Page 74 of The Twenty (Major Crimes)

“Thank you,” she says with a wan smile. “Was I a mess?”

“I’ve seen you in better shape, yes.”

She tries to run her hands through her hair, then holds a few strands between her fingers and grimaces. “Did I puke on you?”

“Just missed.” He returns the smile. “But you got it all over your carpet.”

“I did?” She looks puzzled.

“I cleaned it up. Well, I tried. You might need to have another go.”

She puts her head in her hands again. “I’m so sorry,” she says through her fingers. “Are you going to report me?”

“Report you?” Adam sits back in the chair in surprise. “Absolutely not. Ellie, I’m the one at fault here. I’m your superior officer. And we were drunk, very drunk together.” He doesn’t mention the rest. “But let’s say I leave here, and you have a shower and breakfast, and when we meet again at work, we never mention this to anyone ever again.”

She looks up, her eyes grateful. “Yes, that would be good, thank you.”

He feels like crap. But he nods. “Now drink your tea. It will help.”

Adam stands up, puts one hand on her arm for a second, then leaves, closing the front door behind him.

He starts to walk quickly. Down her street, away from her house, as if putting distance between them will ease the churning in his gut, the feeling in his bones. He’s an utter shit. Even discounting how close he came to having sex with her, they shouldn’t have been drinking together in the first place. The line of inappropriate behavior was crossed the second she appeared by his side. He should have walked away, told her to go home. But he was so pathetically desperate for company that he allowed it to continue. And the kissing, the … everything else. He can’t even bring himself to think it. Two shots more and what would he have done? Would he have stopped? Would he have—

He bends double, his stomach contracting as he throws up in the gutter. He rests his hands on his knees and lets out a groan of disgust, of pure self-hate, and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He hears footsteps pass and glances up to see a woman in a smart coat hurrying by. What must he look like to her? He sees himself for who he is. A sad, lonely, forty-year-old man who picks up women in late-night bars because he can’t stand the thought of real intimacy.

He stands up again and starts walking. He knows where he is, but he’s not heading in the right direction. He realizes, in his daze, that he’s taken the route toward his old house. His ex-marital home, where he lived with Romilly.

He was a different person when he was married to her. He was happy then; he struggles to think of a time when he’s been that way since. Not alcohol-induced happy. Or laughing with the team. But the glow of contentment he felt from the inside out.

The walk takes him another half an hour. The streets are busy as the world comes to life. He glances at his watch: eight o’clock. What will Romilly be doing now? In their old life they’d eat breakfast together. Side by side in their kitchen, passing the milk, mugs of coffee in front of them. She’d smell of freshly washed hair and, as they kissed goodbye, of toothpaste and perfume. But what does she do now, with her new boyfriend?

At the end of the road, he pauses. He can see the house in the distance, two cars parked in the driveway. She still has her old Ford; her boyfriend has a VW Golf.

He walks a few paces closer, then stops again. Their curtains are open. They must be up, and as Adam watches, the front door unlocks. He ducks down behind a parked car, desperate to see but remain hidden.

The man steps out of the house. Phil. He looks fresh and clean, and, Christ, the man’s much better looking than him, Adam realizes anew. Jamie was right. They’re not even in the same league. He turns back, waiting, as Romilly steps onto the doorstep. They lean forward and kiss, no more than a quick peck, but Adam feels a flash of jealousy toward this man. Living in his house, with his wife.

Adam shifts, his muscles straining in the unnatural position. He waits as Phil climbs into his car and drives off in the opposite direction.

The front door closes, Romilly going back into the house. She’s alone now. He desperately wants to walk up to her door, to knock, to see her face. He wants to sit in his own living room and talk to her about how he’s feeling. Share the hatred he has for himself, the self-doubt. How much he knows he’s let down his best friend.

That he took advantage of poor Ellie. That she felt guilty. That she felt she needed to apologize.

How, since they split up, he’s slipped out of his own skin, become a man he no longer recognizes. No longer wants to be.

He wants to say all of this to the one person who would understand. Who would probably put her arms around him and give him a hug.

But he knows he won’t.

Something inside him won’t let him. He can’t be that person again. He trusted the people closest to him once, and look what happened. He trusted Romilly, and she destroyed their life for a cheap fuck.

Look where trust got him. Look how loving someone made him feel.

Everyone leaves him. He is alone.

The wind blows hard, and he pulls his coat tightly around him. His cheeks feel cold, and he reaches up, surprised to discover he’s been crying. He wipes at the tears with disgust, then turns and strides away down the road.

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