Perfect Strangers

“Edmond,” I chirp brightly when he answers, “would you and your wife like to come over for cocktails this evening?”

He sounds excited by the prospect. “Ah, mais oui!” After a moment, he adds tentatively, “Who is this?”

“Olivia.” When the silence stretches too long, I start to feel a little desperate. “Estelle’s friend? The writer from America?”

Edmond exclaims, “My apologies, mademoiselle! You sound so much happier on the phone!”

I regret this choice already.

“Sorry for the short notice, but I just realized I bought all this bread and cheese today that I can’t possibly eat alone, and I’ve got enough wine up here to get an army drunk.” Or one writer teetering on the edge of insanity. “How soon do you think you can come?”

He says a French word that sounds zoomy and enthusiastic, which I take to mean now.

“Great! I’ll leave the door open, just let yourselves in.”

“What shall we bring? We can’t arrive empty-handed.”

“Nothing. Just your wonderful selves. I’m so looking forward to seeing you and meeting your lovely wife.” And getting cross-eyed drunk within the hour.

Flattered by my gushing, Edmond makes a cooing, grandfatherly noise. “Ah, mademoiselle, you are such a delight! If it wasn’t for those sad eyes of yours—”

“See you soon!”

I hang up the phone, knowing it’s going to be a long night.

* * *

In the morning,I don’t remember much.

Edmond’s brunette wife was beautiful and elegant, I can remember that. Also tall: she towered over him. I recall that she had very long legs I spent too much time staring at, marveling how they were the legs of a person who was born male, because I’d never seen legs as gorgeous on anyone born female.

I know we all had drinks—many, many drinks—and ate too much cheese and laughed a lot, but I couldn’t tell you what we talked about. It’s all a blur.

The thing I’m really trying to figure out is why there’s a man sitting in the armchair across from my bed, glowering at me from under lowered brows.

“James,” I say, my voice thick. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you didn’t die of alcohol poisoning.”

He seems as if he’s barely controlling his temper. His tone is low and clipped, and his words are spoken through thinned lips. He’s gripping the arms of the chair as if he’s going to rip them off at any moment.

I’m lying on my side in bed, atop the covers, wearing the same clothes I had on last night. Outside, birds are chirping. The sun is up. I don’t know what time I passed out, but it’s a new day.

A new day in which I’m hungover and James is still dying.

Filled with guilt about how I know that, I push myself up to a sitting position and look at him. “I need to tell you something.”

He arches his brows. “You’re not going to ask how I got in your apartment? Or how I knew you were drunk?”

I frown, trying to focus through my brain’s haze. “Did I leave the door open again?”

“I saw Edmond and Marcheline in the elevator last night. They said they’d just left your place after a nice visit. They were both staggering and reeked of booze. Edmond mentioned that you seemed even more sad than usual.”

Fucking Edmond. I exhale and run a hand over my face.

“He said you cried at one point.”

Horrified, I gape at James. “I cried?”

“You cried,” he repeats, his gaze locked on mine, “over me.”

I look away, pinching my lips together in shame. I don’t remember crying, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I also don’t know if I said something to them about why I might be crying over James.

About what I’d found out.

Shit.

“I tend to get overly emotional when I’ve had too much to drink.” I wait, tensed, my stomach churning, to see how he’ll respond to that. If I told Edmond and Marcheline his private medical situation, I’ll never forgive myself.

Very softly, James says my name. I glance over to find him leaning forward, his forearms balanced on his spread thighs, his fingers threaded together, and his eyes blazing hellfire blue.

He says, “I want so fucking badly to take you over my knee right now and spank you. And not in the good way.”

A tremor runs through me. I whisper, “Why?”

“Because it’s me you should’ve talked to about whatever made you cry. It’s me you should’ve turned to if you were that upset about our conversation. But mostly because you’re too smart, and frankly too old, to decide to tie one on and make yourself sick as a way to deal with your emotions.”

He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to be pissed about it. “Ouch.”

He knows which part of what he said angers me and shakes his head in frustration. “I’m not saying you’re old, for Christ’s sake. I’m saying that’s a teenage move.”

I’m relieved about one thing: judging by how he said “whatever made you cry,” I must not have gotten detailed with an explanation to Edmond and Marcheline last night.