Page 1 of For the Record

Currently playing: Can’t Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli

***

It was an odd thing to wake up to, long strands of blond hair tickling my neck, and my chest feeling as though an elephant was sitting on it. But alcohol tended to have that kind of effect on people, I guess.

I let my eyes adjust to the sunlight slipping between the closed curtains in my hotel room. The peek of the luminous glow from the sun outside lit the room up just enough to bring back memories of the night before.

My suit pieces splayed out on the floor, my suitcase neatly tucked away in its corner by the dresser, the nightstand next to me, a white and gold lamp on top beside my phone with a dead battery, and finally a small ripped white dress lying right in front of me.

I sat up slowly from the bed, back tensing and pulling, a reminder that there was a reason I didn’t drink anymore. I wasn’t twenty-two and didn’t have the recovery I once had. Each pierce of a headache allowed a new vision into the day before: my messy tumble down the hall, the rush to get to the room as soon as possible. The feeling of finally resting on my chest, the weight of she’s mine heavy in my heart. This cat and mouse chase was over, and she was right by my side.

At the thought of her, my eyes dragged slowly all the way up to the curvy frame lying under the covers next to me. A white comforter pulled up to right below her chin, her round cheeks pulled into a half smile, shut eyes and long eyelashes fluttering slightly in her dream state.

Soul brighter than the sun shining itself, she lay there in my shirt, smiling in her sleep, entirely unaware of my presence. My gut twisted, a rush of cool air racing up my arms and leaving goose bumps in their wake. I was a grown man, one in the military at that. I’d faced situations that would cause most men to hide under their beds. Butterflies shouldn’t be in the pit of my stomach at merely watching a woman sleep. But that didn’t stop them.

It would be a lot easier to neglect that feeling in the pit of my stomach if she was anyone else. If she were a random woman I had picked up on a night out in Vegas. Someone I could spend a night with and forget the next morning before moving on as though nothing had happened. But she wasn’t the type of woman you would do that to. She was the kind of woman that made you forget there were even other females out there. She was the type you held, cherished. The woman you savored and longed for because who knew how long you could keep her. Like the last bite of dessert or the last slow pull of your favorite cigar before it was snuffed out. A bright light in a dark world that I selfishly wanted to keep to myself.

The corners of my mouth tilted up as a tiny puppy-like snore left her swollen pink lips. The covers shifted as she readjusted, and I watched for a moment as her chest rose and fell, my shirt expanding with every breath she took. Hazy memories of the night before began to piece together with every minute passing by. I had offered a clean shirt to her before she passed out. She said no and claimed she wanted the one I was wearing under my suit. Said it smelled more like me. Like a lightning bolt to my chest, I felt this swell of pride. Before that, I walked hand in hand with her from the hotel bar to the elevator. She matched my height perfectly in her heels, leaning over to plant soft kisses along my cheek as the doors slowly shut. The feel of her in my hands, the way she called to me, how…male she made me feel? I was like a gorilla about to beat on his chest or something.

It all felt like a dream I had pieced together in my mind. And if the proof wasn’t lying right beside me, makeup-free face and tousled blond hair across my pillowcase, I probably would have assumed it was a dream. Something my mind fabricated as a torture device to push me through the rest of the day.

My arm lifted to run a hand through my hair. I needed to check the time. Needed to make sure my brothers weren’t blowing up my phone, wondering where I’d ended up last night or who I’d ended up with. But my phone was dead, and since apparently no one needed clocks anymore, the time was nowhere to be found in the room around me. Eyes snagging on the suitcase across the room, I lifted a hand from the sheet and slowly pushed myself up, prepared to walk lightly across the floor and grab my charger.

A small hand reached for mine before I could move, her long white nails softly dragging over the veins in my hand. My breathing sped up, heart pounding against my ribs, butterflies coming back even stronger. I turned my head back to her, expecting a wide-eyed blonde ready to make some cocky remark about oops, we did it again. Instead, I was met with her still sleeping form.

