We’re parked on a dirt road in the middle of a cornfield, and I have no clue where we are or how to get back to the ranch from here. I should have been paying attention while we were driving, but I was too busy stewing. It’s pitch black outside. If I got out and tried to walk, I’d end up marching blindly into the comically large open mouth of a mountain lion.

“You want a fight. Okay then, let’s fight.”

That’s what he says to me.

I turn to him just as he kills the engine and turns to face me on the bucket seat.

“I don’t want to fight.”

I don’t have the energy. I’m so tired, so defeated. I can’t keep putting on a brave face for the world. I’ve used up all my confidence, burned through all my false bravado. I almost cried on the dance floor, and I’m dangerously close to actually doing so now. Once I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stem the flow of tears.

“How about we talk then?”

I shake my head and turn to the cornfield.

“Take me home please.”

We sit there for a few more minutes, but then he sighs and restarts the truck, turning back for the main road.

When we pull up to the farmhouse, I jump out before he’s even put the truck in park and bee-line straight for the shack. I don’t thank him for the ride, and I definitely don’t stick around to listen to any more of his apologies. I’m so sick of people, of the back and forth, of the emotional rollercoaster. Maybe I should go live on a private island somewhere, just me and a bunch of wild swimming pigs. That sounds fucking great.

I change out of my dress and kick off my heels. I tug on one of Jack’s t-shirts—the one I didn’t return with all the others a few days back—and then stare at my bed. It’s still early. I’m too wired to go to sleep. I want a stiff drink—a big one, something bigger than a shot but smaller than a swimming pool. I step toward my window and check the farmhouse. Jack’s bedroom light is on, but it’s dark downstairs. I could probably make it to the liquor cabinet and back without him even knowing.

I know from cleaning it that it’s well stocked. I hesitate, really not into the idea of having another confrontation with him, but my need for alcohol wins out. I’m special agent Tom Cruise weaving in and out of red lasers as I tiptoe across the lawn and tug open the back door. Alfred is there, tail wagging, excited by my impromptu visit.

“Shhhh,” I hiss, petting him behind his ear before he starts barking or something. “Go away—can’t you sense that I’m fighting with your human? Stop hitting the wall with your tail! You’re making too much noise.”

I pause and listen for Jack, hear footsteps upstairs, and know I’m in the clear. I dash toward the liquor cabinet, grab whatever my hand lands on first, and then sprint back outside.

Alfred follows after me, acting as my accomplice, and together, we hightail it back to the shack. Once we’re inside, I slam the door closed and press my back against it. Mission: Possible, apparently.

I glance down at my bounty. I managed to nab a bottle of Jack Daniels. Fitting. I pour myself a bit and barf a little in my mouth when I take my first sip.

“It’s so bad,” I tell Alfred, trying to keep the rest of it down.

He looks at me with sad, questioning eyes as if to say, Hmm, and I thought you weren’t a little bitch.

I nod. “You’re right. Here goes nothing.”

I drink my glass in one long swallow then sit down on the floor and pet Alfred.

I continue like this for a while, so long that I lose track of time and space and the number of times I’ve forced myself to swallow more disgusting brown liquor.

What I do know is alcohol is great and Alfred is soooooo soft. My fingers feel tingly. I forget I have any problems. I know nothing beyond this tiny shack and this adorable golden retriever licking my toes. I’m lying on the rug, spread out like a snow angel.

“I’m considering moving to Mexico,” I tell Alfred. “I get that most people only flee to Mexico if they’ve committed a crime, but what’s so wrong with good ol’ fashioned fleeing? Do I godda robbabank or something to JUSTIFY running away from my problems?”

He splays out beside me.

“Of course, you can come with me if you want. I’ll just have to reteach you your commands in Spanish so we don’t stand out. Okey, hello is hola. Sit is siéntate. Stay is…I dunno, let’s go with…estée lauder.”

A fist pounds on the shack’s door and makes me scream out in fright.

