Mercy Alcohol was the best. It could’ve been an hour later. Could’ve been three. You know who didn’t care? Me. I wasn’t sad and I wasn’t confused. I didn’t care about questions or memories or good sex with hot men. I was just blissfully, wonderfully, perfectly drunk. Dr. Washington would probably be so mad at me. I was lying in the middle of my closet floor, dragging my fingers along the hems of all the dresses lining the far side of the room. Soft satin. Thick velvet. Slinky material that shimmered under the light. Where did I wear them? “You’re so pretty,” I whispered, not sure whether I was talking about the floor-length number in a de ep green with a low back and delicate straps that looked incredibly fragile, or the alarmingly empty glass bottle on the floor next to me. “Everything in here is so pretty.” I turned onto all fours, taking a de ep breath before I pushed to standing. When I swayed sideways and my hand shot out to the wall holding Grant’s shoes, I laughed. “So many fucking shoes,” I muttered. “Where does he wear you?” I leaned in and whispered this to a pair of expensive wing tips. They looked Italian. “Did he buy you in Italy? I bet it was so nice there.” Grant had a type. Classic. Traditional. Expensive. Variations of the same shoe lined the shelves on his side. Not like my shoes. Those were pretty. I liked variety. All the colors of the rainbow sat lined up in neat little rows on the other side of his, reds and de ep purples and shiny black and, oh, the sparkly gold ones were so very beautiful. Some I recognized—slip-ons that I used to wear to school. Those were boring. Cheap too. Sometimes our feet needed cheap, boring shoes. You know what had never shocked me into drunkenness? The flip-flops that cost me fifteen bucks and lasted a solid decade. There was a certain satisfaction in realizing that the shock was not from the things of the past. It wasn’t from the comfortable or the familiar. The things that I knew to be true and good and right. My fingers danced along the custom-built shelves of shoes until the glittering newness was centered in my vision. The red-soled ones—there were four of them, what the fuck—were so fucking gorgeous that my palms itched to grab the bottle again and tip it back until there wasn’t a single drop left. But some shred of self-preservation tickled the back of my mind. What a good girl I was.
I picked up the first pair and studied it under the closet’s ridiculously flattering lighting. It was a glossy black with a pointed toe and a bladesharp heel that would boost me to an impressive height. The shoe’s simplicity was deceiving, because from far away, you might not realize exactly how stunning it was. But up close like this, where I could study the stitching and shine and the scarlet tread along the sole, it was obvious that this was luxury. It was pure indulgence. Fucking you rewired my entire bloody brain. My eyes pinched shut, a futile attempt to block his voice from playing on a loop in my head. I could shove an IV of that whiskey into my veins and it still wouldn’t scrub that from my mind. I glared at the heels and brought them closer to my face. “It’s your fault, isn’t it? I bet I was wearing you when the sex happened.” The words came out, and as they rang in the space around me, muffled by luxurious fabrics and bespoke suits, the real tragedy hit me like a punch. I dropped the shoe and sank back into the upholstered chair behind me, staring blankly at the wall of my shirts on matching hangers. Matching hangers. Who the fuck was I? That was where Grant found me a few minutes later. “May I come—” My gaze snapped to his, and to my horror, my vision was blurred with tears. I didn’t cry. I certainly didn’t cry over men. And here I was. Almost crying. Over a man. “I had life-altering sex and I don’t remember it!” I wailed. “Do you know how sad that is?” His eyes were slightly red as he crouched in front of me—a product of the uncharacteristic drinking, no doubt—and I could tell he’d run his hands through his hair, because a single lock hung over his forehead. My fingers screamed to push it back into place. “I do,” he said in a rough voice. “Maybe we should—” “Please, Hastings.” I dropped my face into my hands and tried to count some de ep breaths. “I’m too drunk for this conversation.” “I am too.” He sighed heavily. “Delaying until tomorrow might be wise.” “So fucking drunk,” I whispered. The whole room was whirling like a carousel, and when I covered my eyes, it just made it worse. When I was able to focus in on his face again, he looked absolutely miserable. “It was the shoes, wasn’t it?” Grant blinked. “What shoes?” I pointed to the shiny black one on the floor. “That one. Or the other ones with the red thingie. You know, the thingie on the thingie. Those are fuck me shoes, and if I started strutting around the kitchen in just those, no wonder I was rewiring . . . things.” He let out a short huff, almost a laugh. Almost. I didn’t want an almost-laugh. I wanted him to really laugh. I wanted him to smile. Just to see what happiness looked like on him.
