by Shen, L. J.
“I know you’re in there.” His words got closer, darker. My dinner clogged my throat, begging to purge itself. Knowing the door was firmly locked, I hurried to the toilet, threw the seat up, and lurched into the bowl. My whole body convulsed as my stomach pumped up the little I’d eaten tonight.
“Should’ve hired a sorority girl for the job,” he muttered under his breath behind the door, giving the handle a firm shake. “Fun drunk beats sad drunk every day of the fucking week.”
Fun drunk is not an option when a jerk like you is in the vicinity.
I continued throwing up. Tears ran down my clammy cheeks, snaking into my mouth, their saltiness exploding on my tongue. I never got drunk. I must have been more anxious than I’d realized.
We were supposed to be wide awake and ready to go on a family hike tomorrow at ten a.m. I very much doubted I would be in any shape to get out of bed, if I even made it to it and not straight to the ER tonight.
“Madison!”
“Leave me alone.” I scrambled up to brush my teeth. I got as far as the sink and tumbled back down. The pressure in my head made it impossible to open my eyes. Julian’s words spun inside it, circling like clothes in a washing machine. A six. I was so painfully average and so royally out of my depth here.
I was on my second attempt to hoist myself over the sink and try to brush my teeth when Chase kicked the door down. Unhinged, it flew to the floor, landing with a thump. Luckily, the Jack-and-Jill bathroom was more spacious than my studio, and the door landed a few feet away from me. I looked up and blinked at him, my mouth slack.
Asshole kicked the door down.
“You . . . you stupid . . .” I squinted, trying to find adequate words. And failing. He strode over to me, picked me up from the floor, and righted me against the sink. He turned on the tap and began to wash my face for me, running his big palm over my nose and mouth. He held me by the waist to keep me from falling.
“Finish that thought, Mad. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be amusing,” he said tonelessly, plucking my toothbrush from the silver container by the sink and applying a generous amount of toothpaste onto it.
“Conceited . . . arrogant . . . egotistical . . .”
“Nah-ah. You don’t get to use synonyms. That’s cheating.”
“Bastard!” I roared.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He stuck the toothbrush in my mouth, applying gentle pressure as he brushed my teeth for me. He was a thorough brusher. Of course he was. “What else have you got?”
“Stupid . . .”
“You already said ‘stupid.’”
“Okay, dumb . . .”
“How about we continue this tomorrow?” He cut through my stream of insults. “I promise to be convincingly insulted and cry into my pillow the minute you’re done.” He finished brushing my teeth, rinsed the toothbrush, and filled a glass of water for me to gargle.
I was too disoriented to pretend to care he was taking care of me. In all of the six months we’d been dating, I’d been careful not to expose him to any part of my less glamorous side. I’d brushed my teeth before he’d woken up to avoid morning breath, gone number two while the shower was on so he wouldn’t hear (which had also cornered me into taking frequent showers at his place), and categorically pretended my period hadn’t existed, sparing him any mention of Mother Nature’s visits to my body. Now, here I was, letting him clean traces of my puke straight from my mouth with his ring on my finger. Oh, irony really did have a sick sense of humor.
I gargled the water he helped me sip before spitting into the sink and side-eyeing him. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“Thank fuck for that, you’d be a nightmare to tame.” He didn’t spare me a look, picking up my pink bag of toiletries and plucking two sheets from my makeup-removal wipes. He began to scrub my eyes, probably worried my $5 waterproof mascara would stain his $5,000 linens.
“And you’d be a tyrant to work for,” I slurred. He chuckled, tossing the dirty wipes into the trash can, picking me up honeymoon-style, and carrying me back to the bedroom. I was still trying to come up with creative insults, refusing to cave to temptation and wrap my arms around his neck. The aftertaste of puke still lingered on my breath, but I was oddly unbothered when I spoke directly to his face.
