Marrying My Neighbor

by Roxy Reid

  “Do you wear ties to funerals?” Grace asks.

  “Fuck no,” I say, and steer her toward the elevator. We’re kicking off the party with cocktails in the hotel bar before everyone’s taking a limo to the first casino of the night. It will be a long night, according to the party itinerary.

  I eye her shoes skeptically. They’re not exactly normal Grace-wear. “Can you walk in those? Because I’m not carrying you when those things start hurting.”

  She tosses her hair as we step into the elevator. “What makes you think you’ll be the only man offering to carry me wherever I want to go?”

  She’s got a point. I frown, surprised by how much I dislike the idea. Sure, I’m attracted to Grace, but I’m attracted to plenty of women. That doesn’t mean I go around getting weird at the thought of them with other men.

  It’s just because we’re in Vegas, I tell myself. Grace is my friend. I don’t want her to be taken advantage of by some slime ball.

  Any man would be protective of his female friends here.

  I hit the elevator button. In the enclosed space, I catch a whiff of her perfume. She smells like roses and sandalwood and something I can’t place. It’s not her normal perfume. Why isn’t she wearing her normal perfume?

  “Thought experiment,” Grace says as the elevator descends. “Is there anything in the whole world that you want so badly, you’d wear a tie to get it?”

  “No,” I say as the elevator doors open. “Not a damn thing.”

  We step out into our night of neatly-scheduled debauchery.

  Eight hours, two casinos, one concert, and an unknown number of drinks later, we’re at another bar. Grace fans her winnings from the casino out in front of her.

  “It’s like when you win at Go-Fish but better,” Grace says tipsily.

  The bride and groom are also in our booth, seated across the table from us, although seated is a generous term. They’re basically dry humping each other, completely oblivious to everyone around them.

  I guess true love does exist, I think sarcastically.

  The rest of our party is either leaning against the bar to order more drinks or dancing in the center of the room. This bar does not technically have a dance floor, but that’s not stopping the girls in the bachelorette party. As one of them told me tearfully about an hour ago, “Anything is possible if you just believe.”

  One of the bachelorette girls comes over to summon the bride to the dance floor. The groom looks confused when his bride is pulled off his lap, but then the other guys in the bachelor party come to drag the groom off to do more shots, and he follows happily enough.

  This leaves me alone with Grace, who’s smiling proudly at her winnings, oblivious to everything else around her. I didn’t win anything, but I almost don’t care because of how happy Grace is.

  I take the money in front of her, tap into a neat pile, and tuck it into her purse. “Maybe don’t flash that around,” I tell her.

  She blinks and looks around the bar. “Why? So I won’t get robbed? You could take all of these guys.”

  Aww. Drunk Grace thinks I’ll protect her.

  I look around the bar. Drunk Grace is actually right. Most of the people here are even drunker than me. I could definitely take them, especially if they were messing with Grace. Then again—I look down at the floor—I could probably get an infection just from touching this floor, even if I’m the one to win the fight.

  “I appreciate your faith in me, love, but let’s not test it.” I try to clasp her purse closed, but it’s one of those tiny, sparkly, going-out things, and I can’t get it to stay shut. “Your purse won’t close.”

  “It’s ‘cause I have too much money,” Grace says happily. “I’m rich now. Like you.”

  She’s so fucking adorable. I drop a kiss on the top of her head, then linger there a little while because her hair smells good. It makes me think of lazy nights on my couch, watching bad TV while she unwinds after work.

  I remember the day I knew I mattered to Grace. One of her patients had said something that upset her. Obviously, she couldn’t talk about it because of doctor-patient confidentiality. I still don’t know what they said that upset her so much, but she canceled her going-out plans with one of her closest friends. Then she spent the whole night on my couch, curled up against me, not saying anything, just slowly, slowly relaxing. I could tell she was falling asleep, so I offered to walk her home. She was almost asleep, but she shook her head empathetically and said she didn’t want to go. She felt better with me.