“Relax,” Jack says from outside. “It’s me. The door was ajar back at the farmhouse, so I’m just making sure Alfred didn’t run off. Is he in there with you?”

“Uhh…” I look over at the dog in question. He licks my foot. “No! But I have a very strong feeling he’s fine!”

“He was in the house when I got home, but now I can’t find him.”

Apparently excited to hear his owner’s voice, Alfred hops to his feet and pads over to the door, scratching it with his paw.

“Alfred?” Jack asks, apparently hearing said scratching.

I contemplate telling him it’s me, etching hatch marks into the wall like a prisoner counting my days.

Alfred whines.

I cover my eyes with my arm. “Ugh, fine. He’s in here.”

The door opens and owner and dog are reunited once again. Whoop dee doo. I don’t have the energy to move off the ground…or open my eyes.

“Meredith?”

“’S’wat they call me.”

“Are you drunk?”

“What’s with the twenty questions?”

“Did you polish off that entire bottle of Jack?”

Depends on how much was in it when I started—I can’t remember.

“Who’s can say, really, in this day and age?”

“Why are you on the floor?”

“Be-cause it’s comfortable and my twin bed isn’t big enough for me and Alfred.”

He steps into the shack and toes the glass of liquor away from my hand.

I still have my arm thrown over my eyes, but I hear what he’s doing. “Hey, I was going to drink that.”

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“There you go again, with the I thinks. I think this about Meredith, I think that about Meredith. Well guess what? I don’t need Jack to tell me when I’ve had too much…JACK! Pffffff. Now please leave.”

“Not until I’m sure you won’t get sick. I can’t remember how much liquor was left in that bottle.”

“Okay, but can you close that door? You’re letting all the freezy-freezy air out.”

He obliges then I hear him take off his shoes and sit down on my bed. Meanwhile, I’m lying in the shape of a chalk outline from a homicide, legs splayed on the floor.

“I didn’t realize you were a drinker,” he says gently.

“I’m not. I hated every sip. Alfred peer pressured me.”

“Well watch out around him, he’s also a big fan of tattoos.”

“Ha ha, funny man. Now, please be quiet. I was in the middle of wallowing and I’m not finished. You can stay, but you have to stop asking me questions.”

The bed creaks, and maybe he’s getting comfortable where I sleep. Maybe he’s stinking up my blankets with his sexy scent. I’ll have to run the linen through the wash twice tomorrow morning, or I could just leave his scent there…maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I push the rogue thought aside and try to get back to what I was thinking about before he so rudely interrupted me. Oh, right, Mexico. Mexico…I can’t remember why I was thinking about Mexico. I groan, fling my arm away, and sit up, eyes blinking open as I try to find my balance.

Jack’s sitting on the bed, just as I imagined, except he’s not in his suit anymore. Like me, he changed when we got home. Sweatpants and a t-shirt—how adorable of him.

“Have you been here long enough to confirm I’m not going to get sick?”

The very edge of his sexy mouth tips up like the smirking emoji. “No.”

I glance away. “Right.”

“Why were you drinking?”

“You.”

I sigh and lie back on the rug. My head is spinning.

“Are you okay?”

I hold up both thumbs. “Peachy.”

“Why did I drive you to drink?”

“Because you hurt my feelings on Thursday.”

“I’m sorry for that, Meredith.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. I know the routine. It goes like this: make me fall for you, be mean to me, say you’re sorry, and then repeat. It’s the same thing Andrew used to do.”

“He was mean to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“How was he mean to you?”

There’s a long silence as I stare up at the ceiling.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I enunciate the words like they each make up their own sentence.

“How about we trade off?” he goads. “A secret for a secret?”

“I know all your secrets.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Edith told me about your parents’ accident. She told me how you changed. It’s why I know you’re not as mean as you pretend to be.”

“You told me on Thursday I’m the meanest person you’ve ever met.”

“It might still be the truth, but I just wanted to make you feel bad for hurting me.”

