Chapter 25 Now

Overthinking is apparently my new thing. Or maybe I'm just now recognizing it in myself. I pace my apartment, reliving my session with Gabriel over and over. And not just what I said—my massive screwup that he obviously noticed—but also the way he looked at me after.

Did he know?

Did I blow it?

Or was it all in my imagination? And everything's fine, and he'll come back like nothing ever happened next week.

Next week.

Shit.

I sink onto the edge of my bed and stare blankly at the wall. I can't do this. I can't keep seeing him. Not when there are so many secrets, when I'm so heavily intertwined with his life and he doesn't even know it. Unless he does. But again, that's all speculation, likely a production of my guilty conscience.

I'm just trying to help.

Right?

I don't even know anymore. I tried to help, and the money only made him upset.

I go to the kitchen and find the wine cooler nearly empty. All that remains is a Riesling, too sweet, too heavy, like honey. But it'll do. I pour a glass and lean against the floor-to-ceiling window that looks out over the city, contemplating it all. I was so glad to still have a view into Gabriel's life. But now that view threatens to expose me.

I swallow more wine, wandering from one room to another. A ghost, haunting my own home. Worse, a ghost who drinks too much. I ignore my phone when it pings with new messages on the dating app, silence an alarm to remind me to send an email for work. My mind is too muddled anyway. I swear the sweet wine goes to my head faster. Eventually, I sit down and catch up with a dozen notifications—a request for a refill through my work email, a message from Sarah reminding me about a last-second schedule change. Three messages wait for me on the dating app, but I'm not sure there's any point.

Another glass of wine.

Leaning back in the recliner you loved so much—the right bend to your knees, you said, to let your sore back relax—I think about a dozen threads that could unravel in a second if Gabriel realized I've followed him, that I have my own personal notebook of his comings and goings, that I've stalked his family's grave site, that I'm your wife. Your widow.

Another random thought hits, and I suddenly bolt upright. What if Jake didn't do as I asked and my name was included with the check he sent?

I grab my phone, move my fingers along the surface, pressing to go from screen to screen until I reach my destination, until a distant ringing comes through the speaker.

"Hello?" A man's weary voice greets me.

"Jake, I need to ask you something."

"Mer? Are you okay?" He coughs. "Jesus, it's one in the morning. What's wrong?"

I pause hearing how late it is, remembering that I finished most of that bottle of sweet wine on my own. And now I'm calling my brother in the middle of the night, likely waking his wife, his family…

"I asked you to make sure my name wasn't on the check. Or any of the paperwork."

Jake doesn't respond. Likely he's confused.

"The check, Jake! For the family Connor killed."

"Jesus, Mer. You woke me up for this? I told you I'd take care of it. Your name wasn't on anything. Everything came from the Estate of Connor Fitzgerald."

"You're sure?" My voice comes out too high, too desperate. Even I can hear it.

"I did what you told me. Now tell me what's going on. What's happened?"

"Sorry. I'm sorry." I want to let the phone fall from my hand. Want to curl up in a ball and sleep and pretend today never happened. Pretend the last two years never happened. But Jake will only call back. He might even show up at my door. "I'm okay. I promise. I'm sorry I woke you. I just—I can't sleep. My mind started circling."

"I'm concerned. You don't sound like you can't sleep. You sound frantic."

"I'm fine. Really. I'll text you tomorrow, okay?" I don't wait for him to reply. Instead, I hang up, stare at the phone, and start making a mental to-do list. At the top of it: Tell Gabriel our time is over. I agreed to a few more weeks. That's come and gone. I'll do it first thing Monday. I have to.

But for now, I need a distraction. Anything will do. So I go back to my phone, opening one app at a time—the weather app (rain tomorrow), my email (ugh, deal with it Monday), social media (too many happy wives and smiling children; don't they care at all about how it makes people like me feel?), and last, the dating app. Because I have nothing to lose.

The new messages waiting are from men looking for a sugar mama. Men who think posing with cans of beer is attractive. Men who actually mention their ex-wives in their profiles. One red flag after another.

Why can't I meet someone normal?

Then I remember, I have. The doctor. Robert.

