“Julie.” She grabbed Julie by the arm as Julie tried to execute an unsteady dance-floor spin.
“I’m having such a good time. This is the best night ever.”
“Julie, you’ve had too much to drink.”
After apffhtsound, Julie shook Elizabeth off. “Not possible.”
“We have to go.”
“We have to stay andpartay!”
“Alex said both of us should go to bed with him.”
“Eeuw.”Snorting with laughter, Julie spun again. “He’s just messing around, Liz. Don’t get all brainiac nerd on me. Your guy’ll be here in a few minutes. Just have another drink, chill.”
“I don’t want any more to drink. I feel sick. I want to go home.”
“Not going home. Nobody gives a shit there. Come on, Lizzy! Dance with me.”
“I can’t.” Liz pressed a hand to her stomach as her skin went clammy. “I need to—” Unable to fight it, she made the dash to the left, caught a glimpse of Alex leaning on the terrace doors, grinning at her.
On a half-sob, she stumbled through the kitchen and nearly fell on the tiles as she bolted for the bathroom door.
She risked the half-second it took to lock the door behind her, then fell to her knees in front of the toilet. She vomited sick, slimy pink, and barely managed a breath before she vomited again. Tears streamed out of her eyes as she pulled herself up, using the sink as a lever. Half blind, she ran the water cold, scooped some into her mouth, splashed more on her face.
Shuddering, she lifted her head, saw herself in the mirror—white as wax, with the mascara and eyeliner smudged under her eyes like livid bruises. More of it tracked down her cheeks like black tears.
Shame washed through her even as the next bout of sickness had her dropping to her knees again.
Exhausted, the room spinning around her, she curled up on the tiles and wept. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.
She wanted to go home.
She wanted to die.
She lay shivering, her cheek pressed to the cool tiles until she thought she could risk sitting up. The room stank of sickness and sweat, but she couldn’t go out until she’d cleaned herself up.
She did her best with soap and water, rubbing her face until her skin was raw, pausing every minute or so to lean over, fight off another wave of nausea.
Now she looked paleandsplotchy, her eyes glassy and rimmed with red. But her hands trembled, so her attempt to repair her makeup was almost worse than nothing at all.
She’d have to swallow the humiliation. She’d go out on the terrace, in the fresh air, and wait until Ilya came. She’d ask him to take her home, and hope he’d understand.
He’d never want to see her again. He’d never kiss her again.
Cause and effect, she reminded herself. She’d lied, and lied and lied, and the result was this new mortification, and worse, this glimpse of what might be, only to have it all taken away.
Lowering the lid of the toilet, she sat, clutching her purse, bracing herself for the next step. Wearily, she took off her shoes. What did it matter? Her feet hurt, and Cinderella’s midnight had come.
She walked with as much dignity as she could muster through the kitchen with its big black appliances and blinding white counters. But when she started to make the turn into the living room, she saw Alex and Julie, both naked, having sex on the leather sofa.
Stunned, fascinated, she stood frozen for a moment, watching the tattoos on Alex’s back and shoulders ripple as his hips thrust. Under him, Julie made guttural groaning sounds.
Ashamed of watching, Elizabeth backed up quietly and used the door off the kitchen to access the terrace.
She’d sit in the dark, in the air, until they were finished. She wasn’t a prude. It was just sex, after all. But she wished, very strongly, they’d had that sex behind a closed bedroom door.
Then she wished she had more water for her abused throat, and a blanket because she felt cold—cold and empty and very, very frail.