God, it probably looked so fucking good. “You think so?” he murmured, eyes tracing my face. I groaned. “Did I say that out loud?” “No.” I eyed him suspiciously. “You said you wouldn’t lie to me.” “Indeed I did.” He stood and held out his hand. “Up you go. It’s time for water and bed.” His palm was big and warm and dry, and with my fingers resting on his skin, I stared at it for a few seconds. “You have really big hands.” “I can’t help that,” he said, sounding a bit defensive. “And big feet.” My lower lip pushed out in an exaggerated pout. “You’re probably big everywhere, aren’t you? And I don’t remember. That is unfair.” “For God’s sake,” he said tersely. “Let’s get you to bed before this goes any further. No more alcohol for either of us, I think.” Grant dropped my hand and hooked his arm around my back to help me stand. My legs staged a rebellion, turning to jelly the moment I was pressed against the length of his long, lean body. There were muscles under his clothes. I could feel muscles in his chest and stomach and arms and they were so nice. Oh, I wanted to use them as a pillow. “Don’t let me fall,” I said between helpless giggles. “It would be very, very bad if I conked my poor head again.” Grant muttered something under his breath and bent, swe eping his other arm behind my knees until I was held firmly against his chest. This was terribly romantic, wasn’t it? Or it would be if I wasn’t drunk and remembered having sex with this big, gorgeous man who could lift me like I was a fucking feather. “I know a secret,” I told him in a grave tone. His face was close as he carried me into the bedroom. Why were his lashes so dark and so long? “Is that right?” I nodded. “You smell very good. I wish you didn’t.” “Noted.” My head lolled onto his shoulder, and I closed my eyes at the comforting sway of his strides. “I don’t remember having good sex. That’s why I’m so sad.” He exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the backs of my thighs where he held my legs. “Not that I had much sex before. Only those stupid boyfriends in college, but they were so lazy,” I groaned. “I faked it every time. All the moaning and groaning and head-tossing. Do you know how much work that is?” “I would never deign to imagine.”
“And we’re brainwashed to think we have to. But God, wouldn’t it be so good for all the pricks with giant egos if they knew we were just lying there thinking about our grocery list?” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I did that once with a guy in college. I thought, Oh, I’m out of Diet Coke, best not forget that. And he just k ept on going. Had no idea.” His tone was wry. “Poor lad. He’ll never learn if no one corrects him.” “Exactly. And it’s not that hard to find a clitoris, you know?” I paused, lifting my head as he stopped next to the bed. “Do you know where it is? I bet you do, and I bet I didn’t have to be the one to teach you.” Grant closed his eyes like I was causing him great amounts of pain. “I refuse to take part in this conversation until we are both sober.” “Ugh, fine.” Then he was lowering me to the bed. I shoved at the comforter and then used both hands to peel off my shirt, until I was left in my bra and shorts. His eyes were locked on the far wall, only a slight flush of color on the tops of his cheeks. “Sorry,” I said quietly. “I wasn’t thinking.” He swiped a hand over his mouth and turned away. “I’ll bring you some water and ibuprofen.” When I was alone in the room, I flopped back and waited until the room stopped spinning a bit to shove off my shorts. Alcohol was the worst. The denim shorts ended up somewhere on the opposite side of the room when I kicked them off, and as soon as my legs were free, I turned onto my side, burying my head into my pillow while I waited for him to return. A thin slice of muted light came from the closet. Everything else was dark, and I couldn’t ke ep my eyes open even though I heard the tread of his footst eps enter the room. He set the water down, then the meds, and waited silently as I pushed myself into a seated position and drained the entire glass, saving only enough to take the pills he’d brought. My eyes stayed closed the entire time. In the silence that followed as I curled onto my side, I could feel the weight of his gaze. Slowly, the blanket was pulled up over my body, not a single brush of his fingers against my skin. I shivered, burrowing de eper under its warmth. “I went to school today,” I said. “Did you?” I hummed, my eyes closing more tightly as I admitted all this nonsense stuck in my own head. Stuck. It was all stuck and I couldn’t get it out. “I couldn’t go in. I didn’t want to make it worse. For the kids. I feel like I make everything worse right now.” “Nonsense.” “The questions were stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Grant let out a heavy exhale, and I pried my eyes open to study his face in the low light of the room. My fingers pushed past the edge of the blanket, trembling slightly as I touched the hard line of his
jaw. “You didn’t shave today.” It was Grant’s turn to close his eyes. A slight wrinkle appeared in his brow, like the feel of my fingertips on his skin was painful. “N-no, I didn’t.” The hitch in his voice made my head spin even faster. “I like it.” “I know.” The ragged answer was more than I could bear. Tears blurred my vision, a tingling at the bridge of my nose heralding all sorts of badness. “Why did I marry you, Grant? I know you won’t answer me because we’re drunk and I’m impossible and I wish I wasn’t, but—” He caught my fingertips and brushed them across his lips. His warm, dry lips. “You’re not impossible. You’re confused, and I don’t blame you.” “But you still won’t answer me.” His eyes locked on mine. In a dark room with a spinning head and a misplaced sense of what was right and what was wrong, Grant was the only anchor. “You were lonely.” “What?” He exhaled, tucking my hand carefully underneath the blanket again. “You told me you were lonely. Sick of feeling that way. And that maybe we could take care