The first thing I notice is pressure across my stomach. Warmth at my back. A cold draft slips through the sheets. I shift closer to the heat behind me, and the room tilts. My stomach turns. Something firm presses against the backs of my thighs.
I jerk upright. My eyes open to a gray morning. The blankets are tangled around my legs. I'm on the floor.
Why am I on the floor?
Why am I on the floor with him?
I look for an explanation. The bed is enormous, the window above it open to the damp air. My legs are bare and covered in goose bumps. The thin shirt hanging from my shoulders—oh, no.
This is not my shirt.
It used to be my favorite thing to sleep in. After our breakup, when the box with my things arrived two days later, I packed the shirt and every other reminder of Rhys into the box from our first set of shared dishes and sent it back to him.
Why am I thinking about the shirt? My ex-fiancé is on the floor beside me, bare-chested, face turned into a pillow. One arm lies across my lap. His erection presses against me.
“Hey.” I push his shoulder. He settles back into the same position. I sleep badly; Rhys sleeps so deeply I used to check that he was breathing.
“Wake up.” I shove him harder. His eyes open a sliver.
“What?” He squints at me. “What happened?”
“What happened? How did this happen? How could I let it happen? How could you?”
He sits up and runs a hand through his hair. “Tell me what happened.”
“We slept together, Rhys.” My whisper gets louder despite my headache.
His eyes widen. Then he lets out a rough laugh. “When? Between you and Jules doing body shots and me carrying you upstairs?”
I look around. “I'm wearing your shirt.”
“You threw up on yours. I went to find you another, and you insisted on this one.”
“That sounds nothing like me.”
“You used to say you wanted to be buried in that shirt. Then you changed your mind and said I should have you cremated in it.”
“I don't make demands.”
“Apparently that was the surprising part.”
I press my hands to my forehead. “Why am I on the floor?”
“You refused to take the bed.”
“And you?”
“I refused first. I thought you were trying to prove a point, but you fell asleep quickly. I was worried you might get sick again and choke.”
I groan. A sharp ache pulses above my eye. My stomach makes an unpleasant noise.
I remember gulping down wine in the kitchen and going back to the patio. Dane had put on one of his party playlists through the speakers tucked inside fake rocks. Everyone was dancing except Bianca and Rhys, who stayed by the fire talking. With the flames behind him, Rhys looked unfairly good. Then Dane pulled him and Livia over to the rest of us.
I told Rhys he'd looked like the devil sitting by the fire. He said, “Stop flirting with me, Mara.” I felt angry—and something else. After that, the night gets blurry. Maybe that's for the best.
“Why don't you feel as awful as I do?”
“I drank half as much wine and none of the shots you took off Jules's stomach.”
“I really did a body shot?”
“No.”
My shoulders loosen.
“Four of them.”
“Why did nobody stop me?”
“Bianca went to bed early. Livia and Dane were having a great time. And whenever I came near you, you rubbed your backside against me until I moved away.”
I scoot back. “I would never do that.”
“Don't worry. It was clearly revenge.”
I cover my eyes with my hands.
Rhys reaches for the glass on the nightstand. “Drink some water.”
“I don't need water. I need a time machine.”
“I'm not made of money. Water is what I've got.”
I take the glass and drain it. He takes it from me and gets up to refill it in the bathroom. I crawl toward the balcony, pull the blanket with me and open the door. Kneeling outside, I take in several breaths of salty air.
The sun has barely risen. Mist hides most of the view; everything beyond the balcony looks gray.
“Here.”
His voice startles me. Rhys has come outside with the refilled glass and two painkillers. I take them, though I don't want to.
“I don't need you to look after me.”
“You've always made that clear.” He sits beside me on the damp boards, knees drawn up, looking toward the water he can barely see. “Since when do you drink like that?”
“I don't.” At his expression, I add, “Not usually. These aren't usual circumstances.”
He pushes his hair off his forehead. “Can I ask you something?”
“No.”
He keeps looking toward the hidden horizon and nods.
I can't leave the question alone. “Fine. What?”
“You're happy, aren't you?” He turns to look at me. His mouth is tight; his brow is furrowed.
I feel unsteady, and the alcohol in my stomach doesn't help. There isn't a safe answer. If I say he did the right thing, I absolve him. If I say I'm unhappy, I admit that part of me still wants him. Since the breakup, I've missed him as if something essential were gone.
A loud air-horn sound blasts from the hallway. Someone shrieks, “CART DASH, BITCHES!”—Jules, apparently. Dane sounds the horn again.
Rhys gets to his feet. His question is forgotten, and I don't have to answer. “At least somebody remembered to drink water before bed.”