Page 1 of That Reunited Feeling

1

TOM

Christ, is it the middle of the night or the middle of the day? The heavy curtains in my aunt and uncle’s guest room make it impossible to tell.

The jet lag after flying from London, combined with Uncle Jim’s homemade rhubarb wine, has left my brain in a painful fog.

Have I been asleep for ten minutes or ten hours?

Unable to muster the energy to raise my eyelids more than a crack, I roll over and reach for my phone on the nightstand.

But my hand smacks into the cool glass of water next to it instead.

Shit, no.

Too late.

I’m not sure which sound is worse—the splashing or the shattering.

I push myself up onto my elbow and shove my hair off my face. Even with bleary eyes and no light, it’s obvious the glass is now in more than one piece and the table’s soaked. As iseverything on it, including the books Aunt Maggie leaves there for visitors.

My phone had a lucky escape because that rattling noise was it falling down the back of the nightstand.

Fuck, the water’s dripping down the sides and onto the lovingly restored wood floor. From the carnage, you’d think I’d knocked over a pitcher, not just one glass.

I can’t exactly mop it up with the sheets, nor with my clothes that are in a crumpled heap on the floor. Must get a cloth.

This is my first time staying at the house my brother, three cousins, and I bought for Uncle Jim and Aunt Maggie two and a half years ago. I’m not totally familiar with the layout or where to locate a rag, but a towel from my en suite bathroom will do for now.

I sit upright and swivel onto the edge of the bed. One foot touches my crumbled boxers, the other squelches into the thick rug. Bollocks. I can’t make a mess of this beautiful joint less than twenty-four hours after I got here. After being hard up before we boys made our fortunes, Mags and Jim appreciate and take good care of everything they have now, and I don’t want to wreck stuff the first time I stay.

Apparently being vertical makes my head throb more. I let my eyes drift shut again and rub my temples. Does Jim make that wine with paint stripper?

The wetness under my toes is chilly—a contrast to the toasty warm room. It might be an icy New Hampshire January day outside, but there are no drafts blowing through this Victorian house—the renovation job was spectacular.

Anyway. Towel. Mopping of the water.

I stumble across the room in a line that would test the patience of the most forgiving traffic cop, pausing briefly to kick off the boxers stuck around my ankle.

As I open the bathroom door, a blinding light sears the backs of my eyes like the fire of a thousand suns. It’s coming through the window at the end of the landing. Guess that wasn’t the bathroom door then. And I guess it’s daytime.

“Whoa,” says a female voice that isn’t Aunt Mags.

Fuck. I’m naked.

The hands shielding my eyes from the stark winter brightness fly to my crotch.

Who the hell is this wandering around the house?

As my eyes adjust and I’m able to open them more than a micro crack, a petite blond woman comes into view.

“Shit, sorry.” I back away into the bedroom but crash into the door that’s inconveniently closed behind me.

Would one hand be enough to cover the essentials if I reach back to open it?

“Tom?” says the woman, looking just as shocked as I am, but with far more clothes on. “Is thatyou?”

Who the hell is this? How does she know me? And why is she in my aunt and uncle’s house at…whatever the fuck time this is?

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