“You’re not even that attractive,” I muttered confrontationally as he put me down on the bed. He removed my shoes, then reached for the hidden zipper in the back of my pencil skirt and rolled it down. He was stripping me bare. It felt too good to get rid of my work clothes to care. Anyway, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. And we weren’t exactly seducing one another. I was half-dead, and he’d basically admitted my mediocrity to Julian by not defending me.
Oh, also—I hated his guts.
“And you’re cold and sarcastic and lack basic empathy.” I continued listing his shortcomings. “Just because you’re helping me now doesn’t mean I forgot who you are. The devil incarnate. You’re far from Prince Charming. For one thing, you’re rude. And not the saving-princesses kind. You’d probably send someone over to save them for you. Also, you’d look ridiculous on a horse.”
I was half-sorry I wasn’t still puking. Vomit was favorable to what left my mouth as I tried to insult Chase. That was some second-grade stuff right there.
“Permission to remove your bra,” he said thickly.
“Granted,” I huffed.
He unclasped my bra with one hand, then produced a Yale sweatshirt from his nightstand drawer. He pulled it over my head, then stopped, staring at my breasts for a few good seconds.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
He tugged the sweatshirt down in one go, his throat bobbing with a swallow. The fabric was warm, soft, well worn. It smelled of Chase.
“And what kind of name is Chase Black, anyway?” I let out an unattractive snort. “It sounds made up.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but it’s as real as your hangover is about to be tomorrow morning. I suggest you chug this.” He unscrewed an Evian bottle that sat on the nightstand and handed it over to me. He rolled his black dress shirtsleeves up his elbows, exposing forearms so veiny and muscular I was surprised I hadn’t humped them months ago, when I’d still had the chance. “I’ll go get you some Advil.”
“Wait!” I called out to him when he was at the door. He stopped but didn’t turn around to face me. His back was so deliciously ripped inside his dress shirt that I was half-mad at myself for never exchanging nudes with him when we were a thing.
“Pick up the jasmines and put them in a vase full of fresh water. They don’t deserve to die,” I croaked. “Please.”
He made a grumbling sound, shaking his head like I was a lost cause.
The last thing I remembered was gulping the two Advil Chase put in my mouth and passing out.
I woke up with a pounding headache the next day. The clock on the nightstand signaled eleven. It was official—the weekend had started off with me being a spectacular failure, as far as my duties as a charming fiancée went. First, I’d gotten accidentally drunk; then I’d missed the Blacks’ family hike. The room was empty, save for a tray with bacon, eggs, fresh bread toasted with butter, and a steaming cup of coffee. There was a new vase full of slightly distressed jasmines on the dresser by the door. A neatly folded blanket and a fluffed-up pillow were sitting on top of one another tidily on the floor.
And a note on the nightstand.
M,
Went hiking. Jasmines are alive. Assuming you are, too, soak up the alcohol with the breakfast I left for you.
PS:
I’d look fantastic on a horse. #Fact.
—C
I spent the rest of the weekend working hard on redeeming myself in the eyes of the Blacks.
At lunch, I was glued to Katie’s and Lori’s sides, making pleasant conversation and helping Lori stitch back a part of her favorite vintage dress that had gotten torn. I then rolled up my sleeves and made scones for everyone, bantering with the fa
mily baker (because what kind of family didn’t have a baker on their payroll?) and laughing with Katie, who didn’t participate in the baking but was content to sit on the counter and tell me about the half marathon she was training for.
“It’s the only thing that makes me feel accomplished. My dad gave me a job and threw enough money at my education, but running? No one does it for me. It’s all me.”
When the family went wine tasting, I opted to stay behind, seeing as I’d drunk my own body weight the previous night and was afraid even the scent of alcohol would upset my stomach. I sketched and watched the sunset at Foster Memorial Beach, the ocean crashing ashore tickling my toes with its foam. The air was salty and clean. My heart twisted painfully. Mom would have loved this beach.
My phone pinged with a message.
Layla: Wellllllll?
Maddie: Welllllll?
