I said you should leave before we fight, and he did, and now I’m upset about it.
What did you expect?
I know what I expected — this, exactly this — but I don’t know what I wanted. To wake up with him next to me so we could get into a fight? For him to accompany me to the brunch with my family that’s in — oh, shit — seventy minutes, still wearing his suit from last night?
I get up. I shower Seth off of me and tell myself I should be happy that he’s gone, because at least we didn’t fight. That’s the pattern half-broken, right? Fucking without fighting?
And now we go back to how things were before, where I see him around town and pretend we used to know each other and I act like it doesn’t bother me that I’m probably not even the only woman within hearing distance who he’s fucked.
I get out of the shower, dry off. A layer of lotion, then a layer of sunscreen, everywhere that has even a chance of seeing sunlight, because UV light and I are not friends. I find my brunch dress, ensure it’s wrinkle-free enough, dry my hair and then fight it until I’m presentable.
I drink a glass of water, then sit on the edge of the tub for a full five minutes until the nausea passes.
Just as I’m looking in the mirror to make sure I’ve got no visible ink, there’s a knock on the door and for a second, my heart leaps.
He came back.
He didn’t, of course, and I know that before I even open the door to find my cousin Wyatt, standing on my porch and trying not to make a face.
“It’s safe,” I tell him. “Just me, and I’m decent. You get sent to collect me?”
“I was asked to make sure that you’re all right,” he says, breath fogging in the air, hands in his coat pockets. “You look nice.”
“I feel like shit.”
He grins, because he’s an asshole.
“Shut up,” I mutter, turning back and motioning for him to come in with me.
“Here,” he says, holding out something in one hand.
I take it: a small packet of Gatorade powder. The flavor is Pure Energy Championship, which is not a flavor.
“I thought I should come prepared,” he says, and he’s clearly very proud of himself. “I may have forgotten underwear for today —”
“Didn’t want to know that.”
“ — But I did come prepared for a hangover.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You can stay my favorite cousin.”
“Thank God,” he deadpans. “I tremble to think what you put lesser cousins through.”“Delilah!” Ava squeals, practically the moment I enter the breakfast room.
“There’s the married lady!” I say, trying to match her enthusiasm.
I fail — hangover! — but I swear I try.
Ava, bless her, doesn’t notice. She just gives me a giant hug and then pulls away, positively glowing with inner happiness.
“Are you feeling better?” she stage-whispers, blue eyes wide with concern.
“Yes,” I stage-whisper back, though I’m not quite sure what I’m feeling better than.
“Oh, good,” she says, looking relieved. “I really hope that it wasn’t food poisoning or something, I know that Mom was really worried about those shrimp appetizers, and — oh, there she is.”
Ava smiles radiantly, then waves across the room to where Vera’s standing, drinking a mimosa and looking utterly put together, just like always.
“I think it was champagne poisoning,” I tell Ava, just as Vera catches my eye.
Then, she waves me over.
Crap.
“Champagne poisoning?” Ava asks, frowning. “You think the champagne was — oh.”
Then she laughs. I can’t help but laugh along with her.
“Gotcha,” she says, and winks a truly outrageous wink at me. “I hope you’re recovering from champagne poisoning.”
“Wyatt poured Gatorade down my throat,” I say. “I gotta go see what your mom wants. Congrats, kid.”
“Thanks!” she says, and I cross the room to where Vera’s standing. Behind her is the mimosa bar, where a man in a vest is custom-making mimosas and various other breakfast cocktails. Wyatt’s currently ordering something pink and horrifying-looking.
I have to look away when he pours champagne. I’m not sure I can ever look at champagne again. Seems like a bad idea.
“You’re feeling better?” Vera asks, breaking off from a conversation with another woman who looks vaguely familiar.
“Yes, much,” I say, demure and polite as you please. “Champagne really gets to me sometimes.”
She just nods. It’s a little judgy, as nods go, but I’ll live.
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. And Wyatt told us that Seth was very sweet and concerned and offered to help you back to your room.”
Behind her, Wyatt turns, as if he heard a cue.
He takes one look at my face, glances at Vera, and then shoots me finger guns.
“Yes, it was so kind of him,” I say, and blush.
I blush so hard I think I start sweating, and Wyatt’s shit-eating grin isn’t helping matters.