by Lexie Ray
“Seriously!” Jane groused. “You two are so boring. Brock, I want something juicy, goddamn it!”
“Fine,” Brock said, smiling easily. “Never have I ever masturbated while living alone in the woods.”
Both of them looked at me expectantly as I flushed heavily, hoping the flashing lights of the club helped conceal my shame a little bit. I hesitated just a moment longer before lifting my glass to my lips and taking a sip.
“That’s hot,” Brock commented as Jane cackled and clapped her hands.
The more we played the game, the drunker I got and the looser my lips became. Jane and Brock were able to guess at some of the things I’d done while out in the woods with Jonathan (“Never have I ever had sex in the great outdoors”) and they delighted in discovering little things about our sex life.
Brock’s commentary, however, became downright disturbing.
“Man, oh man,” he said when I confirmed that I’d never been in a threesome. “Jonathan just isn’t the guy I used to know.”
“Of course he isn’t,” Jane said, thoroughly drunk. “He isn’t the guy anyone used to know.”
“Is there something wrong with the way he is now?” I challenged. “The way he is now is the way I love him.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brock said. “He’s a loveable guy or whatever. I get that. But he used to be a Casanova, man. It was epic. I was jealous.”
“You took notes from him,” Jane said.
“Yeah.” Brock looked wistful. “Now he’s as pure as the proverbial driven snow.”
“Maybe we should leave him out of our conversation,” I suggested. “Please?”
“Or what?” Brock asked.
“Or don’t,” I said, shrugging. “But it’s probably weird for Jane to think about her brother having sex and stuff.”
She shrugged, rattling the ice cubes in her waning cocktail. “We were pretty close, and he really liked to brag about his exploits.”
“Well, it’s weird for me to think about him having sex before,” I said.
“What, you didn’t think he was a virgin before he met you, did you?” Brock asked. He threw his head back and laughed. “Everyone used to belong to someone else, Michelle. You’re so naïve. I bet even you had been with other people before you fell in with good old Jonathan.”
My silence answered that question. Jane and Brock stared at me, mouths agape, as I blushed for probably the fortieth or fiftieth time that night.
“Unbelievable,” Brock said. “He used to always talk about how badly he wanted to bag a virgin. Poor guy didn’t even know he’d achieved one of his own goals when it happened for him.”
I covered my face with my hands. I wasn’t drunk enough to deal with this. The Jonathan that Jane and Brock talked about so fondly wasn’t the Jonathan I loved. The Jonathan they talked about was someone who sickened me. They couldn’t really be the same person, could they? I made a fierce and frantic wish right there and then: that Jonathan never regained his memories. I knew it was selfish. I knew that my husband suffered because he didn’t have access to those thoughts anymore. But I didn’t want the Jonathan who Jane and Brock talked about anywhere near me.
“I need a tequila shot,” I announced, draining my cocktail.
“It’s about goddamn time,” Jane said. “Let’s do this.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur. We played several more rounds of the game, the questions getting raunchier and more personal with each pass. At one point, Brock and I somehow made it downstairs to the dance floor. I put my arms around him and let him direct the movement of my hips among the rest of the patrons. More than a few eyes were on us, and it made me feel good. I knew I looked sexy in that gold dress and towering heels. They didn’t even hurt my feet anymore.
“Oh no,” Brock said, looking at me.
“Oh no what?” I asked, having to shout to be heard over the din on the dance floor.
“Looks like some of your makeup has rubbed off,” he said.
I dabbed at my lips, then at my eyes, but he shook his head.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh no.” People weren’t staring at me because I was sexy in my dress and heels. They were staring at me because I was a freak of nature — a woman who thought a pretty dress would distract from what was terribly wrong with her.
I tried to dash off to the bathroom to hide, but Brock grabbed my wrist and pulled me to him.
“Fuck it,” he said. “I like dancing with you, Michelle.”
“I like dancing with you, too,” I said, ducking my head away from him and to the right. “But I should really go freshen up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Brock said. “Really. Forget about it. It’s just who you are.”
He was staring at my scar, and it made me squirm.
“Stop,” I said, twisting in his arms. “Don’t look at it.”
“It’s not bad, I promise,” he said. “That’s a burn, right?”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” I shouted, shoving hard against his chest. “Let go of me!”
“I don’t mean any offense,” he said, holding his hands up. “Why would I want to insult my best friend’s wife?”
“I’m not your source of entertainment,” I snapped, leaving him on the dance floor. I had no idea how I found myself back upstairs in the VIP section, but I was there, standing in front of the couch and drinking right from the vodka bottle. When I’d taken in my fill from that, I chased it from the carafe of orange juice.
“Holy shit,” Jane commented, staring up at me, her phone lying forgotten in her lap. “That’s fucking awesome.”
