Side Swiped By My Step Brother (5 page)

Chapter Seven

Emma

              I get a cab home and text Megan.

              I’m alive. On my way home now. Going to bed for a while.

              OOOOH! Did you get no sleep last night? Details!

              The only detail I’m going to give you is that I discovered his wedding ring.

              So?

              I start to type a reply. So? So now I’m that other woman, and Jai’s wife, whoever she is, is me, when I was with Tom and getting cheated on. Clearly, if he has an online dating profile, he’s done this sort of thing before—he’s probably hooking up with someone else this very moment. But I stop typing and delete what I’ve written.

              I don’t want to talk about it, I write. I’m just going to try to get a little sleep before the dinner tonight.

              Was the sex at least good??

              I don’t answer. I don’t want to think about the sex, even though it was mind-blowingly good. I don’t want to think about Jai, but of course I spend the duration of the cab ride wondering how someone who I actually felt I had a connection with could turn out to be no better than the asshole who had broken up with me six months earlier.

              No one’s home when I get back to the apartment. I throw my purse down and go get a glass of water. My headache has subsided a little, but I feel disgusting, inside and out. I take my dress off, the bra off, and stuff them both into the trash. Yes, I like them both, but seeing or wearing either article again is just going to remind me of this, and how gross I feel, so I might as well get rid of them.

              I go take a shower, turning the heat up as high as it will go, as if I could somehow scald the nastiness off of myself. I shampoo my hair, once, then again, and I squeeze shower gel onto my loofah half a dozen times, letting the water rinse the suds off before I soap myself back up again.

              The evidence is still there, though. I step out of the shower, feeling a little better, but then I catch sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. There is a huge, painful-looking hickey on my neck. Take the worst bruise you’ve ever seen, multiply by twenty, and you might be somewhere in the ballpark with how horrid this hickey looks.

              There’s also little bite marks on my shoulders, my breasts, and even though my inner thighs look fine from the outside, they are achingly sore. I finish toweling off, put a tank top and some clean underwear on, and crawl into bed. I just need to sleep this off.

              “Emma?”

              Someone’s calling my name, but I can’t tell if it’s part of my dream or really happening.

              “Emma?”

              I struggle through layers of consciousness, and as I do, I feel pressure on my shoulder, someone shaking me.

              “Emma, your phone is totally blowing up. Someone really needs to get in touch with you. I’ve been home like fifteen minutes and it’s probably gone off thirty times.”

              I open my eyes. Megan is standing there, looking a little amused and a little concerned. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” she says. “Here, I brought you your purse. Your shit is totally blowing up.”

              I struggle to sit up. I feel completely disoriented, but at least I’m here, in my own room, with my best friend standing next to the bed, not some random guy I met online. Megan puts the purse down and sits on the edge of the bed.

              “So . . . can I ask what happened? I’m dying to know.”

              I smother a yawn. “I really don’t want to get into the details.”

              “Let’s just pretend for a minute he’s not married. (And really, who cares if he is?) But just forget about that part. Tell me about the sex.”

              If I don’t at least give her something, she’s never going to leave me alone about it. “Okay,” I say. “If we’re just talking about the sex then . . . it was pretty fucking incredible. I mean, I probably don’t even remember half of it because we ended up getting wasted, but . . .” I shrug. “It was great. And then I find out he’s married.”

              “Ah,” Megan says, grinning. “Drunk sex is the best. He was hot. Seriously fucking gorgeous.”

              “I don’t care how good the sex was or how gorgeous the man—if you’re married, that basically voids the whole thing.”

              “Stop being so Puritanical. Do you know how many married men I’ve slept with?”

              “No. And I don’t want to know. How could you do that? Don’t you think about the other person? Don’t you want the guy you’re sleeping with to not be a total fucking sleazeball?”

              “If he knows how to work his dick, then I don’t really care. Sex is sex. I don’t go actively looking for someone who’s married, or in a committed relationship, but if they seek me out and we hit it off, why not? It’s not like my refusal of their advances is suddenly going to make them realize that they shouldn’t cheat. And who knows—maybe they’ll realize they actually do love their wife and that’s who they really want to be with.”

              I roll my eyes. “Sure. Yeah. So you’re really just doing a public service. I should nominate you for an award. The Nobel Peace Prize, maybe. For all the good you do for humanity.”

              “Oh, come on, Emma.” Megan pats my shoulder. “You’re just hungover and feeling cranky. Let’s just be glad that you had a good time, you got laid, and now you’re out of your rut. Dry spell over. Congratulations.”

              She gives me a hug, and I turn my head into her shoulder a bit, just enough for me to be able to see the clock on my bedside table.

              “Shit!”

              It’s five forty-five.

              Megan jumps back. “What? What? Are you okay?”

              “It’s five-forty-five!” I throw the covers back. “I told my mom I’d be at her hotel at six, and I haven’t even picked my dress up from the fucking dry cleaners! Shit!”

              “Oh fuck. Did you take it to the place we usually go to?”

              “Yes, of course.” I grab a pair of yoga pants off the floor in front of my dresser. “If I run, I can make it there, get the dress, get a cab, maybe change in the cab? Shit!”

              “Sweetie, that place closes at five. You’re not going to be able to get that dress until tomorrow morning.”

              “Are you serious? Well what the fuck am I supposed to do now? My mom is going to shit a brick if I show up late and without that dress!”

