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“He is,” I said, taking the machine. I didn’t even want to stop to tell her the story. I just wanted the mess off the carpet first.

I frantically shampooed the rug for the next half hour. I felt like I couldn’t go over it enough times. It had to be down in the padding, there was no way I was getting it all out.

The second the tank was empty, she’d grab it and refill it with soap and hot water while I went to the bathroom to dump the bucket and start all over again. When I finally ran out of shampoo, I stopped. I just stood by the machine, the adrenaline I’d been feeling for the last twelve hours pulsing.

Lexi eyed me. “Girl, if you don’t tell me what the fuck happened…”

I did a laugh-cry.

“Sit,” she said.

“I don’t want to sit in here.”

“Let’s go to my car, then. Come on.”

We sat in her Toyota in Donna’s driveway, the heat blasting, looking out at the guesthouse. All my fears had been validated. I tried to organize my thoughts in a way that was coherent.

“I decided to move in a day early. When I got here, Mike was passed out drunk.”

“Drunk?”

“Drunk.”

She blinked at me. “Did he go to a party or something?”

I shook my head. “No. He was just home. By himself. He ate all this junk food and drank a bottle of vodka, Lexi. The whole thing. I found the receipt in his pants. He bought it two hours before I came over. I couldn’t get him up—he was completely blacked out, sleeping in vomit. I was too afraid to go to sleep, I was worried he was going to throw up again and choke. I stayed on the sofa so I could watch him, and when I woke up this morning, he was throwing up in the bathroom. I was going to check on him and I stepped in something wet.” I paused at this part. I didn’t even want to admit it aloud. “He peed on the carpet. While he was lying there.”

She looked horrified. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. He got in the shower, then left for the cabin. He just came out with his bag and some sunglasses, told me he’d had a migraine, kissed me goodbye, and left. It was like he didn’t even remember it.”

“He probably fuckin’ doesn’t,” she said. “Did you call Chris?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake him up. It was late.”

“You need to tell Chris. Get his boy down here to deal with this.”

She sat in her seat and stared out the windshield before pivoting to look at me again. “Mike does drink a lot though.”

I pulled my face back. “No, he doesn’t.”

She gave me a look. “Uh, yeah, he kinda does.”

“He’s not an alcoholic,” I said, feeling defensive for some reason.

“You sure about that? Because this”—she gestured toward the guesthouse—“feels like some alcoholic shit.”

My mouth was dry.

“You told me how much he drinks,” she said. “You went on and on about the cabin thing.”

“Yeah, but then he goes months without it. It’s just at parties.”

“Uh, it’s called binge drinking, babe. Clearly you never went to college.”

I couldn’t even respond. I felt too exhausted and traumatized to process it. And it was making too much sense.

I put my head into my hands.