of each other the way he used to take care of us.” I bit down on my bottom lip so hard that it hurt. No crying. There would be no more crying. I remembered. Not the things he wanted me to, but the loneliness. The de ep, curling throb of knowing that I was acutely, entirely alone. “I miss Connor,” I whispered. “He’d know what to do with me, don’t you think?” Grant’s eyes softened as he searched my expression. “Yes, darling. He would.” “Who were you talking to earlier? You sounded mad.” He tilted his head, pausing for a moment before he answered. “I wasn’t mad.” “You’re not answering the question.” His lips curved in a faint smile. “Nothing gets by you, does it?” My chin trembled. “Some things do.” “I’m so sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair, shoulders slumping. “That was thoughtless.” “Will I forget this too?” I whispered. “I don’t want to. It feels really important. It is, isn’t it? It’s important that we talk about these things. I don’t know why it’s so hard.” It was easier to speak this way, under the pleasant, filter-less haze of alcohol, but the fear shoved past, shouldering its way to the front of my mind. “Rest, darling.” “No, I—”
“Shhh. I’m right here. You won’t forget.” He couldn’t promise me that. No one could. No one could fix it. Or fix me. No one could make this easier. No one . . . I must have said it out loud. Grant sighed, and then brushed hair off my face in a touch so gentle I wasn’t even sure it was real. “Sle ep,” he said, voice hushed and exhausted. “We’ll talk in the morning.” The morning brought with it a weak sunrise stuck behind thick gray clouds and a mouth so dry that it would wake the dead. For a few minutes, I lay there and allowed the fog of a de ep, uninterrupted sle ep fade, knowing with every fiber of my being that I didn’t deserve to feel as human as I did. Only the faintest headache lingered at my temples, and I soothed the dry mouth with another long drink of water from a magically refilled glass that had been very empty the last time I had it in my hands. The fact that I’d worried about forgetting even a single detail of that evening was fucking hilarious. I covered my face with both hands and groaned as all the little nuggets clicked back into place. I’d asked Grant Hastings if he knew how to find a clit. Fucking kill me now. Maybe this was a secret talent of mine. How I’d managed to take the bombshell about fantastic sex and make it the least horrifying part of the previous day. This couldn’t ke ep happening. I had to figure out a better way to navigate this. Grant and I had to figure that out together. I rolled onto my side, facing the closet and the bathroom, and bolted upright at what I saw: Grant, sound asle ep on the floor, with a single pillow and a throw from the couch covering him from the waist down. His face was peaceful in sle ep, the chiseled features softened in the dim light of the room. A white Chelsea T-shirt covered his broad chest, which rose and fell on de ep, even breaths. One hand lay on his chest, the other on his flat stomach. He’d stayed. He’d stayed. Even though he wasn’t within touching distance, and he’d relegated himself to the floor, the fact that he’d remained to make sure I was all right was a level of intimacy that took my breath away. How was I supposed to do this? How was I supposed to take all the pieces of the man I knew before and boil them down until they were unrecognizable? Because that’s what was happening. He was made of all the same things as before—the wealth and the austerity and the manners that seemed like they were plucked from another world—and yet he was not the same man I remembered.
Every answer seemed to leave only more questions in its wake, and I couldn’t help but wonder when that would stop. When would it be simple? Would it ever? I dropped my chin to my chest and let out a shaky exhale, cursing myself for thinking that alcohol could’ve helped any single part of this equation. There was no further harm done, but I couldn’t deny that was due more to Grant than me. It was a bitter truth to swallow, a chalky pill that refused to go down, because the Grant I remembered would’ve held it over my head— reminding me that my age and my personality precluded me from sound decision-making. I watched him for a few more minutes and then cr ept past his sle eping form, praying to any deity willing to listen that he wouldn’t wake and see me in my skivvies. In the closet, I found another pair of pajamas and slipped them on, breathing more easily when my body was covered. Nudity wouldn’t help this situation any more than the alcohol had. Not because he’d never seen it before, but because he had. I couldn’t dwell on it for too long—I’d absolutely spiral, and I was done letting that be my default reaction. I thought I’d have more time to process what it looked like, to d eprogram myself a little bit, to make a grown-up decision about what the best course of action was, but after I snuck into the kitchen, ate half a blueberry muffin, and opened up the cupboard to pull out the canister of coffee grounds, the back of my neck tingled, awareness lighting up my nervous system like a fucking Christmas tree. Instead of turning, I filled the carafe, added water to the tank on the machine, and measured the grounds into the paper filter, adding a couple extra scoops because if ever there was a morning that warranted extra caffeine, this was it. After pressing the button, I pinched my eyes shut and counted to five, each count a de ep breath in and then out, then turned in place. Grant was leaning against the island, his long legs covered in gray joggers that hung low on his hips. Paired with the shirt of his favorite British football team, it was a shockingly casual look that sw ept my nerves into a quick, dizzying spin. His eyes, the same stormy gray as the clouds, were locked on mine. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly from sle ep and so intensely pleasing to the ear that I fought a shiver. “I think it’s time for that talk now, don’t you?”