Page 77 of When the Smoke Clears

She was also a little intoxicated, wobbling on her feet as we guided her over the toilet. Mel held her dress, and I had the pleasure of pulling down her underwear.

“She was giving one of the groomsmen a hand job,” Mel said.

“What? Oh my god! No I was not!” I glared at Mel, and she smirked.

“Oh come on, Ev, just get it over with already.” Victoria rolled her eyes while peeing for days. It was a miracle she didn’t wet herself.

“Get over what?” Mel leaned forward to look at me.

“Nothing,” I mumbled.

“Not nothing,” Victoria said. “She’s a virgin. And I told her doctors aren’t virgins.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. Drunk Victoria was not a good friend.

“Everleigh, you’re a virgin?” Mel didn’t exactly whisper.

The DJ probably heard it and could have announced it between songs.

“I’m seventeen,” I reminded them.

“You’re not buying alcohol. It’s your body. Spread ’em and go for it,” Victoria said.

By that point, I took everything she said as nothing more than drunken musings.

Mel laughed. “Spoken like a blushing bride.”

“I’m ready for you to wipe me.”

She could have wiped herself, but I played the part of a good friend (one of us had to), and I wiped her.

“I was sixteen the first time,” Mel said, adjusting Victoria’s dress while I washed my hands.

“Fourteen,” Victoria confessed, which earned her judgmental looks from Mel and me. “What?” She shrugged. “I was an early bloomer.”

Mel shook her head and laughed. “Whatever. But seriously, Everleigh, you’re in medical school. Don’t be a virgin. Not cool.”

I wasn’t keeping my virginity because I thought it was cool. Just the opposite. I had been actively trying to lose it all week.

“Let’s go dance, then you can do all the groomsmen if you want,” Victoria giggled.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Why is being with William Landry such an astronomical feat? It was eleven years ago, and it still is now.

If at first you don’t succeed . . .

How many times are we supposed to try, try again? After all, he’s moving to Somers. And it’s breaking my heart again, but I can’t tell him that because his dad is dying. So I do what I do best: I pretend he is my patient, and I wear my doctor’s hat.

Pragmatic.

Detached.

Will arrives home early Sunday morning as I finish cleaning out the fridge. It’s too late. He already knows I don’t keep a tidy house all the time, but I want him to feel good about leaving me here. I want him to trust me.

“Good morning,” I say, returning the last of the food to the top shelf.

He toes off his black boots. “Morning.” The weariness in his voice matches his expression.