“Let’s do a shot,” I said, breathing hard and wiping my mouth.
“I’ve never heard something so beautiful in my entire life,” Jane said, smiling wickedly as she poured the tequila into the glasses.
Chapter Five
The first thing I knew was pain. God — so much pain. My head pounded and my stomach churned. I slit my eyes open and was rewarded with yet another stab of agony behind my eyes. It was bright, and the sunlight strongly disagreed with me.
As upset as my stomach was, my mouth was terribly dry. I needed something to wet it.
I chanced another wave of pain when I lifted my head — along with a wave of irresistible nausea. I tried to get up to get to the bathroom but found a trashcan beside the bed instead.
Good enough.
I emptied the contents of my stomach in the receptacle, wincing at the smell of it, which only made me puke more. It was all liquid and all colors, the unfortunate aftermath of my heavy night of drinking. I groaned and dry heaved a couple of times before I was able to flop back down in the bed.
It was then that I realized several things at once.
For one, it wasn’t my bed. It wasn’t even my room. I looked around slowly at my surroundings. There were large windows with gauzy curtains blowing in the breeze that came in from outside. I could hear gulls — were we by the lake? The room had a masculine feel to it, lacking clutter or any sort of sentimental ephemera. A chest of drawers had been pushed against the wall opposite the bed, and its top was bare. Besides the trashcan and a bedside table, there wasn’t anything else in the room except the bed.
And me.
And I was naked.
Grateful for the thick white sheets and blankets covering me, I tried to assess my situation. It was painful to think back to last night, the idea of liquor making me gag yet again. If I could’ve thrown up, I would’ve, but my stomach was completely empty. I shouldn’t have listened to Jane about not eating last night. Who cared how hard the alcohol hit us?
I couldn’t get over how sick I felt. This was hell. This was death. I was never drinking again, I decided.
Even if I didn’t know where I was, I lay back down on the bed and closed my eyes. I couldn’t think of trying to go anywhere in my current condition. The only thing I could consider doing was trying to get a little more sleep to wait out this hangover. I fell into a troubled doze, dreaming little flashes and sn
ippets of people and places.
Jane kissing Brock under a strobe light.
An alleyway that never ended.
A nightmare car ride that swayed and swerved like a carnival ride.
My mother’s scream before she and my father were killed in the wreck that cost me my future.
“Michelle?”
I gasped awake, clutching at the covers and blinking in the bright room. My vision fuzzy from napping, I had to fight to make out the figure standing in the doorway.
“I didn’t mean to barge in,” Brock said kindly. “I heard you puking earlier and wanted to see if there was anything I could do, but you’d fallen asleep by the time I could get in here.”
“Where am I?” I asked, my voice sounding thick and bleary even to my own ears. I was hyperaware that I was butt naked in my husband’s friend’s bed, and I hated the way that made me feel. Seriously. I was never, ever drinking again.
“My condo,” he said. “It became clear last night at a point while we were at the club that you needed to go to bed and get some rest.”
I felt a dread build inside of me. “At what point did that become clear?”
Brock grinned. “When you tried to kiss me,” he said, “and then vomited everywhere.”
“Oh my God.” I hid my face in my hands as if that would somehow conceal the shame and horror coursing through me.
“I thought it was kind of cute,” Brock said, shrugging.
I held the sheets tightly to my front. “Where’s the dress I was wearing? Why am I not wearing it anymore?”
“You demanded to take it off,” he said. “You said it was too tight and you couldn’t breathe. Also, you puked down the front of it, so I thought it was for the best.”
“Jane’s going to kill me,” I groaned. “It was her dress.”
“Jane has a hundred dresses just like that one, and she’s been in the exact same place as you,” Brock said. “Relax about it. All those tequila shots just caught up to you, is all. Most natural thing in the world.”
At the mere mention of “tequila,” my stomach somehow found something else to retch up. I barely made it to the trashcan still beside the bed, coughing and hacking.
“Sorry,” Brock said, and I realized he could probably see all of my assets as I bent over. I was so sick that I didn’t care.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said, finally purging whatever kernel of poison was still inside me. I felt marginally better physically; it was my spirit that was hurting now. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m married. This is irresponsible.”
“I don’t know if this’ll make you feel better, but your husband and I used to share girls,” Brock said, sitting down on the side of the bed.
I shuddered. There was that man I didn’t know again, the person Jonathan used to be. I really, really didn’t like hearing about him.
“It doesn’t make me feel better,” I said. “And nothing happened between us, right?”
Brock was quiet for so long that it made my heart pound.
“Right?” I repeated, a little more desperately. “You said I tried to kiss you. Tried. As in made an attempt, but didn’t.”
