9. Tori
TORI
I woke with a jolt, blinking rapidly at my surroundings.
It took a second to realize I was home. In the guest room—my room.
The last thing I remembered was feeling sick at the club, the way the floor had rushed up to meet my face, the image of Stefan that had burned itself into my mind as the world went black.
But no. It had to have been wishful thinking in my state of panic.
There was no way my husband had been there last night. How had I even gotten home?
Why was my mind so obliterated? How many drinks had I had? I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember much of anything at all. Not clearly, anyway. Just random flashes.
I’d gone out dancing with friends from school, that much was certain. There was dancing, I was pretty sure, and plenty of cocktails and shots, which Gavin had been in charge of.
Gavin.
We’d danced a little. Flirted a lot.
After that, though…
It was all a blur. Except Stefan’s face, the one clear thing I’d seen in the crowd before I passed out.
I’d definitely fallen, though—I looked down and saw I had bruises on my knees, and when I gingerly rubbed the side of my sore head, I found a knot there from where I must have hit it against the floor.
Yet all I could recall about the night’s end was the nausea that had swept through me and the hazy image of my husband looming overhead.
Unsteadily, I got to my feet, but sank right back down on the mattress as a massive headache pounded against my skull.
My whole body felt weak and shaky. What the hell had happened to me last night?
There was nothing but blank space where most of my memories should have been.
I had so many questions, and zero answers.
There was a glass of water on the bedside table and I drank it down, gulping greedily, my mouth dry and vaguely sour.
My phone was sitting there too, still turned off.
I thought about turning it back on, but I really wasn’t in the mood to see the angry, disapproving texts Stefan had undoubtedly sent me when he realized I wasn’t coming to dinner.
We were probably in a huge fight now, and since it was Saturday I wouldn’t even be able to hide out at school all day.
The last thing I wanted to do right now was face him over the breakfast table, silently seething at me from three feet away.
So I took a long, hot shower. Maybe he’d be out of the house by the time I was done.
When I got out, I felt slightly better. It was almost 10 am, the time I was usually heading out the door to go to yoga.
If Stefan was here, he’d be at the kitchen table with his coffee, reading the news on his tablet, but I crossed my fingers and hoped I was home alone.
There was no way I’d make it through the day without my coffee.
I picked up my phone, debating whether I was ready to turn it back on.
I couldn’t face the embarrassment of texting Gavin to ask what had happened.
Had I thrown myself at him in my state of intoxication?
And if so, had he reciprocated? What if we’d hooked up on the dance floor, right in front of everyone?
What if my friends had seen me cheat on my husband?
There was no way I could text them now and ask.
Even if it wasn’t true, they’d think it was if I claimed to be too hungover to remember what I’d done the night before.
God, this was such a mess.
Yet it seemed unlikely that Gavin and I had gotten physical.
Ever since our almost-kiss that night at Navy Pier, I’d made an effort to be extra clear about the boundaries of our relationship.
And Gavin was a good guy—a great guy, actually.
He wasn’t the kind of person who’d take advantage of me in the state I’d been in at the club.
I was more sure than ever that he’d been the one to get me home safe last night.
I hoped I’d taken my own pants off, though.
What would I say to my girlfriends when I saw them in class on Monday?
I was pretty sure Lila had been there—she never missed a night out—but it was humiliating that I remembered absolutely nothing prior to my collapse.
I’d have to just pretend it was a great time and hope I hadn’t done anything too mortifying or disgraceful.
I could smell bacon all of a sudden, faintly hear the sizzle from the pan.
It made my stomach turn. But that must mean Gretna was here, cooking up one of her big Saturday breakfasts.
Stefan had probably given her the night off yesterday, what with the Zoric family dinner on the calendar.
At least I had one friend to comfort me today. And coffee was a must.
Putting my phone back down, I threw my robe on over my leggings and T-shirt and padded down the hall and into the kitchen.
“Gretna, I didn’t know you were here tod—” I stopped dead in my tracks as Stefan turned around, still pushing bacon around in a pan on the stove. “What are you doing?” I asked.
He stared at me, his mouth pressed into a firm line as he gave me a judgmental once-over. “What’s it look like?”
My husband never cooked. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how—the few times he’d actually whipped up a meal, it had been effortless and admittedly delicious—but that he wasn’t home often enough to bother, and we both took full advantage of our gourmet personal chef. Something weird was going on.
“You’re…making breakfast,” I said, still confused. “Why aren’t you at work?”
He didn’t answer, just handed me a cup of coffee. I sat in a chair at the table and took a deep inhale of the steam, letting it revive me a bit.
