I’m in the living room tonight looking through Kevin’s files. My body is too sore from that damn child-sized bed to work at the dining room table.

The decorator has finally removed all of my furniture and replaced it with two sofas that have some geometric black and white pattern, but are certainly more comfortable than my stuff. The black, white and gold decor with bits of color here and there wouldn’t be my first choice as far as aesthetics, but it isn’t completely terrible.

Right now, I wouldn’t give a damn if I was sitting in Buckingham Palace. I’m far too focused on Kevin’s notes in front of me. Somehow my brother made a connection between the company that’s been so hot to trot to buy us and the REITs we’ve been investing in.

Excelsior?

There are pages and pages of documentation, all collected only the week before his death, showing that whenever Bennett Financial purchased shares in the RIET fund, Excelsior would purchase the same or a similar amount soon after. There could be a number of reasons for this, many of them perfectly innocuous. But the fact that Kevin was investigating it is worrisome.

What did you find out, Kev?

I stare at the paperwork and realize that the end of such a crazy day, and even crazier night, is no time to try putting it all together. I’ll get my usual few hours of sleep in and focus on it first thing in the morning.

My mind goes back to the phone call I made earlier today regarding Simone’s sex video. That will definitely have to be put on the back burner for now.

There’s also the troubling silence from my mother’s camp. I’d have thought she’d be the first one to call shenanigans on this marriage by now, but so far I have yet to hear a peep from her or her people.

With all of this running through my head, I realize a drink is in order. I collect all the paperwork and place it back into my briefcase, then head into the kitchen to pull out the bottle of whiskey and a glass.

With my glass poured and the bottle brought back with me I settle into the couch and take in the new living room. Simone did have a point, the old decor was definitely more gloomy than what I’m looking at now. I’m used to wallowing in my thoughts when I sit in this room with the unobstructed view of the night. Right now I just feel a certain level of ease flow through me.

“What did I say about drinking alone?”

I flinch at the interruption and turn to find Simone heading over. She’s in her usual sleeping getup of pajama shorts, tonight in baby blue, and a white tank top. I duly note the lack of bra as she walks over on graceful legs and bare feet. The last thing I need on the plate of things I already have to deal with is this visual dessert.

“In my experience, that’s usually the preferred way to drink,” I reply.

“That explains a lot,” she says with a cynical tone in her voice as she boldly settles on the couch beside me. She has a glass in her hand which I presume was meant for water originally. Instead she tips it toward the bottle. “Mind if I join you?”

“What’s a drink between a husband and wife?” I say with a dry smile.

She actually chuckles, which forces my eyes to notice just how thin that tank top is. I take a large sip of my drink, the burn forcing those thoughts far, far, away.

“So, how was your first night actually performing uncle duties?” She asks as she reaches for the bottle and pours.

“He asked if we were going to have babies.”

The bottle shakes in her hand, sloshing more than she probably wanted into the glass as she looks up at me in surprise. “He didn’t!”

“Careful,” I say, idly watching the ingredients of the bottle slosh around, a drop or two falling on her thigh. “That’s a thousand dollar bottle of whiskey you have there.”

She looks down at the bottle. “You’re kidding.”

“Surely you know me well enough by now, dear wife, to know that I would never cheap out when it comes to liquor.”

She gives me a sarcastic smile as she sets the bottle back onto the table, then her brow furrows and she straightens up as she remembers the more important issue at hand. “Wait, what did you tell him?”

“I assured him in no uncertain terms that you and I were most definitely not having babies.”

She heaves a sigh of relief and takes a sip of her whiskey. “Oh, thank God.”

I turn down one side of my mouth. “You don’t have to sound that relieved.”

Now the cynical look is back. “I may not know your drinking preferences, but I don’t need a crystal ball to know you have no interest in children. I also happen to know you have no interest in marriage either. You made that clear enough at Kevin and Bette’s wedding.”

“Was I that obvious?” I ask, one eyebrow quirking up with mild curiosity.

Her head tilts to the side as she rolls her eyes up in recollection. “Well, let’s see, there was the continual scowl on your face during the whole thing. Then there was barest, most grudging, amount of hope for the future you gave in your speech. The way you completely ignored my advances. Then of course, you basically said as much while walking me down the aisle during the rehearsal. Speaking of which, who could forget you calling the maid of honor, what was it, ‘that silly, cotton-candy brained, coed?’”

