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“Why not?” He’s still not looking at me, but at least he’s somewhat facing my direction.
“Garrett.”
“What?” He turns fully to look at me, and I raise my eyebrows at him. He raises his right back.
“We had sex.”
He blanches—all the color drains from his face before he stands and walks to the bathroom.
Ooookay.
“I mean, I know having sex doesn’t mean we can’t divorce, but…” I hear water running and, securing the sheet around me, I follow him. “Garrett?”
Jesus, Mary… His ass flexes as he’s bent over the sink, splashing water on his face. I roll my eyes to the ceiling. Seriously, what kind of karmic retribution puts an ass like that on my oldest friend?
“Give me a minute,” he mumbles through his fingers.
I retreat to my suitcase, pulling on an oversized t-shirt that covers me to mid-thigh.
“We had sex?” His voice is raspy, full of gravel, and my nipples pebble against the cotton of my shirt.
Stupid body.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I turn to face him. “I’m pretty sure, yeah.”
“Pretty sure? You don’t know?”
My mind sifts through the holes, searching for any way to know for sure. Everything after Dolly is…gone.
“I can’t tell for sure,” I finally admit.
“So, why’d you say we had sex, then?”
“Hello.” I wave at the bed. “Why else would we have woken up the way we did? Can’t you tell?”
“I—how the fuck—no, I don’t remember anything.”
His reaction confuses me.
“Why are you so bent out of shape?”
“I’m not,” he says. “So why exactly can’t we get a divorce?”
I can clearly imagine those headlines.
“No!” The volume of my voice makes my own ears ring, and I cringe.
He winces. “Maybe a little quieter so as not to give the sledgehammers in my brain anything else to focus on, okay?”
“Sorry.” I shrug, embarrassed. “I just—”
I stop, not sure what to say. No, I don’t want to publicly divorce the man I married while drunk in Vegas? A man who I’ve been friends with for twenty years?
“You just what?”
“The divorce. That’s a lot of publicity,” I finish lamely.
“Publicity?” His brow furrows. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