Her fingers laced over mine in the lightest touch. Feminine on top of masculine, soft over rough, purity over corruption. I watched for a moment more, knowing when she woke, we had things to discuss from the last week. Things she and I had been avoiding for far too long now. Things that were bound to hurt, but it was going to be the good kind of pain. The kind you knew made you stronger. Growing pains. I knew it was only a matter of time before they had to be let out. But I wanted this peace, this overwhelming light in my chest, to stay just a little longer.

It was when her fingers fully rested against mine that I looked down and noticed them.

A large diamond ring on her left finger, and a gold band on mine.

My pulse raced violently. The last clear memory I had before I succumbed to my drunken state seeped its way in, like I was getting an outside glimpse of my own life. It was me walking hand in hand with a certain blonde into a twenty-four-hour wedding chapel.

That was when the weight of the night before truly hit me. Rachel and I had gotten married.

Currently playing: Alone Again (Naturally) by Gilbert O’Sullivan

***

You know the best thing about being an adult? You can go into a random bar you’ve never been to, order anything you want, and sulk as long as you like. Or until the bar closes, actually. But other than that, you have total free will.

I chose the perfect day to use said free will, considering it was the worst one I’d had in a while. Instead of drowning in my tears or eating ten Little Debbie cakes and screaming the lyrics of Genesis’s “That’s All” at the top of my lungs, I figured it was time to put on my big girl pants and sulk the way most adults do. With alcohol. I googled the best bar in Philly, took a quick trip down the road, plopped myself and my sequined mini skirt onto a barstool, and ordered what I thought would make me feel the most mature.

It was an incredibly stupid choice, considering I had never touched whiskey a day in my life. Growing up, all my favorite songs talked about women who could shoot it straight, and I always thought oh yeah, I’m gonna be that girl one day.

Holding my nose, because the smell alone was bound to cause a hangover, I forced myself to take one more sip of what tasted like great-grandpa’s medicine cabinet mixed with a touch of hand sanitizer and a splash of bleach.

The liquid burned the back of my throat like drinking straight lava out of a fancy glass. The downright alien cough that left my mouth was proof enough that I wasn’t meant for drinks that didn’t have fun names like sunrise shore, or peachy-Malibu wave.

I cleared my burned throat, mumbling to myself as I tapped my finger on the rim of the glass. “Screw Carrie Underwood for making me think I had to shoot whiskey to be cool.”

My apartment was filled with thrifted furniture, I wore heels that were taller than most women dared to touch, and my collection of records was like a shrine to the greatest artists of all time. I didn’t need to order some dignified, manly drink to be cool. But it sure would have felt nice if I could, for one night, act like one of those girls who drank beer and knew how the heck a welder worked and what its purpose was. The quintessential cool-but-doesn’t-know-it girl. That was everyone’s favorite in the movies. Very early 2000s Megan Fox.

“Do you, uh, want mine?” A deep rumble one chair over from me sent vibrations up my spine and made the hair at my neck stand up. His voice sounded like rich dark chocolate. He sounded like the kind of guy who did order whiskey straight.

My neck craned to take the stranger in, and part of me was surprised I hadn’t checked the guy out sooner. His tattoos caught my eye first. It was probably rude, since he was looking at my face, but I noticed both arms were covered in tiny art designs. Flowers, an old airplane that looked straight out of those movies our high school teachers forced us to watch, a couple of tribal ones. But my gaze mostly stuck to the one that looked like two little boys had scribbled it right there with a Sharpie. Miles and Dallas. Adorable. He was a dad. That was charming. Automatically, the next place I looked was his left hand, which was completely ring free and looked like an excellent place for me to rest my own hand.

He cleared his throat, and I realized it had been a solid minute since he’d spoken. I’d been too stuck on these doodle pads he called arms to notice. I looked up at his face and was surprised when I felt a lick of heat up my spine.

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