“See? You just went first. That’s a secret.”

That wasn’t so bad, I guess.

“Tell me one of yours.”

With my gaze on the ceiling, it’s like I’m lounging on a therapist’s couch. It almost feels like he’s not really there, like we aren’t really talking at all.

“All right. I actually like your cooking,” he admits.

I smile then wipe it away quickly before he sees it. “That doesn’t count. Everyone likes my cooking. I want a real one.”

“Okay fine. You want to go deep?” He thinks for a second, and then he sighs. “The way I figure, there’s only a handful of people who really give a shit about you in this life. I’m not talking about friends you see at Super Bowl parties. I’m talking about people who would take a bullet for you. There just aren’t that many, for a lot of people.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I used to have three people like that, and the day my parents died, I lost two of them. Now it’s just me and Edith.”

I turn my head so my gaze catches his. He’s staring down at me from his perch on the bed. I think he’s been watching me this whole time, studying me with indecipherable emotion in his eyes. It’s that gaze that makes the truth tumble out of my mouth.

“You want to know something even sadder?” I swallow and look away, back to the safety of the ceiling. “I don’t think I have anyone.”

“What about your parents? Helen?”

“Sure, on paper, they’re my family, but I’m not close with them. I hardly even know them anymore.”

When he speaks again, there’s remorse in his voice. It’s so heavy and sad it breaks my heart.

“In my office, when I said you didn’t have any family or friends here—”

“Yeah, that hit the mark.”

“I’m sorry.”

I wipe away the tear slipping down my cheek and shake my head.

“This game fucking sucks.”

“It’s my turn.”

“Fine. Make it something juicy.”

“I was jealous you went to the wedding with Tucker.”

That is juicy.

“How jealous?”

When he doesn’t answer, I turn to find he’s still studying me, except now his gaze is on his t-shirt, my pajama top of choice. I wonder if he’s annoyed I didn’t give it back with all the others.

I sit up and turn to face him, sitting cross-legged on the rug.

“If it helps, every single woman at the wedding was infatuated with you, except maybe Leanna. You might have been putting out some major fuck off vibes, but had you smiled at any one of them, you would have had her falling in love with you on the spot.”

He tilts his head to the side. “I smiled at you and as I recall, you nearly ditched me on the dance floor.”

“Those were different circumstances.”

“Right.” He frowns, and it might be the alcohol, but I swear he’s looking at me with desire. Yeah, he definitely is—it’s the same look Alfred gives his food bowl.

“My turn?” I say quickly, anxious to break up the tension starting to brew in this tiny shack. “Okay here’s mine: I’m really bummed I didn’t get to eat a piece of wedding cake. I really wanted a corner piece.”

He smiles. “Cute. Now take your turn.”

“That was my turn.”

“I just told you I feel like I’m alone in this world.”

“And I confessed I have an addiction to icing.”

Seems equally as important to me.

“Fine. Okay.” I sweep my hands though the air and turn away, eyes narrowed on my bathroom mirror. He wants honesty? He’s about to get it. “I think you’re handsome—h-o-t.”

“How handsome?”

I scold him with my stare, and he doesn’t even have the decency to hide his arrogance.

Enough. I’ve had enough. I push to stand and yank the door open.

“How about we change this into a game of truth or dare?” I quip. “I dare you to leave this shack right now.”

“That’s a terrible dare.”

“Fine, truth: did you mean all that stuff you said in your office? Do you really think so little of me?”

“Meredith, I was wrong. I was angry, and jealous, and worried that you were too good to be true. I’m sorry.”

I want to delve into every single word he just said, but I’m too drunk. I’ve already forgotten half of them.

I nod. “Okay, fine. Let’s just forget about it.”

“How was Andrew mean to you?”

