That phrase “the rest of your life” had actually been going through Abigail’s head a little bit during the course of the weekend, a thread of worry that Bruce’s overprotectiveness, his undying love for her, was going to wear thin over time.
The man stood up. “And with that final obnoxious comment I think I’m going to quit while I’m still ahead.” He dropped the cigarette onto the patio and ground it out under his foot. She thought he was going to leave it there, but he picked it up and put it in his jeans pocket.
Abigail stood as well. “It was only a little obnoxious.”
“If I have one more glass of wine, I’m going to beg you not to marry him, and to run away with me.”
Abigail laughed. “When it rains, it pours. Oh, your sweater.”
She pulled it off, the fabric crackling a little with static electricity, and handed it back to him. Then the man held out his hand, as if to shake hers, and said, “Madeleine, nice meeting you.”
She shook his hand and their eyes met, and a part of her took two steps back and watched this stranger and herself in their circle of firelight. It felt like watching the last spontaneous romantic moment of her life. There was a hitch in her breath, and for an awful moment she thought she was going to cry. “How about a hug?” she asked, and he pulled her in toward him, and because she was cold, she let the hug go on too long. He smelled of smoke, but not in a bad way.
Abigail thought: Don’t do it. Don’t kiss this man.
After they separated, he said, “Do you believe there are little pockets of time and space that exist outside of the rest of our lives? Like maybe this is one of them, and anything that happens right now doesn’t count? It will just be forgotten, a secret only between us.”
A phrase ran through Abigail’s head. One last fling. Rachel had said it to her earlier that evening, just after Abigail had first spotted the man in the flannel shirt across the U-shaped bar in the restaurant. Rachel had noticed her staring, and said, “One last fling?”
“Excuse me?” Abigail had said.
“It’s a thing: one last fling before the ring.”
“What do you mean, it’s a thing?”
“I don’t know, Abigail, don’t get mad at me. I was just kidding.”
Don’t do it, you’ll regret it.
And those words kept running through her head as she stepped into the stranger’s arms again and kissed him, telling herself that was all that was going to happen. That she was allowed a kiss, one drunken kiss, before getting married.
But the kiss was just too good, and she told herself that maybe this was a little pocket of time. A pocket of time without names and without consequences. The world spun, and he was a good kisser, and when his hand touched her neck, an involuntary shudder went through her body.
Later, a few hours later, another phrase ran through Abigail’s mind as she lay, awake and sober, in the king-sized bed of his room. Reader, she thought, I slept with him.
CHAPTER 6
I want to hear all about the meal,” Bruce said, after they’d hugged and kissed, and as she slid into the seat across from him at a midtown Mexican restaurant.
“God, that meal,” she said. “It was amazing.”
“Tell me about it.”
Abigail had been nervous about seeing Bruce for the first time since the trip to California, and now she was so relieved that they were actually talking, and that he hadn’t instantly been able to see the infidelity written all over her face, that the details of the meal went entirely out of her head.
“Let me think for a moment,” she said, and then was saved by the waitress appearing to take their drink orders.
When he asked her again, the memory of that meal came back to her, and she described it course by course. He seemed so pleased hearing the details that Abigail relaxed some more, even though her guilt ratcheted up a little bit. It was going to be all right, she thought. She’d gotten away with it.
A week earlier, after skulking from Scottie’s room （she still thought of him by the name she’d made up）， she’d tried to fall asleep in her own hotel bed, but only managed about two hours of fitful, edgy half sleep. Every time she thought she was going to trip over the edge into unconsciousness, images of what had just occurred erupted in her mind. Before she knew it, morning had arrived, and she sent a text to all the bachelorettes that she was sleeping in and skipping the brunch buffet, then she sent a separate text to Zoe, asking her to swing by her room when she got a chance. Five minutes later, Zoe, looking as though she’d gotten ten hours of deep sleep, arrived with a plate of croissants.