Layla: What’s going on? Also, I think Sven is onto you. He knows the Blacks are in the Hamptons this weekend. Coincidentally, he dropped by your apartment earlier and I had to tell him you’re out. Anyway, should I be worried for Ethan’s marshmallow heart?
Maddie: Nope. Chase is gross as ever.
Layla: Totally gross. In a want-to-have-his-sociopathic-babies way, right?
Maddie: First of all: I cannot believe they let you work with children. Second: I told you. He is a cheating cheater who cheats and we are not warming up to him (we = me and my body).
Layla: This sounds a lot like you trying to convince yourself.
Layla: Also, I just want to point out, I was voted teacher of the month last July. So HA.
Maddie: You mean during summer break, when kids are not at school?
Layla: Bye, party pooper. Tell the cobwebs on your va-jay-jay I said hi.
I must’ve gotten carried away with my sketching, because when I got back to the Black mansion, the door in our en suite bathroom was back on its hinges, unlike yours truly. Chase was already showered, dressed, and looking like the billion bucks he was worth, ready for dinner. I’d managed to successfully avoid him throughout the entire day by spending time with his family. I refused to thank him for taking care of me last night on the grounds that he cheated on me and was still a jerk, and I decided to continue ignoring his good deed. Chase asked if he could count on me not to spontaneously puke at the table. I flipped him the finger and headed to the still-steaming shower. He went downstairs to spend time with his father and niece while I threw three bath bombs into the hot tub, lay in it until my skin became prune-like and I’d shrunk to the size of a ten-year-old, and chose my outfit for the night (A-line black dress with cat ears on the shoulders paired with an orange cardigan and blue heels).
I did not drink a drop of alcohol through dinner and politely ignored Amber’s death stares. The stainless beauty of her, paired with the fact her husband thought I was subpar, rattled something I hadn’t known existed in me. Luckily, her daughter, Clementine, who looked to be around nine years old, turned out to be an unexpected delight. I hit it off with the little ginger thing immediately. We talked about which princess dresses were the best (Cinderella and Belle, hands down), then about our favorite superheroines. (That was where we agreed to disagree. Clementine exclaimed Wonder Woman was her first choice, while I thought the clear, obvious answer was Hermione Granger. Which led to another subargument about whether Hermione was a superheroine or not.)
(She definitely was.)
Clementine was fantastic. Open and bright and full of humor. It helped that she looked nothing like her grim father and gorgeous mother. A completely fresh entity, with different coloring, a constellation of freckles on her nose, and uneven teeth.
I got into bed early, avoiding all communication with my fake fiancé, and was delighted when I woke up in the morning and not only felt brand new but found Chase sleeping on the floor again. I took a moment to watch the frown between his eyebrows as he slept, the thick slash of his dark eyebrows pinched together. A pang of something warm and unwarranted unfurled in my chest.
Devilishly handsome.
I turned my back to him and slept through the morning, but not before writing him a note and leaving it exactly where he’d left his, on the nightstand.
C,
Thank you for brushing my teeth Friday night.
Next time don’t use all the hot water.
PS:
You’d look ridiculous on a horse.
—M
CHAPTER SIX
CHASE
I crumpled Madison’s last note while she was in the shower before slam-dunking it into the trash can. I scribbled another one before she came out.
M,
Can’t help but notice you failed to comment about the jasmines. No wonder we broke up. You’ve always been unappreciative (Xmas diamond earrings come to mind).
PS:
Re: me on a horse. Do I smell a bet?
—C
I had trouble wrapping my head around the fact my convenient, timid ex-girlfriend had turned into a feisty, take-no-bullshit warrior.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in.” I put the pen down. I expected Dad. We hadn’t had time to talk one-on-one during the weekend, and I wondered if he’d picked up on the tension between Jul and me. We hadn’t had many weekend-long family gatherings with Julian in the past three years. Not since Dad had announced I’d be chief operating officer of Black & Co., the second-in-command to his CEO and chairman position. He’d given Julian the CIO position—chief information officer—and the message was clear: I was to inherit the CEO seat when it was time for Dad to retire.
