I woke up alone in the master bedroom, hungover. Warm light filtered through the curtains, giving the room a radioactive glow. My dreams churned together with hazy memories until I didn't really know what happened last night.
The last thing that I was sure of was cumming inside Pritha in the solarium, Marco and Liv next to us on the chaise lounge, moaning and writhing. I remembered lying wet and naked in the large, plant-filled room, roaring sheets of rain battering against the glass around us.
Less certain, but still likely: Liv on her knees, naked except for a pair of pink dishwashing gloves, scrubbing the gray fabric of the lounge and laughing. Then, Pri pushing me into the shower, the one with the green tile, and following closely behind.
And the most-definitely-dreams: wandering around outside in the storm, lost, rain stinging in my eyes. Kissing Marco on the lips before running down a flight of stairs in my high school. At a theater, waiting endlessly for the movie to start, looking around for my date, worried that I'd been stood up.
In real life, music drifted down the hall and under my door, Frank Sinatra or something else rolling, swingy, and full of horns. I sat up, sheets tangled around my waist. On the nightstand was a cup of water and a pill that seemed Advil-adjacent. My hangover pulsed between my ears but, even considering my short drinking career, it didn't rank. I took the pill anyway.
Someone, Pri, had dressed me in clean underwear and my black joggers. There was a t-shirt left on the edge of the bed, dark orange, labeled as event staff for a half marathon.
I followed the sound of the music and snatches of laughter. The living room was lit up like it was under a spotlight, the shutters and shades all pulled open to the fresh, clear sky. The upbeat 50's playlist came from the TV. It was all a little too much. Not for the first time, I swore off wine forever.
Eventually my body carried me to the kitchen. Liv sat at the island, brown hair done up in a sloppy bun, her long, tan legs swinging. Marco stood behind the island, rubber tongs in one hand and a mug in the other. They both wore lounging-around clothes, almost certainly the property of Liv's ex Ryan, and Marco wore an honest-to-god apron. He smiled when I walked in.
"Hey, what's up? You want a waffle?" He waved his tongs in the air, tracing some arcane pattern. Liv smiled her half-smile at me over her shoulder and slowly pushed a stool out with her foot.
Yes, Magic Waffle Man, I want it. Instead I said, "Mhmm. Coffee. Also. Please."
He moved around the kitchen with serious dad-energy, pouring batter on the waffle iron, swinging cabinet doors and pulling drawers for a mug, a spoon, and sugars. He seemed to know where everything was, and there was a bit of theater in it too. Whether it was commanding a kitchen or taking care of hungover people, he seemed to be quite at ease.
When he put the cup in front of me, I stared at it. I wanted it lighter. The milk was just out of reach. It might as well have been in another house.
"Where's Pri?" I asked.
"She's in the backyard, still cleaning up," said Liv. "We mostly fixed everything but she's still getting leaves and shit out of the pool." She fished around in a bowl of random stuff in the center of the island, pulling out a pair of sunglasses. I put them on gratefully. "You're looking kinda shit," she said.
"He doesn't look that bad," said Marco. "Wait till he's had some coffee and then throw stones."
I sipped from the mug and faded away while the two of them chattered on about something, maybe waffles, maybe maple syrup, maybe the state of Vermont. I didn't care to follow. Liv openly adored him and he watched her with quiet intensity, the infatuation obvious behind his eyes.
He slid a plate in front of me, a crispy waffle and some cold strips of bacon. I crushed them under my fork and ate mechanically.
"Jack," said Liv. "Jack, Jack, Jack."
"What's up?" I asked through a mouthful of waffle.
"Oh yeah, he's out of it. I asked if you had fun last night."
I froze for a moment and slowly reached for my coffee. Whatever she felt about the question, she kept a friendly, almost excited, expression on her face. The movement towards the cup was supposed to buy me time but my thoughts were little shadows, leaping away when I tried to grab one.
"I think I did. Did I... do anything I wasn't supposed to?"
Marco tried and failed to suppress a laugh. "Oh my god, he's so worried. You're a good guy, Jack."
"I think you're fine," said Liv. "What do you remember?"
I told her the things I was sure of and left out the maybes and the dreams.
"So you don't remember freaking out about the couches? 'They're gonna stain,'" she said, imitating my voice. "'I'm telling you, they're gonna stain,' over and over. It's a shame Maury will never know the care you took for those fucking couches."
"You don't remember anything else?" asked Marco.
Liv's phone buzzed, persistently. She scooped it up with a smile.
"Hey daddy, what's up?"
I looked at Marco and mouthed
Daddy?
His lips twisted into a smile and, when he was sure Liv wasn't looking, he gave me a tiny shrug.
"No, I'm all good here," continued Liv. She gave Marco a fluttery look. "Actually Marco came over and helped me clean up. Yes, yep, that
is
exactly like him. No. No, you don't—hey you two!" New voices crowded the other end of the phone. "Yep, you raised a good one. Okay, okay, hold on..."
She waved at Marco, pointing at the phone. When he wouldn't come towards her, she started in his direction. He shook his head and used both arms to make an X across his chest. Liv stuck out her tongue and walked off into the living room. "No, he's in the back, working hard. Let me see if I can find him..."
My coffee was bitter but it made me feel a bit more human. Marco made busy, wiping down the counter and putting things away. I'm not sure he knew what, if anything, to say to me.
"So," I said eventually. "What happened after I knocked out?" I thought I saw him catch for the briefest moment before speaking.
"You were pretty drunk," he said. "So we hung out for a bit longer after Pri put you to bed. Impressive performance by the way. I mean, uh..." He wasn't nervous but he clearly started down this road by accident and rapped his knuckles on the counter, searching for the words. "The wine didn't seem to affect your... stamina."
"Performance? That's a word," I said. In the back of my mind, there was a little backwards-ass version of myself that didn't want him talking like that. I remembered our little talk yesterday. When we were alone, he'd asked if I was bisexual, with the clear implication that in an orgy situation we might
do something
together.