  That’s when I knew our friendship might look like it was made up of shallow things like bad TV, good pizza, and making fun of other people together, but I mattered to her as much as she mattered to me.

  Fuck. Why am I sniffing her hair like a loony? Why am I thinking of all this now? Maybe I’m drunker than I thought.

  “We need to close your purse,” I say, trying to focus on the problem at hand. “Otherwise, you’ll get robbed, and I’ll get infected from the floor.”

  Grace nods like that makes complete and total sense. Then she slides a hand into my front pants pocket and gropes my leg.

  “Grace!”

  “I’m just testing if there’s room in your pockets. For my money.” She looks down at her dress. “I don’t have pockets.”

  She can say that again. Her dress hugs her like a second skin. It’s the kind of dress that drives men to cheesy pick-up lines. Or to hang around her all night, pretending to be just friends, waiting for the opportunity to make a move.

  Not that I’m doing that. That would be a dick move. Also, we really are friends.

  Grace leans over so she can check my other pants pocket. “They’re both this deep? In formal wear?” She’s basically in my lap at this point. I grab her wrist and yank her hand away from my pants before she discovers something she doesn’t want to discover.

  Something that’s getting harder than it should.

  It really is a great dress.

  I try to move Grace off my lap, but she shifts and catches herself against my chest instead.

  “No shirt pocket,” she says.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I say. Why does my voice sound thick with want?

  I need to get her off my lap. I need to clear my head. I take her hips and start to ease her off my lap, but she spreads her hands over my chest, and it feels good enough that I hesitate. She leans in like she’s testing my muscles. Like she likes my muscles. Like she likes touching me.

  My hands relax on her hips, and I stop trying to move her off my lap.

  What’s a little groping between friends? Especially when she’s got that little frown on her face like she’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

  “Still looking for pockets?” I ask.

  “Why do you do yard work shirtless?” Grace asks.

  “Because I get hot.”

  Right now, I’m feeling very hot, but I’m pretty sure taking off my shirt would do the opposite of helping me cool down.

  Grace frowns down at my chest. “I asked that question wrong,” she says slowly. “I meant, why do you do your own yard work? I hired someone to mow my lawn. I make less than you do, but not now ‘cause you’re unemployed.”

  I laugh. Leave it to Grace to call a millionaire unemployed just because I’m not doing something productive with my days. She’d get along with my mum.

  “Well, like you said, I’m unemployed. Can’t be wasting money.”

  “Sean,” she whines, drawing out my name.

  “It’s ‘cause I’m so damn bored I could scream,” I say. “I sold the thing I do. Now I don’t know what to fucking do next. Everyone wants to talk about how successful I am, but success is just boredom mixed with paralyzing fear that you’ll fuck up the next idea.”

  It feels good to finally say it to someone. Like my chest is lighter, cooler. Like I can breathe.

  I glance down and realize, nope, that cool feeling is because Grace is unbuttoning my shirt.

  “Grace!” I hastily re-bu
tton.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, contritely. She clumsily slides off my lap so that she’s sitting in the booth next to me. “You’re drunk, and I’m taking advantage of you.”

  She’s taking advantage of me? I’m torn between laughing and pulling her back on top of me and telling her she can take anything she wants.

  Actually, that last one sounds like a great idea.

  No. Bad idea. She’s drunk. I’m drunk. Very. Bad. Idea.

  It would be one thing if we were sober. Wait, no, it wouldn’t. Even if we were sober, this is Grace. I might be able to do friends-with-benefits, but I’m pretty sure she can’t.

  I lean over and drop a kiss on Grace’s cheek. She’s so soft. Possibly the softest thing I’ve ever felt. “Tell you what, if you still want to take advantage of me when you’re sober, you go ahead.”

  She slides me a look. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”

  “No, love, I’m really, really not.”

