“No, I left them there,” I deadpan with an eye roll. “Of course I disposed of them. They’re in the sharps container. Jessica said she’d take them to the pharmacy the next time she’s in. That was nice of her.”
“Yeah, she’s great. Last year… never mind,” Asher trails off and takes a swig of his beer.
“Last year, what?”
“Nah, I shouldn’t scare you. Plus, I don’t wanna jinx it.”
I angle forward in my seat, nearly slipping off the edge. “Tell me.”
He winces and scrubs a hand down his face. “Last summer the stomach bug from hell spread like wildfire through the camp. It fucking sucked. Everyone was down. Most of the families, me, Bea, Dr. Parsons, my parents. Jessica got it, too, but not as bad, so she worked a ton of overtime. She was a total lifesaver.”
“Ugh, that sounds awful.” I cringe.
“Thankfully none of our guests were assholes about it. I was worried that shit would go viral. No pun intended.” He chuckles. “I’ve doubled the number of hand sanitizing stations since then, and a staff member stands at the entrance to the cafeteria for every meal to ensure that people are using them as they come in.”
“That’s smart.”
We spend another several minutes in silence, and when I’ve drained the rest of my fake sparkling wine, I sit up. “I should probably shower and go to bed.”
When I stand, I slip on a groove at the bottom of the tub and stumble forward.
Asher throws his arm out instinctively and braces my fall by catching me under the arm.
With a sharp inhale, I look down, discovering that his thumb is glued to my nipple.
“Shit. Sorry.” He retracts his hand like my breast is made of fire, and I right myself quickly.
“It’s fine,” I mumble.
With as much grace as a walrus, I hoist myself out of the tub, not even bothering with the steps. I don’t dare look at Asher.
“Good night,” I call over my shoulder, grabbing the radio as I slip inside my room.
It isn’t until I’ve closed the sliding door that I realize I forgot a towel.
10
Asher
My hand wason her goddamn tit.
She literally just confided in me about the motherfucker who sexually harassed her, and then I touched her breast. It was an accident, of course. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to dart across the room like a ninja to keep Bea’s head from crashing into the corner of a table. It makes sense that my body would react the way it did.
But I cannot touch her.
Fuck if I don’t want to, though.
It’s been a long time since I’ve touched a woman.
Daisy and I met at twenty-one and were married by twenty-two. Before her, I’d had a few high school girlfriends and hookups, but nothing serious.
After Daisy? Well. It’s a time I’m not proud of.
A month after she died, I had a one-night stand with a random woman.
The camp was closed that summer while we grieved Daisy, and I’d made the impulsive decision to build a new cabin, so Bea and I stayed with my parents in the city. Thechange of scenery was necessary, and the help from my parents was invaluable. Shortly after we settled in with them, I found myself on the brink of losing my goddamn mind. Bea had been crying for what felt like seventy-two hours straight, and I hadn’t gotten any sleep. My parents forced me to get outside. To take a walk and get some fresh air, promising they’d take care of her.
Before I knew it, my butt was planted on a barstool and there was a drink in my hand. An objectively attractive woman, a woman who looked nothing like my wife, approached me. When we made introductions, I didn’t even give her my real name. I was desperate for one night where I wasn’t “the guy whose wife died.”
