Chapter 12
“Where’s Harry?” Zennie asks, astute as always. I know they saw me leave the rehearsal alone last night, and I don’t want either of them worrying about me, not tonight, on their big day. They already picked up on the tension between me and Harry, I’m sure are wondering why I haven’t dumped him yet.
“Waiting in the car,” I lie, because if there’s ever a time that God forgives you for lying, it’s when your best friend’s dad who you’ve loved since forever just finger banged you on the balcony at her wedding and you just want to get the fuck out of dodge so you can feel like a guilty, cheating skank in private.
Screw that. I don’t even feel guilty.
I want to be alone so I can bask in what just happened in private.
Sober me will pull every moment apart with her bare hands and scrutinize every breath and spoken word, run each millisecond beneath a microscope and reframe it all in my mind until I deduce that he was drunk and he won’t remember.
But that’s for tomorrow, sober me.
Tonight? I want to bask, goddamn it, and I think I deserve it. So I lie. I lie to Zennie so that I can get away and not have to lie to Kat.
“Tell Kat I said goodbye. I told her we were leaving soon, so she knows,” I say, pressing a kiss to Zennie’s cheek, retucking the flower behind her ear.
“I will, I promise. Thank you for everything. Your photos were such a hit.” Another hug. “Love you, Jules.”
“Love you, too. Both of you. Now, enjoy the rest of your reception!”
She grabs her dress, tugging it up to expose Ugg boots on her feet. “Oh, I’m ready!”
Another kiss, another hug, an impromptu goodbye with Geo and Sutton, and then I’m in a cab, eyes closed as I head home. I just want to lock myself inside my apartment, get out of this strapless bra, and replay the last hour in my mind, over and over.
Ford Mercer kissed me.
He fingered me.
Mr. Mercer made me come.
I can't wrap my mind around it, but when I pull my hair to my nose, and inhale, I know it’s real because I can smell his cologne. He was pressed against me. I felt him, hard, hard for me.
The cab comes to a stop, and I open my eyes to discover my apartment building outside, most of the windows dark except for a few people still up, maybe watching TV, maybe asleep with the lights on.
I hand the man a wad of cash–more than the fare just to get out of this cab and get inside–and stop in my tracks on the sidewalk, jarred by what I see.
Harry.
With a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses in his arms.
Standing at my apartment door.
“Harry?” I ask, shock thick in my voice as I yank my dress up and trudge in heels up the walkway, silently praying not to roll an ankle.
“Juliette,” he says, opening his arms to me like I’m going to rush into them.
I clear my throat and slide the old key in the lock, turning it as I brush past him.
“I didn’t get to apologize for last night and tonight, too,” he says, as if there hasn’t been a whole twenty-four-hours between him telling me my dress is too small and I’m acting like a slut, and now.
Hell, we were just at a wedding for six hours.
With my apartment door cracked, my foot keeping it so, I face Harry, ignoring the flowers.
“You had a full day to call and make things right. Instead you texted me once as if nothing was wrong, ignored me for most of my best friend’s wedding, and now you’re here, with roses, like roses could possibly make up for anything.
They can’t.” I kick the door open and step inside, annoyed that he follows me in, locking the door behind me.
Tossing my purse and keys onto the counter, I head to the hall closet and pull open the door, replacing the heels from tonight right away.
“That can wait, Juliette. We need to talk.”
I face him, bracing one hand on my hip. “I put things away. When I get home, my shoes go in the closet, and my clothes get hung up or they go in the hamper. I don’t leave my place a mess, Harry, and if you ever fucking came here to do more than try and fuck me, you’d know that.”
Suddenly, all the champagne from the evening has left my veins and has flooded my brain, making my thoughts swimmy and my patience spotty. And booze aside, this has been a long time coming.
“I don’t come to your place because mine is better, and closer to all the places we like, and closer to my work,” he says, not even remotely aware of what an asshole he’s being.
If I wanted to fix Harry, or try, maybe I’d take the time to explain this to him.
But tonight, Ford Mercer kissed me. And while it was probably nothing more than a heightened moment come to fruition from emotions and alcohol, it made me realize I deserve better than this. Kat and Zen are right.
“Come on,” he continues, laying the flowers down on my counter despite the fact there are two vases on the exposed shelf not more than four feet away.
“Come on, honey, don’t be like that. You know I’m sorry,” he says, approaching me from behind, sliding his hands around my waist. Positioning his open palms on my belly, he grabs me, kissing my neck, and I stare at the reflection of Harry’s hands on me after he’s implied so many unkind things about my body and sickness hits me. Fast.
“Harry,” I start, then leap out of his arms into the bathroom, falling to my knees just in time to lose all of that champagne from earlier.
The back of my neck is slick with sweat as I heave into the toilet, my mind spinning.
I see his arms around me and his hands on me one more time and heave again, though there’s not much left.
Harry, in the doorway, mortified and grossed out with his wrinkled nose and standoffish body language, hooks his thumb toward the door. “Hey, you’re sick so, I’m gonna go, okay? It’s just… I have a big meeting tomorrow with a new client and I don’t want to get sick, too.”
He steps toward me, like he knows he should come push hair off my face, fill a cup of water for me, or, in general, do anything helpful. After all, he came here to make up with me after we fought. He should be in grovel mode, and yet the next time I look up, I see my front door closing.
The asshole didn’t even wait for me to be on my feet so I could lock it behind him.
My head spins, and I think there’s more champagne that my body is going to reject, but for now, I manage to my feet. After taking off the dress and hanging it in my closet, I slip into an oversized t-shirt and wash my face, followed by a good brush of my teeth and tongue.
Harry knew I’d been drinking tonight.
I mean, he had to see me. I drank enough flutes that statistically not seeing me drink seems unlikely. He has to know I’m sick from the alcohol tonight, not sick with some bug he can catch.
At the kitchen sink, I fill a cup of water and slowly drink it, telling myself that if Harry apologized for leaving tonight, I wouldn’t forgive him. There have been too many unforgiveables.
There’s a soft knock at the apartment door, and I think Harry has come to his senses, has rushed back and realized that if he doesn’t want to break up, he has to do better. I hope not, because I think this time my mind is actually made up.
Still, I trudge toward the door in my panties and shirt, glass of water shaky in my hand as I pull open the unlocked door, a mouthful of fatigue and anger preloaded for him.
But the water slips from my hand and shatters on the linoleum floor, because Harry isn’t at my door.
Ford Mercer is.
His tie is undone, loose around his neck, the top three buttons of his shirt are open, exposing ink and chest hair, making my stomach clench.
Our eyes lock.
“I thought he’d never leave.”