“I poached two eggs for you and there’s toast,” he told me, just in time for me to hear the slices pop up in the toaster. “Do you want it dry or with butter?”
I sipped the coffee, thankful it was piping hot and black, and tried to get my head to stop spinning. “I’m not hungry,” I said truthfully as he set a plate and fork down in front of me.
“You’ll eat,” he commanded, his voice going from neutral to vicious in a split second.
I pushed the plate away. “I can’t eat this.”
Stefan stood over me and folded his arms. “Then I’ll make you something else. What do you want?”
Why was he acting this way? “I don’t want anything,” I said.
He was barely able to contain his fury, I could tell by the way the muscles in his jaw were twitching. “I’m not going to let you sit there and starve yourself,” he said. “I’m making you a smoothie.”
He turned away and went to the counter, slamming cabinet doors and knocking things around in the refrigerator as he searched for protein powder and god knew what else.
Suddenly it hit me. This had to be his way of punishing me for not showing up to dinner last night. Did he seriously think I was on some kind of hunger strike? Rebelling against this marriage by not eating? As if I’d ever do that. He really must think I was a child.
“Look, about dinner last night—”
“Forget it,” he said. “It’s done.”
“I just—” But the roar of the blender cut me off before I could get another word out.
That made me feel even worse. Like I’d fully fucked up, ruined my one chance at getting our relationship back on track. My stomach rolled with nausea again. This hangover was brutal.
Stefan poured the unwanted smoothie into a tall glass and slammed it down in front of me. Then he sat down in the opposite chair and looked at me.
Did he know I was feeling like shit? Was he doing this on purpose to fuck with me?
I took another sip of my coffee.
“Your hands are shaking,” he observed.
He was right. I was visibly trembling. Clearly, I needed to rest more after what had happened last night. Whatever it had been.
I desperately wanted to crawl right back into bed.
Wrapping my hands more tightly around the coffee mug, I held onto it as if it was my lifeline.
As I drank it down, one careful sip at a time, I realized that Stefan was watching me.
He’d been pushing his own eggs around his plate without hardly eating them, glancing up at me every few seconds as if I was a bomb about to explode. Finally, he held out his toast.
“One bite,” he said. “And then I’ll leave you alone.”
Leaning forward, I took the smallest bite possible and then chewed it up quickly, swallowing it down with a sip of coffee. My stomach seemed no worse for it. No better, either.
This felt like the Twilight Zone. Everything about this morning was unusual.
His very presence, the meal he had made, his continued attention.
Over the last month or so, we had become experts at ignoring each other.
Now, I couldn’t help wondering what had changed and if his asshole superpower was zeroing in on me during the moments when I was the most vulnerable.
Because I was feeling pretty horrible right now and the last thing I wanted was for my lying, cheating, masterfully manipulative husband to take advantage of that.
I hobbled over to the coffeemaker and poured myself another cup, planning to return to my room where I could recover in peace.
“You look pale,” Stefan said, a thick layer of faux-concern in his voice.
Ah. So I was right. Clearly, he was enjoying making me miserable.
“I feel fine,” I lied, lifting my chin. I knew I probably looked like shit, but I wasn’t going to admit how bad I was feeling so he could gloat about it. He obviously wanted to punish me for ignoring his dinner invitation last night and skipping out on family time with the Zorics.
“You don’t look fine, kitty cat,” he said.
The use of my nickname—the one that had become dear to me, that he had used in our most intimate moments—felt like a kick in the chest. Why was he using it now? What was he trying to do to me? If he wanted to make me more miserable, well, he was succeeding.
“You don’t need to hover. I’m fine,” I insisted, leaning heavily against the counter to steady myself.
“But you’re not,” he said, again laying on that obviously phony gentle tone. “You can barely stand.”
It felt as if he could see right through me.
Did he want me to admit I’d gone out with my friends last night when I shouldn’t have, and that I was now suffering through the worst hangover of my life?
Was I supposed to apologize, beg him for forgiveness, or simply break down in front of him for my own edification—or his amusement?
And since when had he begun noticing that I existed again?
The timing was suspect and I didn’t trust him.
Didn’t trust that he wasn’t trying to use my vulnerability to his advantage somehow.
“I have cramps,” I finally blurted. “That’s why I’m skipping yoga. I need a day of bed rest.”
He looked at me as if he knew I was lying.
I didn’t wait for him to say anything more. Instead, I headed back to my room with my coffee and climbed in bed, where I planned to spend the rest of the day. Recovering and wallowing. And hiding from my husband, who was clearly up to something behind my back, though I had no idea what it was.
The only thing I did know for sure was that I couldn’t trust him.