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Margo still thought that Will believed her when she said she was going out with The Girls, but he knew she found them basic and boring, and had simply been using them as an alibi: By Will’s count, she had been out with Owen three times in the last two weeks. (If Margo really wanted to cover her tracks, she’d have insisted Owen drop her off around the corner and not right outside the house, where they could be observed from the landing window.)
At first, Will had been uncertain how he felt about this apparent rekindling: He had been witness to the first theatrical run of their relationship, and it had ended in a nine-hour labor and lots of foul language. But Owen seemed to have gotten his shit together in the years since. God knew Margo was a different woman now. An incredible one. She’d raised a headstrong, annoying, weird, and brilliant kid. She’d practically raised Will, too. Good for her, he reckoned. At least one person in this family deserves to be happy.
“Mind if I tag along?” he asked, curious to know if he could call her bluff.
“And have you dripping your misery all over my evening?” Margo tsked. “Absolutely not.”
“Ouch.”
“I already have one moody teenager to contend with, and they are at a mate’s house. Which means it is my night off. If you want company, call one of your friends.”
“April’s busy.”
“You might be at a low ebb right now, but I know even you have more than one friend.”
“I’m not talking to him,” said Will.
“I’m not talking to him,” Margo parroted in a high-pitched, petulant tone. “Honestly, Will, it’s knackering enough parenting Dylan. Grow up.”
“I…” Will fidgeted with one of the many tasseled cushions on Margo’s bed. “I was really harsh to him. What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“He might not.”
“So—”
“But you’ll never know if you don’t cowgirl up and reach out.” Margo finally turned away from her reflection to face Will fully. “Jordan might be a pretty-boy twerp with more followers than sense, but real friends are a rarity, Will. And far, far more important than whatever men might come in and out of your life. You know I know what I’m talking about.”
Will fidgeted with the pillow in his lap. “I do,” he said.
“Right. So, are you going to be a big boy and call your friend? Or are you going to lie in bed reading The Song of Achilles for the sixth time?”
Will grimaced. “Patroclus is a nause. I should really call Jordan.”
Margo smiled. “Good. Anyway. I’m off.” She gave her hair one more playful ruffle in the mirror for good measure, picked up a glittery clutch, and headed for the door.
“Don’t wait up,” she said. “Oh, and Will?”
“Yeah?”
“Get out of my room.”
* * *
•••••••••
Will was certain that he would have worked up the courage to contact Jordan eventually. But the little bitch called him first.
“Are you coming?” he said as soon as Will picked up.
“Jordan?” Will asked, and he could practically hear him rolling his eyes.
“No, it’s the tooth fairy,” came the reply. “Now are you coming or not?”
“Coming where?” Will asked. “Jordan, I’ve been meaning to call you. I just want to say—”
“No time for that now,” Jordan said, his voice brisk. “I’ve just texted you the details.”
Will’s phone chirped, and he glanced down at what Jordan had just sent him:
