Trying to get undressed is an adventure in and of itself. I finally collapse half-clothed on the bed, and it’s only because I land awkwardly on my purse that I remember I promised Morgan I’d call her as soon as I was safely indoors.
It takes some searching to find my cell phone in my bag. I’m briefly distracted by a tube of orange-y lipstick I thought I lost months ago, and I swear, the number of receipts I’ve shoved down into my purse has multiplied overnight. But my fingers do, eventually, land on the phone, and I yank it out, all too eager to go to bed and sleep off the topsy-turvy feeling in my skull.
But when I go to pull up Morgan’s number, I find my thumb hovering over Calder’s name instead.
Don’t call him, says the logical, sensible part of my brain. You need to move on with your life.
But he still wants you, whispers the dark, drunk, emotional part. You know he does. He needs you.
He’s an asshole, the first voice reminds me. You’re better off without him. You’re better off forgetting him completely.
I throw down my phone and wobble over to my laptop. The web browser is still open to the last gossip blog I was reading. I need to stop torturing myself with these tabloid sites. They’re trash, and they only end up pissing me off.
I’m about to click away from the screen when I notice a headline I hadn’t seen before: “What will happen to the Cunningham estate?”
Don’t click on it, the sensible part of my mind begs. But the drunk part is the one in charge now.
The following article suggests that Edward Carolson, the new owner of the estate, is hoping to open the grounds and house to the public.
“This property is too beautiful to keep hidden away,” Carolson is quoted as saying. He goes on to talk about his plans: opening the stables, building a couple of crafts cottages to “give people the experience of life on the estate before the turn of the century,” even refinishing an entire wing of rooms so people can stay on the property.
Oh my God, I realize. He wants to make it a freaking tourist attraction.
But this is a gossip site. Maybe they made all of this up. I hadn’t even realized the sale of the estate was official yet.
An internet search quickly proves me wrong. The news broke only this morning, when Carolson officially filed a petition to rezone the property.
I’m going to be sick.
It’s one thing for an arts center to rent out its gallery—our entire mission involves bringing people together around the arts—but it’s an entirely different thing to turn someone’s family home into a friggin’ theme park. Calder was so proud of his home—and of the name it represented. The Cunninghams have guarded the estate’s secrets across generations. No doubt people will come flocking the moment it’s open to the public. The recent rumors will only fuel ticket sales, I’m sure. It’s the ultimate humiliation.
And he’s dealing with it all alone. longer than necessaryto10
My phone is in my hand, but I don’t remember how it got there. I stumble back to my bed and collapse on the sheets.
Just a text, I tell myself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
It’s late. I should probably wait until tomorrow. I must have had more whiskey than I thought because I can’t tell if the clock on my phone reads 11:20 or 1:20. Or is that 12:00?
Fuck it. I don’t care.
I’m not sure what to say. I have enough trouble comforting him when I’m sober, and right now my brain feels like a bowl of oatmeal. But I can’t stop the images that keep flashing through my mind: visions of him in some dark and desperate place, angry and alone and defeated. I’ll do anything to draw him back.
In the end, I turn to the only tool I have. The one thing that my intoxicated mind believes might save him from himself.
We never finished our game, I text. Does that mean you forfeit?
It’s not until after I send it off that I realize I typed “fonoshrd” instead of “finished” and “frfeeit” instead of “forfeit,” but I’m sure he’ll figure it out.
I close my eyes and lean my head back on my pillow as I wait for his response. I’m still seething over this news about the estate, and I wish there was something real, something substantial I could do. Maybe I could stage a protest. At the very least, I could contact the county and…
My phone beeps. I roll over and open Calder’s text.
What? Are you all right?
Yess, I text back. Are yu going to playor nott? The words don’t look right, even to me, but I’m too foggy-headed to bother to fix them.
I’ve only just sent the message on when my phone rings.
“Lily? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I insist. “You’re not playing the game right.”
There’s a brief pause. “Are you drunk?”
“I had… some drinks.”
“How many?”
Why won’t he just shut up and play? I’m trying to help him! “That, Mr. Cunningham, is none of your business. Are we playing or not?”
“You’re slurring, Lily. I really don’t think you—”
“Ugh, don’t patronize me. If you don’t want to play, then just—” Something shifts in my stomach, surges upward…
Oh no.
I throw down the phone and bolt for the bathroom. I only just make it through the door before I’m sick. Everywhere.
Needless to say, it’s not a pretty night. I don’t know how long I kneel there praying to the Porcelain Goddess, but every time I think I’m done, my stomach heaves again. You think I would have gotten the whole drink-until-you-puke thing out of my system back in college, but apparently not. In one of my more lucid moments I yank a towel down from the rack and try to clean myself—and the bathroom—as best I can, but as soon as I’ve wiped the worst of it down, my stomach roils again and I have to dive once more for the toilet. By the time I’ve finally emptied my stomach, I’m exhausted and trembling. I curl up next to the toilet in the fetal position.
Somebody kill me now.
I’m deep in a groggy haze when I hear the steps behind me, feel the cool hands on my skin. I’m being pulled to a sitting position and my hair is pushed back from my face. And then I’m staring up into Calder’s dark, gorgeous eyes.
Wait. Calder?
“What are you doing here?” I say—or try to say.
“We were talking on the phone, and then you were gone.” He frowns. “I tried calling you again, but you wouldn’t answer. I got worried.”