Fifteen
Peter
“Siri.” My voice cracked, my throat burning from last night’s bad decisions. “What time is it?”
For a few moments, I wracked my brain, trying to remember where I was. The sheets on the bed were cotton. Different than the silk ones Sarah and I used back at home.
Then it all came rushing back.
I breathed a low curse. Not only had I made a total idiot of myself last night, but I also slept away another day at Meadowbrook. Sarah would be pissed.
A wave of nausea swept up my neck and I took a deep swallow, wishing I’d taken it easy last night. My forehead broke out in a sweat as I rolled over, and the mattress seemed to tilt forty-five degrees. I gripped the sheets as the bed spun.
What was I thinking?
For long minutes, I laid flat on my back with my hands pressed against my sternum, struggling to simultaneously breathe and not vomit again.
I rubbed my lips together, wincing at the way they stuck—dry and cracking.
My tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, and I craved water like the world might be running out of it.
Flopping my arm over my face, I groaned—the sound distracting my spasming esophagus.
Why did I order that first beer last night?
I frowned, trying with all my might to remember my reasons.
Sarah. Open mic.
I didn’t want to sit close to her. I had the worst hangover of my life all because I didn’t want to hold my wife’s hand?
If that wasn’t a textbook example of pathetic, I didn’t know what was.
I’d picked up the first drink to escape reality and, to no one’s surprise, reality came calling anyway.
This time banging at the door instead of politely knocking.
I squinted into the darkness as fibers of the night before wriggled deep in my consciousness. But gaps stood in my memory. I hoped I didn’t do anything stupid—besides drinking a ridiculous amount.
Ever so slowly, I rose up on the bed, hissing through my teeth as my sore abs triggered flashes of memory—me ending the night getting intimately acquainted with the fifth wheel’s commode. I grimaced in disgust. Did I shower? I should shower again, just in case.
On wobbly legs I staggered to the bathroom and took a long hot shower that made me want to take another nap.
Knees buckling, I sank to the floor, just letting the water scald my skin for a while.
On my way back to the bedroom, I tripped over clothes strewn over the floor and caught myself with an elbow braced against the plasterboard.
Locating my sweats, I pulled them on and tried to find a t-shirt.
That was when Sarah arrived.
I recognized her delicate steps on the metal stairs and braced myself.
A rush of warm air entered through the open door of the fifth wheel and the scent of sunshine and grass clung to her body. A low ache hollowed out my torso. My words at the bar last night had hurt her. I knew they did.
Parts of the evening were hazy, but everything I said to her at the open mic? That wasn’t.
I remembered—and meant—every word.
A new nausea cropped up my throat as she set something on the counter. Sounded like a jar of some sort. Then a twist-seal broke, a snap-snap filling the quiet. “Looks like you’re finally upright.” She stepped closer, pressing a cool bottle into my hands.
Gatorade.
Thankful, I twisted the cap off and took a long swig, a cold rivulet escaping down my neck in my haste. I swiped a hand over my mouth and lumbered over to the couch, dropping down to catch my breath. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this bad.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
She was motionless—so still for so long I wondered if she’d somehow left the room without my noticing. I pulled myself out of my slumped position and cocked my head to hear better. “Sarah?”
“Yes?”
“Oh.” I sat back again. “I just didn’t know if you were still in here.” I fought the slur in my voice.
“I’m here.” Her voice was flat, emotionless. “You look…awful.”
“I feel awful.”
“Yeah, I bet you do.” She scoffed, not one iota of pity softening the sound. “Do you have anything you need to say to me?”
The room fell eerily still as I scrambled to understand what she meant. I blinked a few times, opening my mouth before I’d found the answer. “Uh…I’m sorry?”
She scoffed. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, I had no business getting drunk like that. I can’t even remember how I got back to the ranch.” I infused my apology with more confidence. “I really am sorry.”
“That’s it?” Her words came like a blade.
Blood pumped hot in my veins as concern surged through me. “I think so?”
When silence once again fell between us, I lifted a hand to scratch my head. “Are you doubting the conversation we had last night? I wasn’t intoxicated when I said what I said. I meant it.”
“Oh, trust me. I know. I’ve put two and two together.”
My brow furrowed with confusion. “Two and two? What are you talking about?”
“I was hoping you would tell me.”
“Sarah, if there’s something that needs to be said, just say it. I’m not a mind reader and I’ve got a pounding headache.” I took another sip of the Gatorade.
