This is the second part in a series, so if you have not already done so, you might want to read Part I before continuing.
I freeze, Vincent’s arms still around me as my gin-addled brain struggles to make sense of what I’m seeing.
There’s a bra in my living room.
It’s not my bra.
Could Vincent have bought me a bra as a gift?
Why would it be hanging over the back of the couch?
Could it belong to his sister? His mom?
No, definitely not his mom. She’s very buxom, and that bra is not big enough.
It might fit his sister, but it makes no sense for her to leave her clothes (especially underclothes) lying around her brother’s apartment.
“Who’s bra is that?”
At the same moment, I hear an unfamiliar voice from behind me say, “Vince? Is everything OK?”
I pull out of Vincent’s embrace. His arms tighten around me as he tries to prevent me from moving, but I shove him away and turn around to find a woman I’ve never seen before standing stark naked in front of my bedroom door.
“Oh. Shit,” she says as she sees me.
I feel instantly sober as rage rushes through me. “Are you serious?” I hear myself ask.
I turn to Vincent and try to shove him, but he’s always been much more solidly built than I. He rocks back half a step as I scream. “Are you serious!”
“I can explain.”
I’m about to scream some more, when I realize I would very much like to hear how he’s going to try to talk himself out of this. I don’t want to admit to myself that there’s a small part of me still hoping there’s some sort of rational explanation for all this.
I cross my arms and stare him down.
“She was walking down the street and a sprinkler went off and soaked her clothes. She just needed somewhere to let them dry off.”
“And you thought the back of our couch was the appropriate place for that?”
Our couch is a leather couch I inherited from a friend when he moved in with his wife and needed to get rid of duplicate furniture. There’s no way Vincent would be stupid enough to put anything wet on top of it.
Oddly enough, it’s not until this moment that I noticed the trail of clothes, like breadcrumbs, leading from the couch to our bedroom.
“And our hardwood floor? You suddenly forgot where our laundry room is?”
“She just got here. We were just about to hang them up when you walked in.”
I snort, turn on my heel, and march to the bedroom door. I don’t even have to push the tramp out of my way to get there because she has the sense to scurry off as soon as I start heading in her direction.
The bed I so carefully made this morning is rumpled, and the violation I feel at this realization infuriates me further. I hadn’t thought that was possible.
I turn and run back at Vincent, screaming my fury at him as I do. He’s so shocked, he doesn’t even do anything to defend himself, other than to put up an arm as I start flailing at him.
Unfortunately, his arms have always been longer than mine, so he easily keeps me at a safe distance, so all I can do is whack his arm, which I do until the anger dissipates enough for me to feel my fatigue.
Exhausted, I back up a few steps and stand there staring at him, wondering, what am I supposed to do now?
To be continued…