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Closing my eyes, I give up trying to move, and relax. That hurts too. I’m never, ever drinking again. Teeny tiny snippets of last night start to filter into my banging brain. The dancing. The shots. My own personal shoot-out with a load of harmless balloons. Oh God. James carrying me to bed. Stripping my uncooperative body down while I protested and demanded he take me back to the party. I was having such an amazing time. I was happy, content, free. I would swear up and down I want those feelings of uninhibitedness back, but if this is the aftermath?
“Ouch,” I murmur, gingerly negotiating my body up. I place my bare feet on the soft carpet. Bang. I lift my ass off the bed. Bang. I rise to standing. Bang. I take a couple of steps toward the bathroom.
Bang, bang, bang.
“Oh, God help me,” I mumble, folding to the floor, the effort to walk too much for my delicate body. I get to my hands and knees and crawl butt naked to the bathroom, the bangs more bearable. Just.
I make it to the shower, pull myself up the screen and flip it on, then feel my way around the room until I’m in front of the mirror that hangs over the sink. “Good lord.” I look haggard. Absolutely shocking. I snatch my toothbrush from the holder and slather it in paste, shoving it in my mouth and scrubbing the taste of stale alcohol away. Two long swigs of mouthwash, a splash of cold water on my face. I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, my breathing shallow. And I pull up, carefully treading my way back to the bathroom door. The bed is empty. He probably couldn’t stand the smell of me anymore or my snoring. Oh, God, was I snoring?
I cringe my way to the shower—a combination of embarrassment and pain—and step inside. I’m a statue under the spray, without the energy to even wash myself down. I’ll stay here all day. Just stand here and be rained on.
“Beau!”
I jump, startled, and swing around too fast, having to grab the glass panel to hold myself up. I wipe the water away and find Rose snatching a towel down from the rail, thrusting it toward me. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“We have to go,” she blurts, flapping out the towel and holding it up. “Come on. Hurry up.”
“Go where?” I step into the white cotton and wrap myself up.
“The boatyard.”
“Why?”
“We just have to!” She races out of the bathroom, leaving me to follow, confused.
“Rose, what’s wrong?” I ask, making her stall at the door. She turns, her eyes welling, her lip wobbling. I retreat a few steps, not liking that look on her.
“Danny and James are gone.”
I frown, but it soon hits me, a memory muscling past the fog. “They’ve gone out on the jet skis.” Is this a case of pregnancy emotions? She’s acting crazy. Completely unreasonable.
She shakes her head, her eyes dropping like rocks to her feet. “We need to go.”
A horrible, awful feeling comes over me, and I step forward. “Rose?”
“Please, Beau, can we just go?”
“Tell me what’s going on,” I order calmly, feeling anything but.
I see her visibly swallow, building up the courage to spill whatever it is she knows. “I think Danny’s going to do something stupid.” She moves back, putting herself in the corridor.
Stupid. My brain feels like it has an electric shock, more memories coming to me. My eyes dart across the carpet at my bare feet, things slowly clicking together. “He said he’s taking you to St. Lucia today,” I tell her, looking up, not at all bothered if I’ve ruined a surprise. What the fuck is going on that Rose is clearly struggling to tell me? “James told me to pack.” I move forward, not meaning to appear threatening, but I’m struggling in the face of worry. Why would Danny and James go skiing the morning after the wedding? Of all the times, why this morning? And why am I only considering this now?
Nervous?
Should I be?
I inhale. I was referring to the wedding when I asked Danny if he was anxious. Making idol chitchat. But remembering his face now, the questioning, I think he thought there was more to my question. Did he misinterpret it as a red flag? A twisted warning?
It crashes into me like a tidal wave. He doesn’t trust James. I exhale, my heart clattering. “Has Danny set James up?” I ask, not giving her a chance to answer, my brain going into overdrive.
“Are you saying James was planning for you two to leave too?”
“He said it was nearly over.”
“So James could be setting Danny up?”
“Fuck!” I yell, running to the closet and grabbing some yoga pants and a sweater, attempting to rein in my temper as I fight my way into my clothes. I can’t blame Danny any more than Rose can blame James. They’re both determined men. He’s got a wife and two kids to protect. What do James and I have? And who is setting who up?