“It was the vomit that saved you,” he said finally. “Jane met some guy while we were at the club and didn’t want to leave, but I knew you weren’t long for this world. I took you back to my place because it was closer than the compound and got you out of your clothes when you asked for freedom.”
“You got me out of that dress,” I repeated slowly.
Brock shrugged. “The zipper was in the back,” he said. “You wouldn’t have been able to manage it on your own.”
“Did you see —”
“Of course I saw,” Brock scoffed. “I’m a man, Michelle. I’m not going to lie to you. You have an incredible body. Did I want something more? Sure. Did I do anything to you other than put you to bed and slap a trashcan on the floor? No. I was almost the perfect gentleman.”
“Almost,” I spat at him, feeling worse and worse by the minute. What was Jonathan going to say?
“I can’t help that blood pumps through my veins,” Brock said. “You’re a beautiful woman. It was a completely harmless thing. I was undressing you and putting you to bed. How could I avoid looking?”
“I’m just pretty sure that Jonathan is going to be hurt by all this,” I said. “And I hate that for him. He’s busy and traveling and this is the last thing we need for our marriage.”
“If you think it’ll hurt him, don’t tell him.”
That thought was almost as unbelievable as what had transpired last night after I’d stopped remembering things.
“I have to tell him,” I said, dumbfounded. “He’s my husband, Brock. We don’t have secrets like this.”
“Oh, bullshit you don’t,” he said. “His entire past is a secret that you refuse to see.”
That simple statement roiled my stomach more than my hangover.
“Where’s the dress?” I asked. “I need to go.”
Brock sighed. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “Why don’t you rest some more? Time’s the only thing that gets rid of hangovers. I have a battery of drugs at my disposal that’ll help ease your pain. How about some ginger ale? That’s the best drug of all.”
“No,” I said. “I’m leaving. I’ve been here for too long as it is. Please bring the dress.”
“It has vomit all over it,” Brock said. “I threw it away. Just wear a pair of my shorts and a T-shirt. You’ll be fine. I’ll call a car.”
“Fine,” I said, wondering why everything felt so hard. It was going to be an effort just to get out of this bed.
Brock left to go find some clothes I could wear, and I flopped back down, frustrated. I knew that this was going to really disappoint Jonathan. I’d felt so gung ho about going out last night, about not moping around while my husband was abroad, doing what he felt was essential for our future. But trying to kiss his friend and then vomiting all over myself? That was shameful and inexcusable.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed a pillow over my face, wishing that I could wake up back in Jonathan’s bed at the compound or, better yet, in my own bed at the cottage. No. I couldn’t wish that. Waking up at the cottage would mean that I wouldn’t know Jonathan, and that was too painful.
When I pushed the pillow off of my face, I realized the light had changed in the room. Damn it! I’d gone to sleep again. The only positive was that I felt almost back to normal — and hungry, even. I sat up and saw that Brock had left some clothes on the end of the bed for me. Hurriedly slipping them on, both shorts and T-shirt comically large but still better than a vomit-stained dress, I found my clutch purse from last night and checked my phone.
There was a text from Jane. “Call me, you drunk, crazy bitch!” it read. The time stamp on the message was at 4 a.m. Had we really stayed out that late?
Then, there was a text from Jonathan, making my heart stop momentarily. “I love you,” it read. “I’m counting the days until we’re together again, at the cottage for our honeymoon.”
Grief and guilt hit me so hard that I had to sit for a moment on the bed, hyperventilating. Tears fell helplessly down my face, and I felt like an utter failure. The man I loved, the man who I had pledged my life and my future to, the man who was practically killing himself while trying to prove himself to the world, didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be disrespected like this by me, his wife. I’d drunkenly tried to kiss Brock, then was so helpless that Brock had gotten to ogle my naked body.
I was never drinking again, not when it could lead to this. I felt like an absolute asshole. I couldn’t remember trying to kiss Brock, but I could picture what I might’ve looked like, foundation rubbing off my face, my scar glowing lividly beneath the flashing lights of the club, leering at Brock before leaning toward him, my glossy lips puckered grotesquely.
In my mind’s eye, I looked like an absolute monster.
I dried my tears and washed my face in the bathroom sink. I didn’t have a b
it of makeup on, and my scar glared back at me in the mirror. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I just wanted to go back to the compound and sleep for days.
I cautiously opened the bedroom door and peered around. Brock had a great view of Lake Michigan from nearly every window, but I was in no mood for views. All I wanted was an escape. I was creeping toward the door when I noticed a piece of paper weighed down on a table by a glass of water.
“Drink me,” the paper read. “No, seriously. You’re going to be dehydrated, Michelle, and you’ll need food at some point. Sorry that you’re feeling so shitty. The day can only get better from here! Had to go, but the car’s been on stand-by outside. Brock.”