I pinch my eyes closed. I knew he’d bring that back up, knew he wouldn’t be able to leave well enough alone. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to keep my lips zipped about my marriage. The reasons are stacked one on top of another at this point: I’m embarrassed that I put myself in that situation in the first place. I’m ashamed I stayed as long as I did. I’m hesitant to call it abuse and to open up about the things Andrew used to say, because then I’d actually have to acknowledge that I was a victim. I don’t like that word. I don’t want to have to wear it like an albatross around my neck. I just want to move on.

Those are all good reasons, but there’s still one more: I have tried to open up about Andrew in the past, and it hasn’t gone well.

Honestly, why do I care if Jack knows the truth about my marriage? Up until a few days ago, he wielded incorrect assumptions about me and my life as hurtful weapons. Maybe he’s realized the error of his ways now, but I’m still annoyed. I want to quote Clark Gable and say, Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. I don’t give a damn what he thinks of me or my choices.

Not anymore.

“Meredith.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How was he mean to you?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

I think I’m doing a good job of voicing my resistance to this topic, but he isn’t so easily swayed.

“I’d like to know what he did to you.”

Jesus Christ! He’s not going to drop it.

I slam the door closed again and throw my hands up in defeat. “It was the way he spoke to me. It was the things he said to me…the things he called me.”

There, he has his answer.

“Like what?”

“Does it matter?” I move to straighten a towel hanging near the shower. Then I go check on Alfred.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you should talk to someone about it.”

“I have talked to someone,” I grumble, “and it didn’t go over well.”

“Why didn’t it go well?”

“Because it’s hard to explain! It makes no sense to other people. If I was living with an abusive monster, why didn’t I just leave? He wasn’t holding me captive, wasn’t threatening to kill me if I left. He was such a manipulative asshole, it took me years to realize what he was, what I’d become! It makes no sense. He’s this outgoing, happy person. To the world, Andrew Wilchester is perfect. No one wants to believe he has another side to him—just ask Helen.”

“You told her about the abuse?”

The way he says the word makes my skin crawl. I don’t like that label. I want to lay no claim to it.

“I tried.”

“And she didn’t want to hear it?”

He sounds angry, but I’m careful with my next words. Helen helped me get this job; I don’t want to throw her under the bus.

“She wasn’t trying to hurt me. We aren’t close—that’s my fault. I kept the truth from her for too long, and now it’s too late. To her, it’s all so confusing. She wants me to reconcile with him.”

“That’s what she told me would happen.” His voice is steady and calm. I’m envious of his sobriety. “She said you’d go back to California once you got a dose of reality.”

I laugh, and I’m embarrassed to find it’s not a laugh at all but a broken sob.

It hurts knowing she said those things about me to someone else. It’s one thing to suspect it, another to hear it confirmed. I heave in a deep breath and try to get it together. This is embarrassing. I’m drunk.

“I swear I’m not weak. I didn’t stay because I was scared of being on my own.” I’m pacing now, worked up from all the truth spilling out of me. “It was just really confusing—the cycles he put me through. It was like being on the end of a line. He’d toss me out and reel me back in. Human beings gravitate toward cycles, routines, and that became ours.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My marriage to him is part of the reason I feel so isolated now. I put distance between myself and the people around me because I was afraid people would find out I was living this…lie.”

He’s off the bed now, bending to where I’m sitting on the rug. I don’t remember sitting down, but he’s here now, right in front of me, catching my tears and cradling my head.

“It’s not your fault Helen didn’t believe you.”

“Please don’t be angry at her. She’s not to blame in all this. I should have left earlier—”

His eyes flare with fury. “Stop talking like that. You’re the victim, not Helen, and not Andrew. You left when you could, and that’s all that matters.”

He’s cradling my face and I’m weeping like I’ve never wept in my life. I’m losing water weight by the gallon, shriveling up like a raisin. I will be dehydrated and dead by the end of this sob session.

“I just want to move on.”

“So do it.”

“I thought I was,” I cry, angry now. “But Andrew still followed me here! I’m still married to the man for Christ’s sake! That’s why I have to go to Mexico—MEXICO!” I snap my fingers. “That’s why I was thinking about Mexico earlier!”