  Grace flops her head on my shoulder and leans into me like we’re back on my couch at home, not in Vegas and surrounded by enthusiastic partiers who make Grace and me look like an old married couple.

  “I know what you mean, about success not feeling like …" She yawns. “Like what it feels like.”

  I take her hand and start playing with it, folding each of her fingers in then extending them out.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “I thought you were thrilled about your book.” I press a spot on her palm, and when she gives a soft sigh of pleasure, I like the sound so much that my idle explorations turn into a hand massage.

  “I’m a relationship expert. But I’m single. Always. Forever. I mean, I’m good. I’ve studied. Also, the principles of communication in a romantic relationship aren’t that different than—ooh, cheesecake,” she breaks off as a waiter walks by.

  “Grace, you puke if you eat cheesecake when you’re drunk,” I remind her.

  She sighs tragically and stares after the cheesecake.

  I try to distract her. “You were talking about being single. And relationships. And communication.”

  She turns back to me. “Right. The principles are the same in any relationship. It’s just talking. But you only get one person.” She holds up her finger dramatically. “One person, Sean! At a time! Unless you’re polyamorous.”

  She frowns at me. “Are you polyamorous? I never asked.”

  I blink. “No. Are you?”

  “No. Which is why the stakes are so high for communication. ‘Cause it’s one person. It’s like when you fight with your parents. The stakes are higher ‘cause you only have the one set.” She whispers in my ear. “Sometimes, I wish I had more than one set.”

  I’m actually not sure if she’s talking about parents or boyfriends, but her whisper in my ear is doing things to me. I scoot over, trying to put a little distance between us and get the conversation back on track.

  “So you’re upset that you’re single because you’re terrified that someone will stand up at one of your book readings and yell ‘fraud’?” I ask.

  She closes the gap between us so she can lean on me, then nods into my shoulder. “Something like that. Can I have more drinks, please? You can borrow money from me, but I don’t think I should stand up.”

  “I’m not making you buy your own drinks, but if you can’t stand up, maybe you should stop drinking,” I say.

  Grace sighs heavily. “I guess a girl has to do everything herself.”

  She climbs over me and takes a step toward the bar, but she bumps into a table, and I end up springing up to catch her. She clutches my arms and stares straight into my eyes. Around us, the music shifts, becoming louder and heavier as a woman sings about giving into temptation. All of a sudden, I know that if we stick with the plan, if we keep following the group from bar to bar and party to party, I’m going to give in to temptation and kiss Grace.

  What we need here is a good, old-fashioned, completely non-sexual, nerdy distraction.

  “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do in Vegas?” I ask Grace.

  “What?” she shouts. She can’t hear me over the way the music’s been turned up. The bar staff seems to have accepted that, tonight at least, this place has a dance floor.

  I lean into her ear, trying not to notice the scent of her perfume, the curve of her neck, or the heat of being so close to her. “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do in Vegas?”

  She thinks, and then she shouts back, “See a Vegas wedding chapel.”

  Perfect. I can’t think of something less sexy than a wedding. I nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  I take her hand to lead her out of the bar, but she stops me. She puts her hands on my shoulders, leaning in so she can speak into my ear like I did to her. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

  “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?” she asks.

  Kiss you, I think automatically. Then her eyes widen, and I realize that I didn’t think it. I said it out loud.

  Shit. I am way too drunk to be around Grace.

  “Just kidding,” I try.

  “No, you weren’t,” she says thoughtfully. Then she nods decisively. “Okay, we do your thing first, then we’ll do mine.”

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  Grace kisses me, full on the mouth. Her lips are soft, falling open for me, and then her tongue is in my mouth, figuring out what I taste like.

  She moans.

  Oh, fuck me. I’m only human.