“A ton needs to be said, Peter. But you need to say it. Why don’t you start with the phone numbers.”
Phone numbers? What the hell was she talking about?
My face twisted as I wracked my brain. “What phone numbers?”
She moved across the room. “As I was picking your clothes up off the floor last night”—a drawer opened—“I found these in your pocket.” A light-weight object hit my chest then rolled down into my lap. My hands moved to gather it up, only to find…napkins?
“What is this?” I asked. “It feels like napkins.”
“They are yours. What I want to know is why you have them.” Her voice rose in pitch and volume, starting to shake with desperation and anger.
“Napkins?” My own pitch rose as confusion mixed with the fog in my head. “Sarah, I have no idea. Why are you freaking out about napkins?”
She didn’t respond immediately. For a few long beats, she waited. When she spoke again, a little of the fight had drained from her voice. “You don’t remember, do you?”
I opened my mouth again, searching for words. “Apparently I don’t. Because I have no clue where this conversation is going.”
“Well,” Sarah’s tone deepened with anger. “Allow me to jog your memory.”
I held my breath, tingles erupting over the back of my neck.
“That variety pack of napkins represents all the different bars you visited last night. And all ten have a woman’s phone number written across the top and some of them even have notes from your new friends. A little line or two for you to remember them by.”
My jaw dropped open, and I was certain I heard her wrong.
Battling to piece together the evening, I tried to marry her words with my fragmented memories. Phone numbers? Women?
Wait a second.
Realization clapped against my brain and blood drained from my face. Doom and dread swirled together in my stomach, a concoction infinitely more nauseating than alcohol could ever be.
We were playing a game, weren’t we?
A stupid game.
Ah, shit. Shit. What was I thinking?
I remembered Cody’s suggestion—seeing who could get the most numbers by the end of the night.
The room was already swaying at that point, my responses lagging and my judgment severely impaired.
Everyone took on the challenge. I couldn’t remember personally agreeing with the idea, but I must’ve been on board.
Did Sarah say ten?
Realizing my mouth was hanging ajar, I snapped it shut as a soft groan slipped through my clenched teeth. I propped my forehead with the palm of my hand, lacing my fingers through the top of my hair as my face exploded with heat and shame.
I couldn’t remember who I talked to, but bits and pieces kept waking up and flinging to the forefront of my mind. I remembered lining up at the bar with the cowboys to do shots. I remembered laughter, claps on the back, and comments about women liking blind guys.
We even put a cash bet on who could get the most. In fact, I was pretty sure I won.
Won.
Fear sliced my throat.
What did I do? What did I do?
I had never been unfaithful to Sarah in any capacity.
Since high school, Sarah was the only woman I even looked at.
Cheating, flirting, or affairs—even emotional ones—were so far off our radar we never suspected it of each other.
To think of me, collecting phone numbers when I had a woman like Sarah, was insane.
“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I murmured.
“I bet you do.”
“Sarah—I barely remember—”
“Cut the bullshit. You turned white. The truth is all over your face.”
“I—we—” I stammered, backed into a corner. “We were playing a game, I think. I can hardly remember.”
“A game.”
“Yeah, I think we were trying to see who could collect the most phone numbers. But, if I remember correctly, it was pretty innocent. Nothing happened.”
She gave a sardonic huff of a laugh then swiped the pile off my lap. “You call this innocent?” She read aloud, “Peter, great ass. Text me a pic…Peter, thanks for chatting. Let’s chat some more…Call me.”
I sat forward, propping my forehead in my palms as a wave of panic made it hard to breathe.
She continued, her voice trembling, “Peter, let me know when you’re ready to lose the wife…Peter, you’re a very naughty boy. Can’t wait to be naughty with you again.” An angry sob wrenched from her lips.
“Sarah, I swear to you—”
“What were you doing last night?”
I shook my head, humiliation cutting off my air supply like a zip tie. I had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea who I talked to. Naughty? What was that even referring to?
“I don’t know,” I blurted. “I really don’t. You could ask the guys.”
“Oh, trust me. I did. The only one who had the wherewithal to answer a question this morning was Harlan. And he said you have quite the way with the ladies. But he couldn’t say more because bro code and everything.”
Bro code?
Inwardly, I cursed myself.
“But Cooper told me everything—”
“Wait, he wasn’t even there.”