The next hour passes in a miserable blur as I try to listen attentively to Charlene’s Sidney plans. I dance a few times with various acquaintances and watch as Adam does the same, on the opposite side of the room. I watch him smile and laugh, animated and open, and I wonder what on earth his problem is. Does he plan to ignore me this way all night? People have surely noticed. Even worse, we said no drinking! Not because I’m a buzz-killing fiancé, but because Adam has a problem.
I’m on my second wine chute, wishing I could be like Adam and toss back five more in the next five minutes, when I see him gliding through the crowd. He stops to talk a few times, throwing his head back so his fluffy brown hair gleams in the dim globe lights. Smiling that handsome smile that makes him look so affable, so kind.
He strolls past a large, potted palm, smiling at me like nothing whatsoever is wrong, and when he’s close enough so I can smell his cologne, he holds out his hand.
“A dance, my lady?”
I bite my lip, barely succeeding at holding back my tears. “Adam…I want to go.”
“Home?” He bows lavishly at the waist, like an old-fashioned butler. “Then home it is.”
He holds his arm out. I don’t want to make a scene, so I thread my hand through it, and together we walk to the club’s valet room, where we stand in silence until one of the valets tells us the limousine is outside at the curb.
Adam leads me out the side door, down three brick steps to the curb line, and I can smell the alcohol on him.
My fingers burn holes in his worsted wool dinner jacket—one I’ve never seen. One he must have picked up in New York. And it occurs to me, as my body presses into his, that for the first time ever, I feel like I don’t know him.
The club valet, Mark, opens the limousine’s door for us. Adam waves his arm and I climb in, holding my gown so I don’t snag or step on it. I settle on the far side of the limo, near the window, my clutch in my lap and my body language clearly telling him to stay the hell away. Adam hops in behind me, lithe and seemingly sober. But he’s not fooling me. He gives Mark a little wink, and moves to close the door without handing out a tip.
“Hold on,” I tell him. I reach across Adam, holding my arm out as a placeholder, and when Adam pauses, confused, I pull a twenty dollar bill out of my clutch.
“Thank you,” I tell Tom, handing him the cash.
“Have a wonderful evening.” He smiles and gently shuts the door.
I’m opening my mouth to say something to Adam—I’m not sure what, but something—when he leans back his seat, kicks his feet up on the partition, and gives me a silly grin. “Thanks, G.”
I sink back into my seat and roll my eyes at my window. Really? “G”?
I feel the lurch of the car as Arnold takes off down the long, winding driveway, and I shut my eyes. I replay our conversation that night at Banana Beau's. Am I insane? Didn’t I tell him no more drinking?
As I wrack my brain, Adam’s clammy hand finds mine. I peek my eyes open, and of course, he can tell I’m irritated.
His thick eyebrows draw together, an exaggerated, drunken expression of concern. “What’s the matter, baby?” His pungent breath wafts over my face.
I’m not even sure where to start. I slide my hand out of his and drop my head into my palms. Maybe he forgot our agreement? Or did he simply start drinking because his old friends were there? Maybe he wanted to look ‘normal’? If he can’t withstand the pressure to drink around two men he rarely ever sees, he’s not going to be able to honor this agreement of ours.
Well, obviously.
I think of the last time Adam and I went to a party—the Napiers' spring swing dance. We decided to stay at Adam’s townhouse afterward. When I dared suggest Adam strip his vomit-covered clothes off and shower without—gasp—having sex first, he called me a bitch, and later that night, he called me a stupid whore.
“What’s wrong?” he asks again.
I tremble with anger, but I keep my mouth pressed firmly closed. If he doesn’t know, I’m not about to tell his drunken self.
His head falls on my shoulder, and he looks up at me through his eyelashes. “Don’t be mad at me, Sur. We’re gonna have a good night. You’ll see.”
I can’t tell exactly how drunk he is, but it doesn’t matter. He drank, and we said he wouldn’t.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I mumble, shaking him off me and scooting closer to the door.
I take a few deep breaths, gathering my patience. Preparing to discuss this whole drinking thing before Arnold gets much closer to my house, so if it turns into a fight, I can have him drop Adam off at Adam’s townhouse.
I’m about to broach the subject when Adam leans over, opens up the mini fridge embedded in the partition wall in front of us, and pulls out a bottle of my favorite Aubert Pinot Noir.
He dangles it in front of my face. “Want to half it with me? Your favorite, baby.”
“Of course not.” I glare at him. “Do you have selective amnesia?”
He drops the wine into his lap and puts on his petulant, I-know-I-messed-up-and-now-I-can’t-hide-from-it face as he makes another grab for my hand. I snatch it into my lap, setting my gaze on the partition in front of me. “Baby, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I didn’t have too much. I just needed…to loosen up, you know? You know how my social anxiety is.”
Which is why I keep suggesting that he find himself a therapist.
I don’t look at him. Not now, and not during the next fifteen minutes of our drive to Crestwood Place. I realize, belatedly, as we roll down my driveway, that Arnold brought Adam here, when I should have asked him to please take Adam home. I don’t want to talk to Adam anymore tonight.
My eyes sting with tears as the limo stops, and I glance at him. He acts like such a child sometimes. How can I marry him if he’s not willing to grow up? How can he really love me if he doesn’t care enough about the drinking issue to just stop? Especially since he calls me ugly names when he gets drunk. My parents don’t do that. Neither do my friends. Until Adam started drinking a lot, no one—no one—had ever called me any name.
I don’t deserve that—right?
I think again about something my mother once told me: Most people never really change, and after marriage, bad habits tend to get worse.
Adam is leaning over his lap, with one elbow propped on his knee and his face in his hand, like he’s upset. He hasn’t touched the wine, but does that even matter? A tear spills down my cheek as I remember all the names he’s called me during drunken moments—whore, bitch, cunt: things he would never call me when he’s sober, but he’s said them enough times when he’s drunk that I’m convinced he’s always thinking them.
How can I marry someone who thinks that I’m a cunt?
And isn’t that a nasty little word?
I imagine my father’s face. I would bet millions that he’s never, ever called my mother a cunt. Even “bitch” seems hard to imagine coming from his lips. It should be unfathomable for Adam, too. What’s wrong with him that it isn’t? Or is it something wrong with me?
Am I a cunt?
I’m not, right?
Most people who know me think I’m nice. I have my moments, sure, but so does everyone.
I remember slamming the door of Adam’s town house last time he drank. “If you name-call me again, I’m leaving you! I really am!”