by A. R. Torre
The gift was small, and I tried to guess at its contents. Maybe a watch? I glanced at my own timepiece—a Cartier lookalike that I’d found on Black Friday years ago. I pulled away the thick cream wrapping paper, unveiling a red box.
“Shake it,” she urged. “Guess what it is.”
I obeyed, feeling like a child as something rattled inside. “Um . . .” I tried for something conservative. “A paperweight?”
She let out a delighted trill. “Oh, you’re terrible at this game. Just open it.”
Setting aside the paper, I worked open the lid to reveal a product box, one cradled atop red tissue paper. My thoughts stalled at the image on the front. Not a watch. Definitely not a watch. I glanced up at her. “Is this—”
“Oh my God, you’re going to love it,” she gushed with a furtive look over her shoulder at the men. “We call it the six-minute orgasm.”
“We?” I turned over the box, the small handheld device looking more like a face massager than a pleasure deliverer. “Who’s we?”
“Well, you know.” She took the torn wrapping paper and gift box from me, and I stared at the vibrator, trying to formulate an appropriate response.
By the time I looked up, my mind still blank, she had worked off her first glove and was getting off her second. A flash of sparkle caught my eye, and I grabbed her wrist, taking a closer look at the gigantic ring on her finger. “Wow. That’s new.”
She blushed. “A surprise present. William gave it to me last night.”
I thought of his lack of texts. His guilt. I turned her hand, examining her new wedding ring in the light. The center stone was at least ten carats. Perfectly cut, with a diamond-covered band. “What’d you do with your old ring?”
She shrugged. “I think I’ll get a matching stone and have earrings made.”
Said in the casual and annoying way of a woman with more diamonds than she knew what to do with. Jealousy twisted my gut, and I fought the urge to hide my own ring. It was barely two carats, a size I used to be joyous over—but it was starting to feel smaller and smaller with time.
“It’s beautiful.” I stared at the stone and tried to see the positive—every time I saw it, I could remember what prompted it. His guilt over sex with me. It was a mini trophy in the battle between us. I just couldn’t tell if it had my name on it or hers. Should I be feeling triumphant or defeated?
“He proposed to me when he gave it to me. Asked me if I’d marry him all over again.” She blinked, and I was surprised to see tears beginning to mat the lashes underneath her eyes.
I yanked a napkin off the top of the stack and offered it to her. “Here.” He asked her to marry him? That was a bad sign. I thought quickly, trying to understand his current mindset.
“And I wanted to thank you.” She grabbed my forearm and squeezed it, the action awkward, considering I still held the sex-toy box. “I don’t know what you said to him, but he says he’s ready to adopt.”
“Really?” My heart fell. Maybe she was lying. After what William and I had just done, there was no way he was talking to her about children. Nausea swelled at the thought of her scooping up a running toddler, his face filled with pride.
He’d be a great dad. Hands-on. Loving. Lots of fun. The kids would go to him for anything they wanted, and he’d let them have it all. They’d never know the slur of his voice when he ridiculed them, or the weight of his body, throwing them against a wall.
That wasn’t how that conversation had been meant to go. When I’d brought up adoption last week, it was with the intent of pointing out Cat’s infertility, planting an image in his head of an alternate future he could have with me—carrying his own baby. A true Winthorpe, not some trashy woman’s rejected infant.
Cat sighed. “I have to admit, you’ve done an amazing job—with the team and with him.”
Something wasn’t right about this. Cat was too warm, too accepting, and I didn’t like the sudden jump in support of my work. She’d all but laughed over my job before, and now she was gushing? Was this all because of the ring? Or was it the new possibility of having a family?
Her arms crushed around me, and I added another likelihood—she was drunk. She pulled away, and I felt unsteady, too many factors suddenly added to this game.
“Anyway . . .” Cat dabbed at her bottom line of lashes and gestured to the vibrator. “I really love mine, and I thought you’d like one, too. You know.” She smirked. “For when Matt is out of town.”
