to Poppy’s previous text. She holds her thumb over the image from YouTube. The last video she watched of herself—her MTV meltdown—is still burned onto her brain.
A guy wearing a sweater passes. It’s not a cardigan, but she thinks of Billy anyway. Cardigans don’t work for everyone, but they work for Billy, and she imagines him letting her wear one of his. It’d be too big for her, of course, but it’d be so warm.
“Jesus,” she says to no one. “What’s wrong with you?”
The light turns red again. She’s been standing there spaced out like a drunk tourist through the walk signal, so now she’s stuck for another cycle. There are people to her left and right. Someone whispers to someone behind her. Four blocks up, one of Lawson’s billboards looms over the street. She knows that it’s there, because she’s been avoiding it for weeks.
The light turns green again, finally. “You know what?” she whispers. “Fuck it.”
* * *
—
In New York, a few blocks in any direction can mean a wholesale change of climate. Going this way, it’s windy and cool, so Margot buttons her jean jacket. She looks at her phone and nearly crashes into a sign about street cleaning. Finally, holding her breath, she taps the video.
Her reaction to seeing herself is visceral, like rain down the back of her shirt. She barely hears the audio, but she can see by her drumming that it’s the last few seconds of the Prince cover. Only Emma and Margot are visible. Emma is facing Margot, singing and playing, while Margot drums. Emma jumps, strums one last time, and Margot lets the cymbals crash and reverberate to silence while people cheer.
Whoever took the video follows Margot with their phone, zooms in on her as she walks offstage. There’s Billy in his cardigan.
It’s funny how dumb our memories are. She’s been thinking about him a lot, but she’d forgotten exactly what he looks like. She remembered his sweater being black, but it’s more of a gray. He’s taller than she thought. His face is nice—friendly. She watches him as he waits for her to talk to the bartender. It was the moment when Beth offered her free Natty Boh for life. Then, when Billy holds his right palm up for a high five, Margot sees what Poppy was talking about.
“Shit,” she says.
Yes, Margot Hammer is capable of smiling. But the smile she sees on her phone now is so big and bright that it causes her to stop walking. She looks up to get her bearings, which is when she sees the giant billboard of Lawson. Along with not smiling much, Margot doesn’t laugh often either. She has to now, though, because there are currently two men on scaffolding removing her ex-husband. They sway in the breeze, fearless in their helmets and straps, chiseling away at his face.
“Hello, you bastard,” Margot whispers, then she opens FaceTime.
Poppy answers. “Did you watch it? Tell me you watched it.”
“Okay, yeah,” she says. “I get it.”
Poppy emits a delighted squeal. “See? I don’t mean to sound like an old man here, but you really are pretty when you smile.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.” Poppy is at her workstation. She looks around, draws her face closer to her phone. “Also, there’s this. I’m sending you an image. Us Weekly just posted it.”
“Oh Jesus,” she says.
Her phone vibrates. Margot clicks on Poppy’s text and immediately sees herself twice: two images side by side. On the left is the picture she’s been avoiding for years: Lawson carrying her. On the right is a still frame from the video taken seconds after high-fiving Billy. Margot as a young rock star in a dress, as happy as she’d ever been. Middle-aged Margot in a dive bar beside Billy. Her smiles are identical—two moments of joy divided by decades. Us Weekly’s caption reads: “Good for You, Margot Hammer.”
“This guy, Mum,” says Poppy. “You should go see him. In Baltimore. Surprise him.”
Margot walks a few steps, stops again. “You mean just go there? Like, show up? I shouldn’t call him first?”
“Nobody calls anyone anymore. Just go. He’ll be thrilled.”
Margot doesn’t have his number anyway, and there’s something exciting about the thought of the look on his face when he sees her, exciting in a way that makes her feel a little sick to her stomach.
“Oh, by the way,” says Poppy. “You’re trending on Twitter.”
“I don’t even know what that means. I just—”
“What did he say the last time you saw him?”
