Page 54 of Caught in a Storm
The news and gossip sites have been vague about exactly where Margot is staying. Baltimore is a small town, though. A middle-aged rock star shuffling up and down Roland Avenue en route to the coffee shop every morning gets some attention. Last week, the Baltimore Sun printed a picture of her in the style section petting a dog in front of Eddie’s Market. Neighbors have started slowing when they pass Robyn and Aaron’s house on their morning jogs and evening walks.
“Hey, Aaron. Hey, Robyn. What’ssss…uhhh…new with you guys?”
She tells Trevor yes, that she lives in Roland Park, hoping to leave it at that. He takes a step closer, though. “What’s she like?” he whispers. “Margot Hammer. Is she, like, cool?”
Yes, she is cool. Margot Hammer is impossibly cool, with her roughed-up jeans and tattoos and windswept hair. She’s also quiet and weirdly stone-faced. Robyn is nervous around her because she’s never been around a famous person before. And she’s prettier in person than Robyn gave her credit for when Robyn was young and jealous. Margot’s eyes are striking, and she gives off this aura of not caring about anything, which is intimidating. She has laugh lines, but she makes them look badass. And she and Billy play music together on the other side of the driveway at all hours, and sometimes she hears them laughing.
The other day Robyn made up a reason to go to the garage, and she stood perfectly quiet looking up at the garage ceiling, wondering if Margot and Billy might be having sex up there. Because that’s what new couples do: they have sex. She wondered if that applies to people in their forties, though. She also wondered what it would be like to have sex with Billy when you’d previously had sex with Lawson Daniels. Is it possible to enjoy it, or does having sex with Lawson Daniels render all other men simply not Lawson Daniels?
Robyn doesn’t go over any of this with Trevor, because it would be wildly inappropriate, particularly the sex part. Plus, she needs to leave immediately. She stands and grabs her jacket. She considers switching to the cushy sneakers she keeps under her desk but opts to stay with the heels she’s wearing. She may not be a rock star, but her legs look great in these awful things. “Weren’t you like five years old when she was famous?” she asks.
Trevor laughs. “Um, not sure if you’re on the socials much, Robyn, but…she’s pretty famous again.”
* * *
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In the elevator, Robyn digs her phone out of her purse. Caleb taught her about the search functions on Twitter and Instagram the other day, so she’s advanced from social media voyeurism to full-on cyberstalking.
She thumbs out “Margot Hammer” and sees pictures of the drummer in Roland Park and videos of her playing at the Horse. There’s Margot writing in a little notepad at the coffee shop. She sees a picture posted by someone she doesn’t know in which Margot is standing under Caleb’s basketball hoop looking up at birds. I saw her! the caption reads, and there are tongue and guitar emojis. The post has 427 likes. “Jesus,” says Robyn, because she is 100 percent certain that she doesn’t even know 427 people.
At the crosswalk outside her building, she types “Margot and Billy,” and there they are, no last names required.
Luv them.
Good for her.
Go Margot!
Team Margot 4LYFE
Is it weird that this gives me hope?
Suck it Lawson Daniels!
Find a guy who looks at you like Billy looks at Margot!!!!
That last one was posted by HellaBella93, and she has a point. In the image, Billy is looking at Margot the way an infatuated teenager would, and it’s impossible not to remember when Billy used to look at Robyn like that.
Another post reads: i luv them, but i kinda love him more!!! #luckymargot
Robyn gets it. He was easy to love; he still is. Last Saturday, she was in her driveway watering flowers. Billy opened the apartment windows and played “Rhiannon” by Fleetwood Mac on the Steinway, which he knows is Robyn’s all-time favorite song. “Rob!” he shouted. “These acoustics! I’m never leaving this place!”
She closes Twitter and opens Instagram, where she finds a video titled “Why I Love Margot & Billy.” A girl with pink hair and thick-framed glasses wears a T-shirt with cats on it.
“Okay, so, yeah,” the video girl says, “my hot take? How could we not love Margot and Billy? The world’s the worst, right? Death, disease, the Supreme Court…the patriarchy! And then along comes this rainbow of happiness. We love Margot and Billy because they’re something good and sweet in a pretty shitty world. I just hope I find my Billy. If you’re out there, hit me up, Boo.”
“Oh, get a life,” says Robyn.
Now she stands at the foot of another tall building downtown. She closes Instagram, checks her email. She was due on the twelfth floor five minutes ago in office 2112A. A quick text to Aaron. On my way up.
* * *
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Two women in business-casual dresses look down at Robyn’s heels in the elevator, and she feels good about them—like a power move. When the door opens, the ladies hustle off in their lunchtime Nikes.
Inside 2112A, a young receptionist looks up. “Hi. Robyn, right?”