“Oh.” I looked back down at it. “Thank you.”
She studied me for a minute, her beautiful features pinching. “Oh God. I weirded you out, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”
I stopped her. “You didn’t weird me out. Honestly. It’s a great gift. It’s just . . .” I shrugged, grateful for the change in subject. “Thank you.” For this trashy, cheap sex toy.
“Oh, it was nothing.” She pushed off the stool with a big smile. “Now, sit down and let me fix you a drink. We’ve got four hours of time to kill, and I’ve got the juiciest gossip about one of the security guards at the north gate.”
I glanced at the men and opened our junk drawer, slipping the vibrator in among the scissors, pens, and Scotch tape. Following her deeper into the kitchen, I watched as she opened up cabinets and got to work with our drinks. When she dropped the queen-bee act, there were times when she was almost likable.
She reached for a bottle of vodka, and I straightened.
“Oh, wait—I have something chilling for you.” Crouching down, I opened the wine cooler and pulled out the bottle of limoncello that I had purchased for her. I twisted the cap. “I already opened it—had to try a little last night to see what the fuss was all about.” She’d gone on and on at dinner one night about a limoncello vintage that was—in her words—to die for. Both Matt and William had expressed dislike over the lemon liqueur, which I’d never had.
“Wow! I can’t believe you found this.” She swooped forward, picking up the rare edition, which I had spent hours tracking down. I’d ended up ordering it from Italy, the shipping price more than triple what the bottle had cost. “Did you love it?”
“I have to side with Matt and William on this one. It was too sour for me. So—” I gestured to it. “Please, drink up. It’s all for you.”
“Thank you so much.” She beamed, then squeezed me in another hug, and I almost felt guilty for what I was doing. Almost.
Two hours later, the game paused for halftime, and we took the opportunity to sit outside. It was pleasant, looking over the lit pool, the twinkle lights on, our firepit crackling. Though he had done it slowly and complained about his ribs and arm the entire time, Matt had actually gotten off his butt and helped out. With the recent injury, he’d grown more needy, as if his good arm were as useless as his bad. Still, his injury had an upside—his inabilities had given me several opportunities to ask William to come over and fix things or lift heavy items. And while my husband had many shortcomings, ignorance was still one of his strengths.
I passed through the arched opening and spotted our husbands already by the firepit, glasses in hand, the ice drenched in something golden. “That better not be tequila,” I warned the pair as I slipped my arms around Matt.
“Let’s pretend it’s not.” Matt smiled at me, and I rose on my toes, gently planting a kiss on his lips.
I stole his glass and peered at him over the rim, playing the sexy, coy wife. “Let’s pretend I’m not going to steal it from you.” I tipped back his glass and was rewarded by a chuckle from William. A chuckle I ignored, turning my head to call out to Cat. “Need any help?”
From the kitchen, she scooped a slice of my blueberry pie onto a plate and hummed along with the Stanford fight song. “Nah. Just find out who’s eating.”
I glanced at William. “Are you going to eat any of my pie?” I kept my expression blank and innocent, devoid of the playfulness I’d given Matt.
He studied me, trying to understand if I heard the sexual innuendo in the words. “Sure,” he sai
d finally. “I’ll have a piece.”
I would have preferred a comment about much he loved my pie, but I still chalked it up as a step in the right direction.
A round of pie later, I was in the kitchen struggling with a bottle of champagne when William came in, two plates in hand, and gave me an awkward smile. “Here. Let me get that for you.”
“Thanks.” I sighed. “This cork is a pain.”
He took the heavy bottle, our arms brushing, and I forced myself to take a step away. Grabbing a dish towel, I dried off my hands as I watched him. “Look. About the other day . . .” I glanced toward the back deck, Cat and Matt still involved in a heated debate over whether a stop sign was needed at the Rolling Pine intersection. She cupped her glass to her chest, and I was pleased to see the bottle of limoncello beside her, over half of it gone. Were her words slurring yet? “It was a mistake, and all my fault. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again—it can’t happen again.”