That has me sitting straight up, turning to her in surprise. “You actually heard me say that?”

To her credit—or maybe that of the whiskey she’s already sipped—she actually laughs. She looks at me with a smile that’s both amused and disappointed. “And he doesn’t even bother to deny it,” she muses.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair, unsure of what to do with that revelation. No wonder she gave me such a death stare during the reading of the wills.

“I was...,” I stop when something she said hits me. “Wait, did you just say that you were making advances toward me?”

She gives another small laugh then gives me a look that says: well, duh!

“God, who would have thought you of all people would be so clueless.” She turns to let her head fall back on the sofa as she stares up at the ceiling with a smile. “Oh boy, when I first saw you…I had the biggest crush. You were like something that walked straight off the pages of GQ Magazine. All the bridesmaids were crazy about you and I felt so special because I was the one who got to walk down the aisle with you. You were so intimidating though!”

She turns to face me with a skeptical look. “Didn’t you notice how nervous I was around you when we first met?”

“I just remember a lot of smiling and hair twirling,” I reply, still stuck on what an idiot I was.

She laughs again, and I find myself enjoying it. I settle back into my seat absorbing everything she’s just said.

She leans in to grab my attention. “By the way, you still haven’t apologized.”

I blink at her, then shake my head with a small smile. “I apologize for calling you silly and cotton-candy brained.”

She sits back with a satisfied smile. “I accept your apology, Archer.” She gives me a scrutinizing look as she takes another sip. “Where did that come from anyway?”

I turn my head to stare out of the window before us, raising my eyebrows in consideration. What the hell, I think to myself before taking a long swig from my glass and swallowing. “Truth be told, I guess I had a crush on you too.”

“What?” she exclaims, laughing as she slaps my shoulder. “No way.”

“Well, not a ‘crush’ per se. I was twenty-six after all, but you were like...,” I think back remembering the morning of the wedding rehearsal when I first saw her. I know it’s my tired mind, mixed with the drink, that has all my walls and emotional defenses temporarily torn down. The words come spilling out of my mouth like a damn avalanche.

“You were like walking sunshine, the way everyone was just so drawn to you. I remember you bouncing up the stairs of the church. Every eye followed you. And the way you smiled made me think of,” I pause and chuckle to myself, “Well, frankly it made me think of cotton candy at the fair, or running through the waves at the beach. It was a carefree lightness that you carried with you. I had no idea what to do with it.”

I’m still staring ahead, the image of her in my head as vibrant and lively as she was that day. “The funny thing is, all it managed to do was turn me into some kind of black hole. The more I had to interact with you, the more miserable I was. Maybe it was seeing how happy my brother was with your sister, despite all my protests about him getting married, and worse, without a prenup. And there you were reminding me of everything I was missing out on because I was so focused on this company he and I were trying to build. They just looked so damn happy and perfect and when he caught up with me to chew me out…I just went on a rant, letting it all out at once.”

I chuckle down into my drink. “If it makes you feel any better, he damn well put me in my place. I think it’s the only time I’ve ever seen him truly angry at me,” I slide my eyes over to her.

There’s so much raw emotion and tenderness it’s unbearable. I’d rather she go back to hating my guts than cause me to tumble down that rabbit hole of feelings again.

“And to think,” she says, something in her voice and eyes filled with the regret of remembering, “it could have been you.”

There’s something hidden in that statement that I know is meant more for her than me, but I don’t care. I focus solely on those words.

It could have been you.

I feel the years of regret explode inside of me: the meaningless sex, the hollow pursuit of another dollar, the steel walls I’ve build up around me, shielding me from anything approaching emotion. In its wake, I feel something else replace it. It’s like a volcano that’s been dormant all these past years and is finally coming to a head. The full, unbridled force of it hits me hard and I reach out, filling the space between my fingers with her hair as I bring her toward me.

Her lips taste like whiskey-flavored perfection. It sends a warm flow through me that resembles that of the amber liquid still half-filled in both our glasses. The burn starts in my belly, growing warmer from the intensity with which Simone reciprocates.  I blindly place the glass on the coffee table. Simone, pressed against the couch can’t reach it and her glass tumbles out of her hand onto the seat.  I feel the faint apologetic cry from her lips.

“Fuck the couch,” I say against her lips.

Every part of me takes in every part of her and I wonder how it all went so wrong six years ago….