I twist the cap off the water bottle and pop two pills in my mouth. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I do a double take.
What am I wearing?
Grabbing the heather gray t-shirt, I stare down at the maroon Standford logo on the front. Ethan got his MBA there, which means I’m not only in his house, but I’m also wearing hisclothes. Great. I don’t remember changing my own clothes last night, and the alternative is too humiliating to even consider.
I love my job so much, but I don’t know how I’ll ever be able face Ethan in the office again after last night, especially if he had to help me change. Being drunk and overstepping our normal conversational limits is one thing, but my boss seeing me naked is so mortifying that I don’t think I could ever recover from it.
Groaning inwardly, I decide a shower might help me feel somewhat better. The cabinet below the sink has an array of bath products, all distinctly feminine. That’s when I realize where I really am: the bathroom that Ethan’s one-night stands must use to freshen up the morning after.
This just keeps getting worse.
I peel off the oversized t-shirt, which grazes my bare knees, and step into the hot shower. When I’m done, a fluffy white towel and another change of clothing are waiting for me on the bench next to the enormous walk-in shower. It’s another one of Ethan’s t-shirts and a pair of black sweatpants that drown me even when I cinch the waist as tight as possible.
One last glance in the mirror proves to be a terrible idea. My eyes are still puffy. My skin is still splotchy. And without my normal products, the hair dryer did more harm than good, but there’s nothing I can do to fix that now.
When I find the stairs in Ethan’s mansion of a house, the sound of metal clanking against a bowl leads me straight to his kitchen. Ethan is standing behind the island, cradling a large bowl in one arm and whisking batter with the other.
He glances up, smirking. “There’s the spaghetti monster.”
I have no idea what that means. I don’t think I want to know. All I know is that Ireallydon’t want to think about spaghetti for some reason.
“Don’t say that word,” I groan miserably.
“How about pancakes? Think you can handle that?” he asks.
That word sits a little easier on my stomach, so I nod.
Ethan flashes a smile at me before turning his attention back to the bowl. Whatever transpired last night, he seems unaffected by it. A sweeping but cautious wave of relief washes over me, but I won’t be fully at ease until I know all the details.
Ethan pours the batter into neat circles in the pan. I pull out a barstool and sit across the island from him, chewing the inside of my cheek.
“So,” I say at last, “do I want to know what happened last night?”
Cocking an eyebrow at me, he counters, “I don’t know… do you?”
“Not really but tell me anyway. Just do it quietly,” I say, resting my elbow on the counter and pressing my palm to my throbbing forehead.
“Well, you got very drunk off four paper cups of scotch. If I knew you were such a lightweight, I would have stopped you after the first one. Then you told me a bunch of stuff about your relationship.”
My stomach clenches. Ethan and I have a great personal and professional relationship, and I’d really like to keep it that way. I don’t need my boss to know the intimate details of my relationship, like the fact that my sex life has been lackluster for a while now, or that I occasionally fake an orgasm just to avoid another argument about what’s wrong with me and why it takes so long for me to climax.
It hits me all at once that figuring out if I said anything embarrassing in front of my boss is one of many problems I’m waking up with. There’s also the demise of my four-year relationship and the logistical nightmare that’s bound to follow. One of us needs to move out. We need to divide our stuff. Tell our families, our friends.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. One problem at a time…
“Oh god. What did I say?” I ask cautiously, head still buried in my hand.
“Don’t worry, nothing bad. Just a very spirited retelling of what happened at the restaurant.”
Okay, that doesn’t sound great, but it’s certainly not the worst thing I could have said.
“I didn’t want to leave you in the care of your boyfriend…”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” he concedes. “So, I brought you here to sleep it off. You were in no state to have a civilized discussion with anyone. Although, you did yell at one of the larger office plants on the way to the elevator. Apparently, it is a pretentiously verdant little fucker.”
I raise my head with considerable effort. “I know exactly which plant you’re talking about, and I stand by that statement.”