Read Online Love the One You're With by Emily Giffin - Free Book Online
Authors: Emily Giffin
Tags: marni 05/21/2014
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put in our hometown. She’d subtly attack, and I’d subtly defend. It was almost as if she resented me for leaving Pittsburgh for good. Or worse, she assumed that I felt superior—which was completely untrue. In all the important ways, I felt like the exact same person I had always been. I was just exposed to more. I had a layer of sophistication and worldliness that comes with living in a big city, and frankly, being around the Grahams. “Intimidated by what?”
“I don’t know. By his looks? His money? His whole slickster, tennis boy, agent bag?”
“He’s not really a slickster,” I said, trying to remember what exactly I had told Suzanne about Webb in the past. She had an infallible memory—that she often used against me. “He’s actually pretty down-to-earth.”
“A down-to-earth multimillionaire, huh?” she said.
“Well, yes, actually,” I said, thinking that I had long since learned that you couldn’t lump all people with money into one category. The wealthy were as varied as the downtrodden. Some were hardworking, some lazy. Some self-made, some born with a silver spoon. Some modest and understated, some ostentatious braggarts. But Suzanne’s views had never evolved beyond our Dallas and Dynasty and Love Boat watching days (my sister and I watched a lot of television growing up, unlike Andy and Margot who were limited to a half-hour per day). To Suzanne, every “rich” person (a term she used derisively) was the same: soft, selfish, and likely “a lying snake of a Republican.”
“Okay, then,” she said. “So maybe you’re just intimidated by the fact that he belongs in Margot’s world, and you … don’t.”
I thought it was a harsh and narrow-minded thing to say and told her as much. I went on to say that I was well beyond such adolescent insecurities, and that the intimidation factor ended in college sometime after sorority rush when Margot was swept up in a sea of blond, BMW-driving debutantes, and I had incorrectly feared that her going Greek would dilute our friendship. Moreover, I told my sister that I clearly did belong in Margot’s world. She was my best friend and roommate. And I was likely going to marry her brother, for God’s sake.
“Okay. Sorry,” Suzanne said, sounding not at all sorry. She shrugged as she took a bite of her burger. She chewed and swallowed slowly, took a long drink of Coke from her straw and said with annoyed sarcasm, “It was just a theory. Please forgive me.”
I forgave her, as I could never stay mad at Suzanne—but I didn’t soon forget it. In fact, the next time Andy and I went out to dinner with Webb and Margot, I fretted that my sister was right. Maybe I was the odd woman out. Maybe Margot would finally come to her senses about how different we were and Webb would steal her away for good. Maybe Webb really was an elitist snob, and he just hid it well.
But as the evening wore on, and I paid close attention to him and all his mannerisms, I decided that Suzanne truly was off the mark. There was nothing not to like about Webb. He was a genuinely good guy. It was just an inexplicable disconnect with another person. Webb gave me the same feeling I had as a kid when I slept over at a friend’s house and discovered an odd smell in their basement or a foreign cereal selection in their cupboard. He didn’t intimidate me; he didn’t offend me; he didn’t worry me with respect to Margot. He just made me feel vaguely … homesick . Homesick for what, I wasn’t sure.
But despite this, I was determined to bond with Webb on some nonsuperficial level. Or, at the very least, get to the comfortable stage of things where we could be alone in a room together and I wouldn’t be casting about, hoping for a third party’s return.
So when Margot passes Webb the phone now, and he booms a confident “Hey, there!” into the phone, I pump up my own volume to match his exuberance and give him an enthusiastic, “Congratulations! I’m so happy for
“I don’t know. By his looks? His money? His whole slickster, tennis boy, agent bag?”
“He’s not really a slickster,” I said, trying to remember what exactly I had told Suzanne about Webb in the past. She had an infallible memory—that she often used against me. “He’s actually pretty down-to-earth.”
“A down-to-earth multimillionaire, huh?” she said.
“Well, yes, actually,” I said, thinking that I had long since learned that you couldn’t lump all people with money into one category. The wealthy were as varied as the downtrodden. Some were hardworking, some lazy. Some self-made, some born with a silver spoon. Some modest and understated, some ostentatious braggarts. But Suzanne’s views had never evolved beyond our Dallas and Dynasty and Love Boat watching days (my sister and I watched a lot of television growing up, unlike Andy and Margot who were limited to a half-hour per day). To Suzanne, every “rich” person (a term she used derisively) was the same: soft, selfish, and likely “a lying snake of a Republican.”
“Okay, then,” she said. “So maybe you’re just intimidated by the fact that he belongs in Margot’s world, and you … don’t.”
I thought it was a harsh and narrow-minded thing to say and told her as much. I went on to say that I was well beyond such adolescent insecurities, and that the intimidation factor ended in college sometime after sorority rush when Margot was swept up in a sea of blond, BMW-driving debutantes, and I had incorrectly feared that her going Greek would dilute our friendship. Moreover, I told my sister that I clearly did belong in Margot’s world. She was my best friend and roommate. And I was likely going to marry her brother, for God’s sake.
“Okay. Sorry,” Suzanne said, sounding not at all sorry. She shrugged as she took a bite of her burger. She chewed and swallowed slowly, took a long drink of Coke from her straw and said with annoyed sarcasm, “It was just a theory. Please forgive me.”
I forgave her, as I could never stay mad at Suzanne—but I didn’t soon forget it. In fact, the next time Andy and I went out to dinner with Webb and Margot, I fretted that my sister was right. Maybe I was the odd woman out. Maybe Margot would finally come to her senses about how different we were and Webb would steal her away for good. Maybe Webb really was an elitist snob, and he just hid it well.
But as the evening wore on, and I paid close attention to him and all his mannerisms, I decided that Suzanne truly was off the mark. There was nothing not to like about Webb. He was a genuinely good guy. It was just an inexplicable disconnect with another person. Webb gave me the same feeling I had as a kid when I slept over at a friend’s house and discovered an odd smell in their basement or a foreign cereal selection in their cupboard. He didn’t intimidate me; he didn’t offend me; he didn’t worry me with respect to Margot. He just made me feel vaguely … homesick . Homesick for what, I wasn’t sure.
But despite this, I was determined to bond with Webb on some nonsuperficial level. Or, at the very least, get to the comfortable stage of things where we could be alone in a room together and I wouldn’t be casting about, hoping for a third party’s return.
So when Margot passes Webb the phone now, and he booms a confident “Hey, there!” into the phone, I pump up my own volume to match his exuberance and give him an enthusiastic, “Congratulations! I’m so happy for