Page 78 of I Almost Do

Bronwyn makes me wear a tiara and a hot pink pageant sash that says "Birthday Girl" on it. We didn't really celebrate my twenty-first the way a lot of people do—Bronwyn was out of town, and Sydney wasn't twenty-one yet—so I'm honestly ridiculously happy and surprised by the whole thing this year.

James organizing this feels significant to me. I can't help but feel it's a sign he's reconsidering his twenty-fifth-birthday timeline.

I am a twenty-two-year-old college graduate. No one in his right mind would still consider me a child or immature. And I have access to plenty of my own assets, even if he does still control the majority.

James gets absolutely hammered. And not the fun hammered. The brooding, "sitting in a corner throwing back bourbon like it's water" hammered.

After a while, I leave my girls—and the guys who have flocked around them—on the dance floor, flag down some water from the waitstaff, and sidle up to James. I pluck his tumbler from his hand, replacing it with water. "Have some," I say. "Someone once told me water and moderation were the key to drinking alcohol."

He looks up at me with bleary eyes, then pulls me down onto his lap. "You," he slurs against my temple, "are so smart. You're so hot and smart and hot."

My lips quirk, and I nod to the water. "Drink."

He chugs the water, throwing it back like he's at a kegger. Then he slams the bottle onto the tabletop and says, "I want to fuck you."

Joy. Relief. Excitement. All of it bubbles up inside me like a geyser. I knew tonight was special. I’d been almost afraid to hope. But some part of me knew it was coming. And, God, I've waited so long, but for this moment, every bit of it was worth it. I wish he hadn't felt like he needed to get drunk to tell me, because he didn’t have anything to be nervous about. Of course, the answer is ye—

He laughs, low and bitter. "I'm notgoingto fuck you. I'm going to fuck my own hand." He gives a slow blink, then holds up his hand and looks at it with disgust. "Going to close my eyes, remember what you taste like, fuck my hand, and pretend it's you."

What? This isn't—"You can fuck me. When you're sober, we can make love any time you want."

"I'm not defiling Marcus's daughter," he says. "Hetrustedme with his baby."

I frown as something like horror twists in my gut. "Making love with me isn't defiling me. And I'm nobody's baby."

"You're my respon-sability," he slurs. "I promised. You need me to take care of you and protect you. Especially from me. That's my job, and I'm shit at it."

"No," I bite out, "I don't. I am not your responsibility."

His brows are lowered in an exaggerated frown, and he bobs his head in a repetitive nod. "You are. You're my own little baby bird."

He pats my head.Pats my fucking headI jerk away from his hand and stand up. "I'm not a baby bird."

He shrugs drunkenly. Sadly. "You'll always be my baby bird."

"I thought tonight was… I thought you were going to tell me you realized that twenty-two was…whywere you so excited about tonight?"

He looks at me blearily, grouchy and slow to understand. "It was a surprise party. Thought you'd be happy to see your friends."

30

Hurts Like Hell

Clarissa

Thenextafternoon,Jamesis sitting at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee and nursing a hangover. I pass him a plate with peanut butter toast, then hand him a bottle of Advil and a glass of water. He grunts his thanks.

Then I say, "I'm moving to the house in the Hamptons."

His face shows first surprise, then slowly dawning horror. "What? Why? You need to be here.”

I sigh in defeat. "What's the point? We aren't married, James. Not really. You don't see me as your wife—"

"Of course, you're my wife," he says, irritated.

"On paper, not in practice."

He rubs his forehead, then pinches the bridge of his nose. Pushing away from the counter, he stands there in the kitchen, looking stressed and exhausted. "This is about sex, then. We're not married because we're not fucking?"

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