My eyes sting with tears as the limo stops, and I glance at him. He acts like such a child sometimes. How can I marry him if he’s not willing to grow up? How can he really love me if he doesn’t care enough about the drinking issue to just stop? Especially since he calls me ugly names when he gets drunk. My parents don’t do that. Neither do my friends. Until Adam started drinking a lot, no one—no one—had ever called me any name.
I don’t deserve that—right?
I think again about something my mother once told me: Most people never really change, and after marriage, bad habits tend to get worse.
Adam is leaning over his lap, with one elbow propped on his knee and his face in his hand, like he’s upset. He hasn’t touched the wine, but does that even matter? A tear spills down my cheek as I remember all the names he’s called me during drunken moments—whore, bitch, cunt: things he would never call me when he’s sober, but he’s said them enough times when he’s drunk that I’m convinced he’s always thinking them.
How can I marry someone who thinks that I’m a cunt?
And isn’t that a nasty little word?
I imagine my father’s face. I would bet millions that he’s never, ever called my mother a cunt. Even “bitch” seems hard to imagine coming from his lips. It should be unfathomable for Adam, too. What’s wrong with him that it isn’t? Or is it something wrong with me?
Am I a cunt?
I’m not, right?
Most people who know me think I’m nice. I have my moments, sure, but so does everyone.
I remember slamming the door of Adam’s town house last time he drank. “If you name-call me again, I’m leaving you! I really am!”
Then he proposed and promised to quit.
I can no longer ignore my suspicion that he’s been drinking in New York, too. Like, maybe almost every night. What happens when he moves to Napa? When we live together? I can’t do this all the time!
As if he hears my thoughts, Adam raises his head and blinks at me.
“Adam,” I say, “you need to go home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I expect contrition. Understanding. Instead, his eyes widen like I’ve slapped him. His shoulders square, and he reaches out to grab my elbow. “No way, baby. I want to get in the pool.”
I frown. “You what?”
“Skinny dipping. It’s your fantasy.” He grins. “I’m feeling loose tonight. I think I can do it.”
Adam’s so uptight, he’s never been willing to take a naked swim with me, not even when we’ve been the only ones at home.
“Lizzy’s gone now,” he says. “This is our night.” He kisses the top of my hand. “Last night drinking. I f**king swear. I love you, baby. We can stop going to parties if we have to. I’ll make the therapist appointment. Just let me swim with your fine self.”
I struggle not to roll my eyes; then Adam kisses me gently on the lips. Despite the overwhelming scent of alcohol, I don’t pull away when his arms wrap around me. He pulls me close to his chest—a signature Adam move that always makes me feel safe and sheltered—and for a long second, I can tell myself that he’s my Adam. The guy I started dating in ninth grade. The one who could barely get a condom over himself when we lost it to each other in the fields behind Harvey Goldman's house.
I inhale his cologne and ignore the smell of the alcohol. I allow myself to ignore everything as he lifts me out of the limo and carries me around the back of my house. In the still of the night, I hear Arnold pull off, bound for the smaller, whitewashed house where he and the cook and my security guard have rooms.
The egg-shaped pool is crisscrossed by thousands of globe lights strung between the main house and the garden house. Tonight, the stars twinkle between them. It’s beautiful.
“Adam,” I say as he sets me gently on the pale tile. He looks down at me, and I wrap my arms around his neck and look at his familiar face. “It really hurt me that you did this after you promised you wouldn’t.”
I stare into his eyes, looking for some hint—any hint—that he gets it. That he understands why I’m upset.
He takes a step away from me and hangs his head, looking back up after a long moment staring at the Salvatore Ferragmo calfskin leather shoes I got him for his birthday. “I understand, Suri. I guess…I have a problem. Maybe I need to try AA or something.”
Tension leaves me in a rush. I can feel my shoulders deflate like a popped balloon. “You’ll actually consider that?”
“I guess I have to.”
Yes!
I smile. I can’t help it. “Adam, thank you. That makes me feel so much better.”
“Anything for my girl.” He grins and steps close enough to kiss me quickly on the mouth, then starts stripping off his clothes.
My body temperature skyrockets. I can’t help it. Adam is lean and cut. I’m not very tall—only five-foot-four—so at five-foot-ten, he’s just my size. His blue eyes and mahogany hair look great with his naturally tanned skin. His grandmother is from Spain, and you can totally tell.
My mouth falls open when he tugs his boxers off, revealing a stiff erection.
“Ohh la la.” I giggle and step over to him, and Adam does a deft job getting me out of my dress and slip. He kisses down my neck and over my bare shoulders. A brisk breeze blows, causing chills to pop up on my skin. He tweaks my hard, round nipple, and I gasp.
“Bad boy…”
He kneels, thumbing me through my panties before he pulls them down and tosses them over his shoulder. He takes my hand and leads me to the stairs at the shallow end of the heated pool. Steam drifts off the water, and I watch as it laps against Adam’s knees, then thighs, then hips. He’s submerged up to his chest when he turns and tugs me in behind him.
I sink down to my shoulders, glad my hair is swept up off my neck as I twirl around. It feels exquisite.
I look over at Adam. He’s up to his pecs now, smiling a sweet smile, looking soft and attentive: the nice drunk he’s never been.
“Come here baby.” He holds his arms out, and my eyes fly to a bruise on his left shoulder, thinking for a second that he’s finally gotten the tattoo I always fanaticize about.
Oh, well.
I step over to him, running my wet fingers through his hair and tugging his lips down on mine. As I do, I press my naked body against his and Adam groans a little.
“Baby… Oh yeah.”
He starts kissing down my neck, just the way I like it. He kisses my collar bone and down my breast to my nipple, which he teases with his teeth. Through my haze of lust, I tell myself I’m not going to let his drinking ruin things for us. He’ll go to AA. He did better tonight. He drank a lot in a brief time period and he’s not calling me names.