Page 51 of That's Not a Thing

“Cheers to that,” I say, a little annoyed by the trepidation I can hear in my voice. Our glasses connect, and the amber liquid swirls precariously. I take a big gulp, and the alcohol burns my throat on its way down.

AN HOUR LATER,Aaron and I have worked our way through two Bloody Marys each and half a bottle of prosecco. I assume we will go home and nap off this ridiculous brunch before we can do anything productive with ourselves.

I’m still picking my way through the branzino I ordered, using my fork to flake off bits of the white meat, when Aaron starts to laugh.

“What?” I’m smiling back, wondering what’s so funny, wondering if I can really just pretend that nothing ever happened with Wesley, if I can make it as irrelevant as it feels in this moment.

“Who gets branzino for brunch? Fish for breakfast. Who does that?”

“What do you mean?” I laugh back. “People do that. That is something people do.” I think I might be slurring my words a little. I can feel the alcohol clouding my brain, and suddenly everything seems funny. “Lox!” I nearly shout as the idea comes to me. “That’s fish for breakfast. See, something people do.” I’m inordinately satisfied by my genius revelation.

“Okay,” he says, nodding, as one side of his mouth lifts in amusement. “You’re right. I stand corrected.” He lifts his hands in defeat. “Fish for breakfast. Totally a thing.”

“And anyway, the Four Seasons wouldn’t have fish on the brunch menu if it weren’t a thing.”

“Okay, Counselor, I get it. You’re right. You can rest your case.” He’s smiling at me with such affection, like he’s exactly where he wants to be, and suddenly my own cheeks burn.

I have the overpowering sensation that I must, this minute, come clean to him, unload completely. I know I can talk to him about what’s going through my mind, and we will figure things out. I’ve always been able to talk to him.

“I kissed Wesley.”

Time stops as I wait for his response. The haze of alcohol that I’ve been basking in suddenly clears for a moment, and I realize what I’ve done. What I did last night. What I did just this minute.

“That’s not a funny joke.” His smile is gone. He’s completely focused on me, on my eyes.

“It’s not a joke.” I swallow. “It was last night.”

He’s silent for a moment as he continues to stare at me, hard, unyielding. And then he shoots out of his seat. “That motherfucker!” His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands to his full height, his hands already balled into fists. I grab his forearm, stopping him from the hunt on which he’s about to set off.

“No, it was me.” He looks at me like I can’t possibly know what I’m saying. “Please.” I tug on his arm. “Sit back down.”

I see our waiter eyeing us, probably wondering if we’re going to make a scene. Maybe this already is a scene.

“With tongue?” He’s rooted to his spot.

“Just sit, please.”

He hesitates for a moment but then slumps back into his chair, deflating. “Fine. Tell me everything, and let’s figure out how we’re dealing with this.”

As he speaks, with such clarity and logic, I realize how much more drunk I am than he is. I shouldn’t be surprised. We’ve had the same amount to drink, and he’s a trillion times my size.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” I start.

“Can we skip the clichés,” he snaps back, “and just get into the details? I need to know what happened.Exactlywhat happened.” His face is taut, like he’s struggling not to combust.

“I don’t remember exactly,” I whine. “He was saying all these nice things about you, about us. We were going to watch a movie, and then I just felt so sad that he’s dying. I just wanted to be close to him one last time. It doesn’t mean anything about my feelings for you. It has nothing to do with what’s between you and me.”

“Nothing to do with us?” He sounds genuinely confused for a moment, but his tone turns hot, livid, as he says, “It has everything to do with what’s between you and me.”

“But he’s dying,” I argue, trying not to slur my words. “It’s not the same as cheating.”

“It is precisely the same as cheating.” He’s whisper-shouting at me now. “You can’t be in love with me and want to kiss another guy at the same time. Is that even all you did, just kiss?”

I squint in concentration, trying to figure out how to classify exactly what Wesley and I did. I’m assaulted by memories of Wesley’s hands in my hair, my T-shirt flying to the floor, my hand fumbling desperately at the button of his jeans.

“You slept with him?” Aaron demands before I answer, his tone incredulous, shattered.

“No!” I sputter back, surprised by his assumption, even though he’s not so far off the mark, considering. “No, no, no!” I add more forcefully. “We didn’t! We stopped. Before it went that far...” I taper off.