Julian had been resentful since then. He thought, considering he was the elder “son,” that he would be the natural successor. Only he didn’t feel so much like a son anymore and opted out of most family gatherings these days. In fact, I was surprised he’d come to the Hamptons. But of course he had—he’d wanted to see Madison, find out what kind of woman I’d decided to marry.
I looked up at the open door. It wasn’t Dad. It was Amber.
Fucking Amber.
She wore a pair of leather pants tighter than a condom and a blouse she’d conveniently forgotten to button around her generous, surgically enhanced rack. Her dyed-blonde hair was freshly blown out, and her face was immaculately made up, including her painted-on eyebrows, which gave her a Bert-from-Sesame-Street edge. I jutted my chin out in hello but didn’t stop shoving Mad’s clothes into her suitcase. My fake fiancée’s unaccountability infuriated me. She had nonexistent organizational skills. I couldn’t trust her to be ready in time, and I wanted to be out of here before we hit traffic. Another prime reason we were a terrible fit.
And here was another one, in case I was tempted to dip into Madison’s jar ever again—she was a dreadful drunk. On a scale of one to Charlie Sheen, she was a solid Mel Gibson. Embarrassing to be associated with. Still, I applauded myself for being pleasant and supportive of her when she’d been about to pass out. Of course, I’d had to be. She was my fake fiancée, and tossing her to another room, letting her fend for herself, seemed cold, even by my arctic standards.
“Are you alone?” Amber pouted, crossing her arms over her chest to push her tits out. She was all class.
“Madison’s in the shower,” I supplied without looking up.
She took that as an invitation to waltz in and park her ass on the edge of the bed, on which the suitcase was open. I continued cramming burnable fabrics into the open jaw of the luggage, wondering who the fuck made the weird clothes Madison was purchasing with gusto. I tried to look at the labels, but there weren’t any. Very promising stuff.
“Clementine wanted to say goodbye.” Amber leaned toward me, pushing her chest even tighter. I really didn’t want it to burst. It would delay my trip back to New York by at least a few hours.
“I’ll come see her before we leave,” I tried to clip out, but I couldn’t help it. My voice came out softer than intended where Booger Face was concerned.
“We need to talk about her.” S
he put her hand on my arm. If she thought it’d stop me from moving, she was dead wrong.
“Booger Face or Madison?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” Amber huffed.
“Same,” I deadpanned.
I resented Julian and Amber for calling their daughter a name with zero nickname potential. Clemmy sounded like it was short for chlamydia, and Tinny made her sound like a mini can. I therefore referred to her as Booger Face, even though long were the days since she had sported actual boogers. When Clementine was born, Amber had asked me what I thought about the name. I’d said I didn’t like it. I was certain that was why she’d chosen it.
“Fine. Tough crowd. Let’s start with your fiancée. Is it real?” Amber glowered.
I zipped Mad’s overflowing suitcase wordlessly. What the heck kind of question was that?
“She’s a bit of an oddball.” Amber’s palm slid from my arm, her fingernail running circles on her thigh absentmindedly.
“She suits me.”
But she didn’t, and we both knew that. I hadn’t considered the fact that Madison wasn’t my obvious choice back when I had dated her, simply because I hadn’t thought there was anything to consider. She was supposed to be a fling. Nothing more. Now that Julian and Amber had pointed it out, I had to admit they weren’t wrong. I liked my women the same way I liked my interior design: impractical, obscenely expensive to maintain, with zero personality and frequent updates.
“About Clementine . . .” Amber stopped circling her fingernail over her thigh, digging it into the fabric. She was nervous.
“No,” I snapped, looking up. She reared her head back like I’d slapped her. “We’ve discussed it, and my demands were clear. Either you accept them or you zip it.”
“Are these my only options?”
“This is your only ultimatum.” My gaze flicked to the closed door of the bathroom. The stream of water stopped, and the glass door squeaked open. For a reason I didn’t care to explore, I didn’t want Madison listening to this clusterfuck of a conversation.