He nodded. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I feel the same way. I—”
“Good. That’s a relief.” I blew out a breath and managed an awkward laugh. “I was worried that you would want to . . .”
“Wanting shouldn’t be part of the equation,” he said quietly, his forearms flexing as he popped the cork, the sound adding an exclamation point to the end of the statement.
“No,” I agreed, letting my own voice fall to match his, and injected a hint of yearning into the single syllable. I cleared my throat. “So, we’re agreed. Never again.”
“Never again.” He nodded, holding my gaze, and I warmed at the sexual tension that crackled between us.
Wanting to end on a high note, I turned to the cabinet and plucked out a fresh flute. I took my time in pouring the champagne, listening as William’s steps rounded the island and headed toward the sofa, the kickoff in progress.
Another woman might have seen the conversation as a fail, but I knew exactly what I was doing.
I stuck my head out the back door to call Matt in, and paused, my back stiffening as I saw him take a sip from Cat’s glass. He paused, then took another. I heard her giggle and strode out to the pair. “What are you doing?” I snatched the glass from his hand and shoved it at Cat. “You hate limoncello.”
“Aw, I convinced him to give it another try. Like I said, this one is amazing. It’s like candy.” She put her hand on Matt’s arm, and I stared at the contact, hoping her fingers would turn black and rot off. “Isn’t it? Tell me that you didn’t enjoy it.”
He blushed under her attention, and I glared at him, daring him to agree. Catching my look, he straightened. “It’s, uh, still not for me. Too sour.”
“The game’s back on,” I said sharply. “We should get inside.”
“Oh, sure.” Cat stood, reaching for the bottle. She misjudged the distance, and I flinched when the bottle tilted off the table and fell toward the tile. There was a sharp crack as it landed, and I jumped back as glass and liqueur shot in all directions. Cat cursed and whirled to me with an anguished expression. “Oh, Neena, I’m so sorry. I must—” She swayed to one side, and I wished William were here to see what a mess she was.
“Don’t worry about it,” I bit out. “I’ll clean it up. Go sit in the living room and keep William company. Matt, you, too. I don’t want you to miss the game.”
“But you went to all that—that workkkk to find it.” She slurred the word and sank into a wobbly crouch, picking up glass shards and collecting them in her palm. “I’m so sowrrry.”
“Seriously, stop.” I pulled on her arm and got her upright. “I’ve got this.”
Matt stepped carefully over the broken bottle, his cast held high, as if he were wading through waist-deep water. Coaxing Cat into the living room, he led the way, pausing to assist when she tripped over the transom.
She should really go home. She couldn’t be feeling well. After cleaning up the mess, I’d suggest it.
I took my time sweeping the broken pieces into a dustpan, then went over the floor with a dry mop, then a wet one. By the time I made it back to the living room, Cat was curled into the right side of the sofa, her heels off, feet tucked underneath her. Her face looked almost gray, and I studied her carefully as I took the chair closest to William. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Not . . . great, actually.” She put a hand on her stomach.
“Would you like to lie down in the guest room? Or head home? Please, don’t feel like you have to stick out the game.” The offers were delivered perfectly, with just the right amount of concern.
“I think I will actually head home.” She reached down and grabbed her shoes.
“Really?” William leaned toward her, concern pinching his features. “Is it your stomach or your head?”
“It’s more like—” She stood, and whatever she was about to say was lost in the forward heave of her body, one that shot a projectile of bloodred vomit all over the front of William’s shirt.
CHAPTER 34
CAT
The vomiting didn’t stop. I left Neena and Matt’s with a paper bag in hand, William running next door to grab our car and pick me up out front. Neena cooed with concern as William opened my door and carefully helped me into the front seat. My vision blurred, and I clutched at his shoulder, relieved when he helped with my seat belt.
