Chapter 43

I sobbed the entire car ride home.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said, a broken record.

"Stop apologizing," William said, and sighed some more.

"I didn't mean to get so drunk. I'm sorry."

When we arrived back at the house, William dutifully made me a grilled cheese sandwich and then put me in bed and placed a glass of water on the bedside table. I saw him stick his shoes in a trash bag as if there was no saving them after what I'd done.

"Shh," he said as I continued to babble my apologies. "We'll talk about this later."

In the morning, William brought me a latte and a breakfast sandwich from the coffee shop to help ease my hangover. I sensed that he was angry at me, though he refused to acknowledge it even when pressed.

"I know you're mad," I said.

"I have to go to work," he replied.

Although my head was hazy and my stomach queasy, I desperately wanted William to climb into bed and fuck me as a way of apologizing. That he refused to do so made me want it even more.

"I have to go," he repeated as I munched on my biscuit, spilling crumbs across the sheets.

The house became the kind of quiet that was loud again in his absence.

I dragged myself to the couch, taking the comforter from the bed with me. Cozy blankets, I'd discovered, didn't fit the sparse aesthetic that William preferred, which meant that I was often left to freeze in the name of décor. I tried to watch television while lying on the couch and found it made my neck hurt to turn at such an angle to see the screen.

Despite their constant drinking, I'd never seen anyone in William's family, including William himself, manifest any kind of hangover, and this was reflected in their interior decorating. Rooms were designed to look good in pictures and to host parties in, rather than for weathering various states of misery.

I called my mother. Illogically, it seemed like a good time to tell her that I had moved in with and was engaged to an acquitted serial killer. I couldn't hide forever; I realized that now. More than that, I needed her that day, lying on the uncomfortable couch, my mouth dry from dehydration. Though I would never be the daughter she thought I was and she wasn't always the mother that I wanted her to be, she was still able to provide comfort.

My mother's phone rang and rang and rang. When I got her voicemail, I called her back again. Still no answer. Being ghosted, as it turned out, applied to more than just men that I was romantically interested in.

"Hi, Mom," I said to the voicemail. "I'm calling to check in. I hope that you and Dad are doing well. I'm doing good. Really good. Let's talk soon. Love you."

I hung up the phone and wished I had told her the truth. I was always lying unnecessarily to my parents, embarrassed by the reality of my existence.

I dragged myself off the couch to pour a glass of water and rummage through the cupboards for something to eat. The biscuit, though delicious, hadn't been enough to satiate my hangover, which I knew would require several more calorie-laden deposits before showing any sign of easing.

The kitchen proved to be disappointing. William didn't shop in the manner that I was used to. When I lived alone, I dragged myself to the grocery store every Sunday and did my best to buy food that would nourish me, with the occasional bag of chips or a chocolate bar thrown in. It took all of my will to return home and actually cook the food that I'd purchased instead of ordering delivery.

Food magically appeared at William's house. Logically, I knew that he ordered it. When I told him my requests, those things showed up the next week exactly as I had asked for them. The food that arrived was always healthy and fresh. A variety of fruits, vegetables, and whole grains. Nothing that I wanted to shove in my mouth in the midst of a hangover. It felt like cheating, a way around the temptations that everyone else was forced to deal with on a daily basis. I liked it until I didn't. Until I wanted chips so badly that I thought I might die without them.

I was scrolling through my phone, looking at pictures of pizza on the delivery app, when I heard a sound at the door.

"Just a second!" I shouted, and dashed to the bedroom because I was wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. Bile rose in my throat from the unexpected movement.

It wasn't uncommon for people to let themselves into the house. There were housekeepers and various maintenance people who came in and out in order to keep the house in its pristine condition without necessitating any work on William's part. Two weeks prior, a housekeeper had walked in on me lounging in my bra and underwear, an event supremely embarrassing to us both. After that, I'd made a point of putting on clothes even if those clothes consisted only of sweatpants and a T-shirt, something that I hadn't bothered to do in my hungover state. I missed the nakedness of living by myself, when I regularly pooped with the bathroom door open because there was no one there to see.

The front door opened as I frantically pulled on a pair of yoga pants in the bedroom, which meant whoever it was had a key. My hair was a mess and my teeth unbrushed, but surely maintenance people had seen worse conditions than the one that I was currently in.

I went into the living room to greet the visitor. I dreaded having to say hello, but didn't want to appear unfriendly or as though I thought myself above people in blue-collar positions.

I thought it was William at first, returning to the house to retrieve something forgotten, and then I let out a squeak when I realized who it actually was.

"Bentley," I said.

"Hello, Hannah," he replied.

He held a fast-food bag in one hand and a paper cup in the other. Salt and grease wafted through the air toward my hangover-addled brain.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

Bentley, to my knowledge, had only been to the house the previous day when he came to pick me up. Bentley and William didn't have the kind of sibling relationship where they stopped at each other's houses unannounced.

"I stopped by to pay you a visit," Bentley said. "I didn't like how we ended things last night."

"Look, Bentley, I know that you mean well, but I really don't feel very good right now. Maybe we could do this at another time? Maybe when I'm wearing clothes?"

I hated that Bentley was seeing me in such a vulnerable state. I was wearing the type of clothing that I ordinarily reserved for several weeks into a relationship when I knew that whoever I was seeing wouldn't leave me because I sometimes wore shapeless clothing and didn't brush my hair. I hated too that I still cared how I looked in front of him, even now, after he'd humiliated me.

"Please, Hannah. I brought you a burger. You're my brother's fiancée. It's important that we get along."

Bentley could've said anything after "I brought you a burger" and I would've agreed with it.

Even in the midst of my hangover, I was careful not to stain the white couch. I made a blanket of paper napkins and took the burger out of the bag. I couldn't remember eating anything so good. I took a sip of the soda. I was never a big soda drinker and had stopped completely when I moved in with William. I didn't remember Coke tasting so syrupy, so overly sweet on my tongue.

"Listen," Bentley said as I ate. "I know things have been weird between us since the trial. What happened—that was wrong, okay? Sometimes when I drink too much, I can't help myself."

I knew he was referencing our kiss without saying "kiss" and it was a relief to finally get it out in the air.

"And what I said yesterday," he continued. "That was wrong too. I'm sure that you really love my brother. You've stuck by him through so much and I'm grateful that he has you."

The fries were salty and warm. I usually preferred ketchup, but I was so hungry that I didn't care. The food made me sleepy. I was no longer processing the words that Bentley was saying as I consumed the final bites of the burger. My eyes started to close. Finally, finally, my body chanted, and I gave in to sleep, never realizing that I'd been drugged.