  I kiss her back, and she presses into me. My hands find her ass as her hands find my hair. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the night or the kiss, but I’m getting dizzy. I need to lie down. Preferably with Grace on top of me. Or under me. It would be easier to go down on her if she was under me. Because if she’s reacting like this when I kiss her mouth, imagine what she’d do if I kiss her—

  Grace breaks the kiss, pats me on the shoulder, and steps back. “Okay. That was nice. My thing next!”

  She turns and struts out of the bar in her gold heels in pursuit of a wedding chapel.

  I stand there, reeling.

  How can she just …

  That kiss was …

  I just got my head blown off, and she’s acting like nothing happened.

  Guess it wasn’t as good for you as it was for me.

  I shake myself out of my stupor and jog after her, hoping the wedding chapel has booze. Grace might be fine, but I’m going to need a lot more booze to forget that kiss.

  I’m just sober enough to know that I really need to forget how great that kiss was. Because it wasn’t a friends-with-benefits kiss. It was a change-the-course-of-your-life kiss.

  Our friendship matters way too much for me to remember that kiss.

  3

  Grace

  Sean, I’m hiding in your kitchen. I realize this is an escalation in intimacy that you might not be ready for, but my parents dropped by my place unannounced. So I snuck out the back, used your spare key, and let myself into your house. Thank you for your support in this moment of crisis.

  —Grace Blackwood, text message to Sean Bronson, six months into their friendship

  I wake up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. I reluctantly open my eyes to the bright morning sun. I see that, somehow, against the odds, I made it back to my hotel room last night. My gold shoes are on the floor in front of a suitcase. One of the heels is broken. I have a dim memory of the heel snapping and someone carrying me.

  Wait.

  My eyes go back to the suitcase. That’s not my suitcase. This isn’t my hotel room. And there’s a pair of men’s pants by my shoes.

  Shit.

  I frantically check, but I’m still wearing my dress and underwear.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not against the occasional discreet one night stand—I’ve certainly had my share—but if I have sex, I want to remember it.

  I gingerly sit up and peek at the man-sized lump of blankets to my left. His left ha
nd is flung out, the only part of him not hidden under blankets. It’s a nice hand. Strong. Capable. Vaguely familiar. Then I notice the gold wedding band, and my stomach sinks. Oh, God. I went home with a married man. I’m a couples therapist. If I broke up a marriage …

  For a second, I think about grabbing my shoes and running before he wakes up. Finding Sean. Pretending this never happened.

  No. Don’t be a wimp. I make myself take a deep breath and flip back the covers, steeling myself for the worst. I burst out laughing. It’s just Sean. Sean, in his dress shirt and boxer briefs. The boxer briefs are covered in computer code, which I am so going to tease him about later.

  Sean groans and covers his face with a pillow. “Turn the light off.”

  “It’s not the light. It’s the sun.”

  “Not now, woman,” he moans.

  Sean sounds even worse for wear than I feel. So I take pity on him and get us both water bottles from the mini-fridge. I collapse back onto the bed and pass Sean his. Instead of drinking it, he holds it to his forehead and whimpers in relief. I take a swig of my own water. It feels like the first drink of water after wandering in a desert.

  I glance at Sean’s wedding ring. He hasn’t noticed it yet. I feel a little bad bringing it up when he’s already having such a bad morning, but I don’t think there’s a good time to bring up something like this.

  “Sean,” I say cautiously. “Is there a reason you’re wearing a wedding band?”

  His eyes fly open. “What? I’m not …" He trails off as he stares at his left hand. “What the hell?” He looks over at my hand. “What the hell?”

  I follow his gaze, and my heart stops. There’s a wedding ring on my left hand, too—a gold band with a cluster of light pink jewels.

  In my head, I hear Nora saying, “Don’t shack up with inappropriate men.”

  If Sean and I … if we … Fuck, a shotgun wedding in Vegas is so much worse than any scandalous affair Nora could have dreamed up.

  I try to breathe. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think. Maybe we bought rings in the hotel gift shop, and we were goofing off and put them on and then fell asleep.