I'll need more wine for this. I wander into the kitchen, almost fall on my face stumbling over my own two feet, and arrive at the empty bottle I've consumed. I've forgotten I poured the last drops only ten minutes ago. I won't feel well tomorrow, but if I already know I won't feel well, why stop?

I find a tiny bottle of prosecco hidden in the back of the fridge and untwist the top, let the cork pop out, and sip at the bubbles as they spill over and onto my hand. I lean over the sink, keeping the wine from making a sticky mess on the counter.

And I can't help but think of you. How you'd stumbled around the kitchen in search of whatever alcohol you could get your hands on near the end.

I push that thought from my mind in favor of downing my bottle of prosecco. After it's empty, I decide it's a good idea to send Robert a text.

I completely ignore the previous messages—the one where I told him I'd check my schedule and get back to him, the several that followed where he checks in, but I never responded. I ghosted him, just like the story he shared with me about his first date back in the dating game.

Seconds tick by, then a minute. Somewhere in there, my eyes focus on the time—1:32 a.m. Jesus. I forgot it was so late. Again. I'm about to toss my phone down, let myself slump over on the couch and pass out.

But it chimes, a new message comes in. I straighten and read it.

It takes me a second to get what he means—he's giving me a hard time. For ghosting him. I smile and write back.

I tap my fingernail against the empty bottle of prosecco, suddenly flush with giddiness. I'm excited to talk to him. Too excited. I force myself to take a deep breath and consider that—consider why. If I were my therapist, what would I think?

That I'm lonely, probably.

Maybe that it's good for me to be talking to anyone besides Gabriel.

My heart does a funny thing—maybe. Like maybe he doesn't want to talk to me. To see me again. But the three dots pop up, indicating he's still typing.

My chest squeezes with joy. He's teasing me. Flirting.

For a second I imagine it—meeting him at the airport, hopping on the first flight to London. Taking a vacation with a handsome near-stranger. The exhilaration of doing whatever I want in that moment. I could do it. I could. My passport is in the safe. An Uber is five minutes away. I start to type back—Yes, let's do it! But he replies before I can.

And here I was going to tell Sarah to move my appointments. I was going to do it. Take off, abandon my life on a whim. I was excited about it, too. Or maybe I'm just drunk.

Morning comes late for me, the sun well above the horizon when I open my eyes and find myself staring at the living room ceiling. A throw is half over me, like I dragged it down when I got cold in the middle of the night. My neck aches as I sit up, reminding me I'm not in my twenties anymore. I can't just pass out wherever.

Speaking of passing out. I squint at the nearby coffee table. A big bottle of Riesling. A tiny bottle of prosecco.

Jesus. I must have drunk them by myself, because I sure as hell didn't have company. I search the couch cushions for my phone and check the time—11:08 a.m. It's the day I work late, so my appointments don't start until noon, but I'll have to hurry. I'm already in the shower, voice-messaging Sarah that I'll be a few minutes late, when I see I have a text waiting. I send the message to Sarah and set my phone down to hurry the shower along.

But when I'm out and wrapped in a towel, I have to check it—it might be important.

It's a message from Robert, the guy I went on the date with and ghosted. I clear the fog on the mirror and find myself frowning. It's been weeks. Why would he message now? Isn't it obvious I'm not feeling it?

But then I see his message.

Looking forward to what?

I nearly drop my phone as I adjust my towel and lean in, scrolling as fast as I can. There are a dozen texts back and forth between us. Texts I have no memory of. I drank a lot, but surely not enough to completely black out, right?

Oh God.

Shit.

And I initiated the texts. After midnight.

Another text comes in just then, from Jake.

I study his words, try to figure out what he means. Coming up empty, I check my call log, and sure enough—I called him. We spoke for three minutes and forty-two seconds.

And I have no memory of any of it.

I sit down on the closed toilet seat, trying to recall what I said. What I did. I have no memory of most of last night. What if I did something worse? Like call Gabriel?

My breath catches in my throat as I frantically double-check my call log.

Thank God.

Thank freaking God.

I stare at myself in the mirror. I've worried my brother. Set up a date with a man I have no real interest in. Hell, apparently I was ready to hop on a plane with him to England.

And that's when it hits me that I'm a little afraid. Of myself.

And what I'm capable of.