“If possible, I think you’re getting more drunk. Here, blow.”

I don’t realize I was creating snot bubbles until he forces a tissue under my nose. That’s…fun. I’ve successfully solidified my role in his life as Crazy Housekeeper To Keep At Arm’s Length. I wonder if I can use my tenuous emotional state to finagle some benefits like health insurance or paid time off. There has to be a bright side to having a mental breakdown in front of your boss.

“I am more dunk.” I try again, losing my fragile grasp on language. “Durrunk.”

“Do you feel sick?”

“Just weepy and sleepy.” I laugh at my rhyme. “If you move your hands away from my cheeks, I think I’ll drop right to the floor face first. I’m so tired.”

“I’m going to put you to bed.”

He hooks his hands under my arms and hoists me off the ground. Cold air blasts my bare legs. I wrap them around his waist to warm them up. God, he’s so warm…so warm and tall and strong. I want him to set me down and pick me up again. It turns me on that he can just pluck me up off the ground like that. It fulfills some vestigial cavewoman need I didn’t even know I had.

He hoists me higher and I’m reminded that I’m still wrapped around him like an anaconda. Damn. This is hot, but it’s not right. When I imagined having sex with him on this twin bed, I was fully sober and on top, riding him like…well, a cowgirl.

“I didn’t think this was how tonight would end,” I whisper against his cheek. “I think you’re really handsome, like so so so bangin’ sexy, don’t get me wrong, but I’m pretty drunk and sleepy.”

I’m pawing at his chest. I’m running my hands along his strong jaw, feeling it for the first time. It’s magnificent. He is magnificent.

“Meredith, I said I’m putting you to bed, not taking you to bed.”

“Oh, I see, Mr. Verb Man, got different verbs for all occasions.”

He sets me down on the bed and tugs my blankets aside so I can slip my legs underneath.

I wait for him to pat my head and tell me to go to sleep like a good little girl.

Instead, he tugs the covers up and sits down beside me.

His brown eyes are pools of sympathy. I wonder if I was imagining the desire I saw in them earlier.

“How ya feelin’, champ?”

He brushes his hand across my forehead, pushing my hair back.

“Like I’d keel over if I wasn’t already lying down.”

“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

“That reminds me—can Alfred stay with me tonight?”

“He’s already asleep at the foot of your bed.”

“Whew.”

“Go to sleep.”

I close my eyes.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“I really wanted to hate you after the things you said on Thursday, but I couldn’t. When you were at the wedding all by yourself, I felt so bad. I only came up to the bar because I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t know how. I was so…angry. Maybe I should still be angry, but I’m not.”

“Well if you wake up tomorrow and realize you’re still mad at me, that’s okay. I know this is probably just the alcohol talking.”

“Thanks. Yeah…maybe I’ll be double pissed in the morning.”

“Maybe.”

“Could you tuck the blanket around me now?”

He laughs. “Like you’re a kid?”

“Yes, exactly. It’s been a really long time since someone put me to bed like this.”

He chuckles, and I keep my eyes closed as he leans over and tucks, tucks, tucks around my entire body. I’m in a little cocoon of warmth when he’s finished. I think he’s about to go, but I’m not ready for him to leave.

I keep my eyes closed, but I’m smiling as I ask, “Wait, are we still playing that game? Because I have one more thing I want to know.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“I’ll go to sleep as soon as you answer,” I promise.

“Okay, shoot.”

“That day we were swimming, did you see anything you weren’t supposed to? Like underneath my bra?”

I can hear his smile when he asks, “You mean, was your bra completely see-through? Yes.”

“Right. That’s what I thought. If you could go now, I’m going to turn over and suffocate myself with my pillow.”

He laughs, kisses my forehead, and then I must really be drunk because five seconds later, I’m dead to the world, completely conked out.

When I wake up, Jack and Alfred are sleeping, splayed out on the rug together.

They never left.