I didn’t break it. I broke us. I can fix it.
And then she emerges through the fog of my hangover in a white pantsuit: Taylor. Blech. I find a small petty pleasure in her name. Taylor is one of those used-to-be-trendy names that now sound dated and pedestrian. My mother would find it vile.
We met, what, two and a half years ago, Sam?
I scrunch my nose at the memory of Taylor’s forced casualness. I would be shocked if she didn’t know how long they’ve been together down to the second.
Sam has a girlfriend. A beautiful, successful, presumably intelligent girlfriend. Someone whom I’d probably like under different circumstances.
I need a distraction.
I chance tilting my head toward the clock and am relieved that the pounding doesn’t get worse. I spot two purple chocolate bar wrappers on the bed beside me and remember taking them from the mini bar after I puked. It’s ten twenty-three. I groan. I should get up. I booked today off, so I don’t need to work, but I need to shower. Even I can smell me. Taylor probably wakes up in a pressed pantsuit. She probably keeps a bar of 75 percent fair-trade dark chocolate in her kitchen drawer and eats a single square on special occasions. As much as I can mix with pretentious interior designers and architects, or recommend a trendy new restaurant that actually has good food and service, or spend the evening in heels without showing pain on my face, I’ll always be messy underneath.
Usually I do a good job of keeping that side of myself under wraps. But now and then it’ll come out, like the time I called Sebastian’s progressive-seeming bearded best friend “the worst kind of misogynist” over dinner after he’d repeatedly looked down our server’s shirt and asked me whether I’d go to part-time or quit work entirely after I had children. Sebastian looked at me slack-jawed, having never seen me snap like that, and I apologized for my outburst, blaming it on the wine.
Still in yesterday’s sundress, I ease out of bed and inch toward the bathroom. I’m stiff, but I’m not nauseated. I loosen my belt and pull the dress over my head, take off my underwear, and then step under the hot spray. As the soap and water lift the smog from my brain, I make a plan to head over to the public beach after breakfast. Sam and I never swam at the beach when we were young. Once or twice we bummed around the nearby park with his friends, but the beach was reserved for town kids who didn’t live on the lake. I know there’s no dock and no raft, but I am desperate for a swim.
After my shower, I towel dry my hair until it’s damp and run a comb through it. I chance a look at my phone.
There’s another text from Chantal: CALL ME.
Instead, I write her back: Hey! Can’t talk right now. No need to come here. I’m OK. Ran into Sam yesterday.
I can picture her rolling her eyes at my response. I know I’m probably not sneaking anything by her, and I feel guilty for not calling, but being here and seeing Sam yesterday feels so surreal, I can’t imagine having to put it in words.
I press send and then put on my bathing suit, a bright red two-piece that I have rare occasion to use, and a pair of denim shorts. I’m about to throw on a shirt before heading to the motel restaurant, when there’s a knock at the door. I freeze. It’s too early for housekeeping.
“It’s me, Percy,” says a deep, scratchy voice from outside.
I unlock the door. Sam is looming in the doorway with damp hair and a fresh shave. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, a coffee cup and a paper bag in one hand. It’s every straight hungover woman’s fantasy standing at the entrance of my room. He holds them out and then looks me over, slowing down over the one-shouldered bathing suit top I’m wearing. His blue eyes are somehow brighter today.
“Want to come to the lake?”
* * *
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” I ask, grabbing the coffee and the bag. “Never mind, I don’t care why. You’re my hero.”
Sam laughs. “I told you I’d see you soon. I figured you’d forgive me for overserving you if I came bearing food, and I know you don’t like sweets at breakfast. Or at least you didn’t used to.”
“Nope, still don’t,” I confirm, sticking my nose in the bag. “Cheese and ham croissant?”
“Brie and prosciutto—from the new café in town,” he replies. “And a latte. Barry’s Bay is fancy now.”
“I noticed a more refined air yesterday.” I grin, taking a sip. “Taylor won’t mind if I come to the house? She might feel uncomfortable since we hung out all the time when we were kids.” And this is the problem with seeing Sam before I’ve had time to figure out how to talk to him or at least before I’ve had coffee. Words come into my head and then out of my mouth with no lag time between—it was that way when we were teenagers, and clearly that hasn’t changed, no matter how much I’ve grown, no matter what kind of successful woman I’ve become. I sound petty and childish and jealous.