Chapter 24

Becky

4:36 PM THURSDAY

The hot water assaults my skin like millions of tiny needles. It’s extra hot, and I use soap extra liberally, and I take my sweet goddamn time trying to wash off the afternoon from my skin.

If the water can flush away that shame off of me, I might feel better. There’s no fucking doubt about it, I don’t fucking feel proud about last night.

Wouldn’t it be fucking fantastic if I could time travel? I could go back in time, where my life went off the fucking rails and fix it. Fix everything. My marriage to Liam, whatever happened between me and Dan, Mysti May’s tryst with the showgirls—if I was really clever about it, I bet I could even save Percy’s pubic hair before she managed to catch it on fire this morning.

I put my head under the showerhead and close my eyes.

Thoughts race randomly through my head.

Liam. Wedding. Strippers.

Something about liberating the sharks from SeaWorld. Presumably, at some point, way too much alcohol.

This is one fucked up mess.

Usually I get my greatest thoughts and ideas during a shower, but not this afternoon.

Isn’t water meant to be soothing? Isn’t it supposed to help you think?

I recall some study on water and people. Something about how immersing in water calms brain activity.

Okay, so maybe I’m a little calmer. It’s hard to say if that’s because of the water or because now I have most of the pieces of the fucking puzzle. Emphasis on most—not all.

Over and over, I try and go back to the one critical moment I still can’t work out or recall. I must have dialed Liam’s number at some point last night. But why had I called him in the first place? What fucking emergency had led to me calling the man I was only supposed to call in an emergency?

Had Dan done something to upset me? Something so bad, it had reverberated all the way to Las Vegas from San Fran-fucking-cisco?

Questions and more questions, with no fucking answers in sight.

It doesn’t make any fucking sense, but I have this strange feeling, the one that’s like This guy is definitely going to try and roofie my beer when I turn around or In exactly 12 minutes, my period is going to hit me like Mike Tyson’s boxing glove.

It’s the feeling you have just before you eat something that you know will make you feel sick. You don’t listen to it because you’re convinced that there’s something novel about gas station sushi, but you always regret it in the end.

I wish I would have had that feeling at literally any point last night.

I’m a big girl now and quite able to accept responsibility for stupid decisions and things I do. But is it so much to ask that every once in a while, my intuition kicks in and handcuffs Drunk Becky to something that isn’t a stripper pole while totally naked?

The entire episode is troubling, because the whole thing is out of character for me. Maybe not for Ballin’ Becky so much—but I was so sure that I’d finally put that part of myself to bed.

I planned this bridal celebration with the best of intentions. Sure, I cringed when Dan told me to make good choices, but I didn’t set out to make sure I broke all the fucking rules.

On the contrary, I do what Dan asks me because, well, because he was the man I was going to marry.

I turn around, let the water cascade over my back, and bend my head forward. I keep my eyes closed.

Liam.

The thought of Liam pushes Dan out of my mind.

This man is the fucking key to everything, isn’t he? He knows what happened. Or at least he should know.

I called him last night. Obviously I did.

But when Dan the Man left me Liam’s number, he told me Liam was an asshole to avoid at all costs if I could. I know I wouldn’t have called him if there had not been some kind of emergency.

So. At some point, there was a fucking reason to call. It is not as if I would have called the man because we couldn’t connect to the Wi-Fi or something. I’m not that kind of girl.

More often than not, I stand on my own two feet. I manage to get into and out of any mess by myself.

Ergo, the only conclusion I can draw is that something pretty fucking huge must have happened for me to call a man that Dan described as his asshole stepbrother.

Absentmindedly, I lather my body in soap.

It’s bad—I know it’s bad—but I can’t help but think how much fun it would be if Liam were in the shower with me. He could use the soap and make sure I covered every last bit of my skin.

After all, last night we got up to some pretty awesome fucking fun.

The memories, scant as they are…they make me smile.

Liam was right. Some of those wedding photos are total keepers. But where would I keep them? I doubt Dan the Man will come to see the humor in all this…if he even wants me anymore.

That raises a different question, though: do I even still want him?

It’s definitely not Dan the Man I’m imagining giving me a once over with this loofa.

As my hand cups water between my legs, fantasies of my husband using his fucking amazing tongue to turn me into fucking jelly push any other useless thought out of my head.

My husband, Liam Black.

I recall his smile and the way he treated me like a queen the entire time he was with me. I’m pretty fucking sure I told him I love him at one point during the night. No, wait, maybe I told him more than once…

Of course, champagne―well, too much champagne― can be blamed for this faux pas. Girls who are drunk often say and believe silly things.

Sammi was once convinced she was in love with the taxi driver who took us from nightclub to nightclub on one of our wild nights back in college. We all teased her mercilessly the next day, even told her the cabdriver was coming over for a date later that day.

Of course, Sammi had no memory of the guy or her offerings of love to the poor man.

But we were all able to laugh about it later, since Sammi didn’t end up getting hitched to the guy.

Good job, Becky. You created a problem while shitfaced and then you proceeded to marry it.

Percy once cried over an ice cream sundae she fell in love with after too much champagne. We didn’t even blame her—we were on some health food cleanse at the time. We would have killed to be the ones making out with a spoon covered in soft serve and hot fudge sauce.

And never mind the dozens of drunk girls in fraternity house bathrooms that Mysti May had fallen in love with. When Mysti May was drunk, she didn’t even realize that half of those women had vomit on their dresses and lipstick on their teeth.

Alcohol. That’s what got me into this mess.

Alcohol brought Ballin’ Becky back from the dead, and she was so pissed at me for snuffing her out that she did everything in her power to ruin Good Responsible Becky’s life.

But part of my own logic still doesn’t stack up.

In every flashback I’ve had today, I felt stone cold sober. Or, if anything, I was drunk on love.

When the fuck did I even have time to drink?

And if alcohol was the culprit, why the fuck did I just agree to have dinner with this man?

Because you fucking like him, a tiny little voice whispers deep within.

But that’s fucking ridiculous, because of course I don’t.

If anything, I like the memory of him. Maybe.

Which doesn’t make him any less of an asshole or an arrogant prick.

No, I know. I’m meeting Liam for dinner to ask him those critical missing questions. And once that’s done and over with, so are we. I’ll have Percy’s lawyer sugar daddy send over the divorce papers right away.

But then again…I could have asked my questions over the phone: Why did I call you last night? And what possessed you to think marrying my drunk ass would be a good idea?

But I have a feeling Liam wouldn’t have answered them via our cellphones anyway. I can tell that whatever my agenda is for this dinner, he has his own that I’ll need to be careful of.

And, hell, as Liam himself pointed out to me, I do have to eat.

I open my eyes and stare at my fingers. They’ve shriveled up and look like prunes. If I don’t fucking get out of the shower soon, I might dissolve.

With the towel wrapped around me, I go into my bedroom and stare at my wardrobe. I love my clothes and I came prepared

Prepared, that is, for everything but a date with my husband.

Date—what the fuck am I saying? It’s not a fucking date. It’s a…

I stop the thoughts. I shouldn’t go there. No point overanalyzing what tonight is about.

I’m going out to dinner to get more answers. End of story, finito.

Anyway.

This dress looks cute on me, maybe I should…