“She probably just needs to lie down,” Neena said to William, so quietly that I had to strain to hear the words. “She’s drunk. She’ll sleep it off and be fine in the morning.”
She was wrong. My freshman year of college, I held the chugging record of our sorority. I’ve gone shot for shot with grown men on Valencia Street. I knew what drunk felt like, and this was something else. This felt like, if I took dear Neena’s advice and went to sleep, I’d never wake up. This felt like my stomach was tearing into two and rotting from the inside out. All this had been a mistake. Coming over today. Drinking so much. Eating that nasty chili and stuffing my face with meatballs.
“I’m going to take her to the hospital to be safe.”
“We’ll come with you.” Matt, sweetheart that he was, spoke up without hesitation. “I can follow you in our car.”
“The hospital?” Neena said with an awkward laugh. “William, she’s drunk. Or maybe she has a stomach bug. And Matt, there’s vomit everywhere. I need to clean that up before it sets.”
“We’re going to the hospital,” Matt said firmly. “William, I’ll bring you a clean shirt, unless you want to grab one from my closet before you go.”
“If you can bring one, that would be great. I want to get her there as soon as possible. Neena, thank you for the food and drinks.”
She protested again, but William was already rounding the front of the car and opening the driver’s door, settling in the seat next to me. He reached over and grabbed my hand. “Sit tight, sweetie. I’ll have you at the hospital in just a few minutes.”
A cramp hit my abdomen, and I gasped in pain. “Please hurry.”
“Poisoned?” An hour later, William squinted at the doctor as if he didn’t understand the word. “With what?”
I lay back on the hospital bed and stared at the doctor, trying to keep up with the conversation.
“We’ll know in a few hours. We’ve sent off the stomach contents for testing. In a case like this, we would normally contact the authorities before sharing the information with you. That being said, we understand that this is a delicate situation and wanted to present you with the option of whether to include the police.”
A delicate situation. What an interesting way to refer to the millions of dollars we donated every year. If I had a broken arm and black eye, would we be afforded the same privilege? William looked at me, and we had a long moment of silent communication. I returned my attention to the doctor. “Can you tell how long ago I ate—or drank—whatever made me sick?”
“Sometime in the last few hours. You’re lucky you came right in. We were able to pump out what you didn’t vomit up before the body had a chance to metabolize th
e chemicals into toxic acids. Once that happened, you could have gone into metabolic acidosis.”
William nodded, as if that jumble of words meant anything, and to him, it might have.
“So, the last twelve hours.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight thirty.
“You had a bagel at breakfast,” William reminded me.
“Right. With coffee and fruit.” I struggled to remember the contents of the plate, which I’d enjoyed on the garden balcony along with my new novel. “Mango and blueberries. There was, um . . . avocado and a poached egg on the bagel.”
“We skipped lunch,” William remarked. “I remember you mentioning how hungry you were on the way to the Ryders’.”
“How did you feel during the day? Any loss of coordination? Fatigue? Headache? Nausea?” The machine beside me began a series of beeps, and the doctor reached over, pressing buttons until the sound ceased.
I frowned, thinking. After a period of time, I shook my head. “I really didn’t start feeling off until halftime of the game. I remember going to the bathroom and feeling queasy.” I gave a rueful laugh. “I thought it was just the alcohol going to my head.”
“The Ryders—those are your friends out in the hallway?”
We both nodded, and the doctor made a notation on his clipboard. “What did you eat at their home?”
“Meatballs and chili. And limoncello.” William answered for me, then tilted his head, thinking. “Did you drink anything other than the limoncello?”
“A glass of water, once.” Neena had extended the glass with a knowing look, as if I were making a fool of myself and needed to slow down. I thought of her new couch, now splattered with my vomit, and hoped it was drying in the creases, staining it forever.
“I’m not saying that ethylene glycol was the culprit, but it has a very sweet taste. It could have been in food but was most likely in your drink. Limoncello would have easily masked it.”
“Antifreeze?” William blanched. “You think she drank antifreeze?”