              “Really? Who cares if you’re not wearing that exact dress—it’s not like this is the wedding, or even the rehearsal yet. You can borrow one of my dresses. Your mom will get over it.”

              Megan runs into the closet and reemerges a second later, an armful of dresses hanging off their hangers. At this point, I don’t even care what the dress looks like, I know I just need to pick one and get to my mother’s hotel room before she has an aneurysm.

              “That one, that’s one fine,” I say when Megan holds up a black dress with peacock blue flowers on it. My mother likes flowers. She will like this dress.

              I call a cab while I’m looking for a pair of shoes that will go with the dress. I choose a pair of strappy sandals, grab my purse and the dress, and rush outside, just as the cab is pulling up. Right as the cab is pulling away from the curb, my mom calls.

              “You’re on your way, I hope,” she says. I can’t read her tone.

              “I’m sorry, Mom. I just got in a cab and I should be there in ten minutes, so long as traffic isn’t that bad.”

              “Okay, good. I’m sorry if I seem anxious—I’m just really excited for all of us to be together as a family for the first time. I want things to go as smoothly as possible.”

              “I’m sure they will, Mom. It’s just dinner, right? I don’t think anything too crazy is going to happen at dinner.”

              “I’m sure you’re right. We’ll see you soon, honey. Can’t wait!”

              I can hear my sister saying something in the background. Jessica, the perfect older sister, someone I can only aspire to be like in my wildest dreams. She’s only thee years older than me, but she’s got a fiancée, a mortgage, and a career as the director at a women’s nonprofit. In fact, I’m sure it’ll be her wedding that I go to next.

              Just one more thing to look forward to.

              When I get to the hotel, I realize that my mother didn’t tell me her room number. “Hi,” I say to the hotel clerk. “I’m sorry, but could you tell me what room number Stephanie Oliver is staying in?”

              “You’re her daughter?” the clerk asks, looking down at me over the nose of her glasses.

              “Yes.”

              “She’s in room 647. She’s expecting you—she asked me to keep an eye out.”

              “Oh. Um, for what?”

              The woman shrugs. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure. I guess she just wanted to make sure you got here in one piece. But here you are. Where’s your dress?”

              I try not to look too taken aback by the question, but it’s weird to have a stranger asking you about something they shouldn’t really have any knowledge about. I hold up the dress, which I’ve folded several times so it’s about the size of a dish towel. “It’s right here.”

              The woman nods. “Good. I know your mother was worried about your dress.”

              “So . . . did she just tell you all this? To watch out for me and that she’s worried about my dress?”

              “She’s just nervous. People get like this sometimes, especially right before a wedding. Wanting everything to go perfectly. It’s only natural, even if it isn’t your first rodeo.”

              I shrug. “Well, thanks for telling me the room number.”

              “I told your mother not to worry about a thing. The stuff our mind conjures up to worry over is usually far worse than the actual reality of what happens.”

              “Uh, yes. That’s very wise of you. Thanks for sharing.”

              I turn and hurry off before the woman can offer me any more insights. I can just imagine my mother, talking to anyone and everyone she can about her wedding, about how she’s so certain her youngest daughter is somehow going to ruin her big day. I get in the elevator and slump against the wall. I try not to think about the last elevator I was in.

              I can hear my mother and sister talking from the other side of the door. I knock, and the door flies open, almost immediately.

              “Whoa,” I say. “Hi, Mom. You must’ve been standing right by the door.”

              “Emma,” she says. Her eyes widen. “You forgot your dress.” She frowns. “That was a joke you know. I realize things don’t always translate well via text, but I was joking.”

              My sister waves at me from behind our mom and sticks out her tongue and crosses her eyes. I bite back a smile. “I didn’t forget my dress, Mom, it’s right here.”

              She squints. “That doesn’t look like the dress you said you were going to wear. The one I got for you, remember?”

              “It’s . . . it’s not. There was a slight change of plans. I thought this one would be better, because . . . well . . . I thought you’d like it better,” I finish lamely. “And I figured you’d be okay with letting me change here.”

              She looks from the dress to me, then back again. “You didn’t make it to the dry cleaners in time, did you?” she says. “And what on earth happened to your neck?!” Her hand darts out, and she’s turning my head to get a better view. “Oh my god, you were attacked. You were assaulted, weren’t you? That’s why you weren’t at the rehearsal and why you weren’t able to get the dress, isn’t it? Are those ligature marks?”

              I pull my head away. Jessica is cracking up. “Geez, Mom, no. I’m fine. It’s fine.”

              “Well, Emma, what happened?”

              “It’s a hickey!” Jessica manages to gasp out through her laughter.

              “Oh for Christ’s sake!” My mother throws up her hand. “Go into the bathroom and change into that dress, and I’m going to see if I have enough concealer to disguise that monstrosity. What are you thinking, Emma? You’re going to be meeting some people for the very first time tonight, and I’d think that you’d want to make a good first impression. Is it asking too much that you show up in the dress that you said you’d wear, without any hickeys all over your body? That looks positively gruesome.”

              She pushes me toward the bathroom.

              “Hey, sis,” Jess says. “Nice to see you!”

              I give her a little wave and then go into the bathroom. My mother’s make up and jewelry is all over the counter, so I put my stuff down on the floor. I look at myself in the mirror. The hickey does look pretty bad.

              I take my clothes off, realizing too late that I don’t have any underwear on, nor did I remember to pack any. Oh well. At least the dress isn’t see through.