Page 34 of Meant to Be

“Um…yeah,” I said. “I mentioned it.”

“And what did she say about it?” she said, the questions now rapid-fire.

“She told me not to call her.”

“She didn’t approve?”

I nodded, my face getting hotter. “What does it matter what Berry thought? Or when I got the card? The point is, I didn’t call her—”

“Then why do you still have this? In your wallet?”

I shrugged and told her I didn’t know.

She stared at me for what felt like a long time, then put the card on the table, with the “Cate” side up. She looked at it for a few seconds before sliding it across the table at me.

“Well, it’s not too late,” Margaret said.

I shook my head, picked up the card, and tore it in half, feeling a strange pang.

Margaret was stone-faced for several seconds before she took a deep breath and said, “Look, Joe…I don’t think I can do this.”

“Do what?” I said.

“Be with you.”

I laughed nervously and said, “Because of a girl’s phone number? Who I didn’t even call?”

“Because of a lot of things,” she said. “It’s just too much…. Being with you…it’s too hard.”

“Wait. Is this about thePost?” I said, referencing the article they’d just run listing “Five things you might not have known about Margaret Braswell.” All five facts were positive—or at least neutral—but she still loathed the attention.

“Yes and no…I’m just not very good at this….” Her voice trailed off.

“Yes, you are,” I said. “The press loves you.”

“Until they don’t,” she said—which was pretty damn insightful, par for the course for Margaret. She paused, then said, “Joe…I know you’re going to run for office one day…and the attention on you will only get more intense….”

“No way,” I said. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want that?”

She stared at me, her expression changing. “Okay, Joe. Tell me…whatdoyou want?”

“I’m fine being a lawyer,” I said. “For now.”

“For now,” she echoed, as if I’d just confirmed her point.

I started to say something defensive, but stopped myself, doubling down. “Yes. Fornow. I mean…I don’t think I have to have everything mapped out in my early thirties, do I?”

She took a deep breath, as if gathering all her reserves. “Here’s the thing, Joe. I don’t think you know what you want. Orwhoyou want.”

“That’s not true, Margaret,” I said.

She stared back at me.

“I wantyou,” I said, at that moment meaning it.

Margaret shook her head. “You don’t know who you wantbecause you don’t know who youare. The whole world thinks they know you…but you don’t even know yourself.”

I could tell she wasn’t trying to be mean—Margaret was never mean—but her words still cut me.

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