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Romance Novels and Alcoholism

When Casey first suspects his girlfriend is cheating on him, he starts looking at her phone. A serial cheater himself, he knows the signs. The vague, I have plans then, didn’t I tell you and the Oh, that, it’s nothing, just a friend or even the I’m too tired right now, maybe tomorrow. The random little gifts, the guilt making itself known through fresh croissants picked up from a local bakery; the rebirthed vanity of red lipstick and black eyeliner more than once a month and slimmer fitting dresses. Has her hair always looked that shiny, her teeth that bright? Has he always not known what she does on Monday nights?

* * * * * Autumn keeps her phone close by her all day most days, but that in itself doesn’t mean anything other than she, like him, is an American born after the Vietnam War. He picks it up while she’s in the bathroom or cooking dinner with her back turned. He unlocks it—her password is her birthdate, though he gets the year wrong on his first and second tries—and immediately opens her texts. At the top is her mother and then grandfather, a group text with friends named, inexplicably, “Rawt in Hail,” verification codes for work logins, her sisters, and, of course, himself. He’s not disappointed, exactly, that there is no obvious stranger there, living inside her phone where he waxes poetic about silky, milky thighs or plots to meet up in secret, sweet spots. Casey exits her texts to the home screen and locks the phone, placing it back in its place and stepping away before she notices anything at all. * * * * *

“She’s not cheating on you, man,” his friend Omar says at the Blue Rooster Bar over two, three, five beers next Wednesday at 7:00 pm. “No offense, but she’s kind of, totally obsessed with you. She’s, well, you know, and you’re so,” he shrugs. “She just isn’t the type.”

“I don’t, actually, know what you’re talking about.”

“Look—she’s a nice girl. But, based on what Elyse has said, you kind of made her year when you agreed to be with her.”

“Agreed to be with her?”

“Yeah, like, you were happy with Cleo and she’s so fucking hot. And Autumn was somehow always around, even though we’re all closer with Cece. Elyse always calls Autumn ‘moony.’ Whatever, man. She wouldn’t, couldn’t cheat on you anymore than Elyse could cheat on me. Speaking of, I gotta pick up more diapers on the way home. Meant to do it yesterday. Elyse is gonna kill me.”

Casey considers correcting Omar that he was not happy with Cleo, though she is so fucking hot, but Omar is clearly no longer interested in the fraying threads of this conversation. They could talk about how Elyse is dealing with new motherhood or how the baby is dealing with being out of the womb, but instead, they grunt about the football game on three of the seven TVs though neither care about either team.

* * * * * That night, Casey gets home when Autumn is getting into bed. “Hey there, long time no see,” she presses her cheek out for a kiss and he obliges. “How’s Omar? How’s Elyse? Kyle?”

“Fine and fine. We didn’t really talk about him much.”

She makes a hmming noise with her lips pressed together.

“I got some work I gotta finish. Don’t wait up.”

“Oh, okay, g’night.” She unpresses her lips and purses them, and he does not kiss them. He takes a quick shower and changes into sweats, already planning a pit stop at the kitchen to fill two fingers of whisky in his favorite coffee mug. When he crosses by the bed again, she’s looking at her phone intently. Oh, he thinks, I’m right. * * * * * Later, he finally does it. As Autumn sleeps, Casey moves his body even closer to hers, smelling the taste of her skin while reaching out for her phone charging silently like a gargoyle on her nightstand. It’s a little challenging to unplug it with one hand without jostling her sleepy, steady body, but then he rolls over, leaving her scent but taking her phone.

He faces away from her to minimize the glow of the light, turns the brightness all the way down, and looks through her messages, her emails, her social media. Something, something. Her emails are mostly from stores or the library. She only DMs her sisters. The notes in her phone are full of passwords, recipes, and old grocery lists or trip ideas. Her text messages range from banal to nonsensical to pragmatic—she and her friends and her sisters talk too much about reality TV between complaining about work. The most incriminating is little more than nothing. She has text messages from two years ago from an old boyfriend that she never deleted and he’s never heard about, but they are surprisingly innocuous, about the health of his mother and his summer plans. From her activity statistics, he can see she spends most of her time on her kindle app so he opens it for any secrets it may reveal.

He starts reading. She’s 37 percent into a book and he begins skimming, expecting arch instructions for the modern female lothario or even a cheating subplot. But, from what he can tell, it’s a romance novel. A romance novel about an insolvent marquess and a female mathematician from the 1800s. To be sure, he goes back and starts at the beginning after bookmarking her page.

Before he knows it, it’s four in the morning and he has only a quarter of the novel left. It’s good. Much more engrossing than the nonfiction his dad left him on world wars and submarines, and more dynamic than all of the modern and post-modern writing he read in school. The mathematician is described as mousy in appearance but ferocious about everything from suffrage to how to properly serve tea. She wears spectacles and has long black, curling hair that distracts the marquess mid-thought repeatedly. The marquess himself is tall, handsome, and prone to evading responsibility; he goes out of his way to prove to the mathematician that he does not enjoy being anywhere near her. He is what the women of the novel call ‘rakish,’ which Casey thinks means he’s had a lot of sex or, maybe, women want to have a lot of sex with him. The mathematician and the marquess are constantly pushed into situations together. In one particularly memorable scene, the marquess has to pretend to be the mathematician’s elderly spinster aunt to avoid ruining her, which Casey understands either ends with them married since they spent too much time alone or her never to marry and never to be respectable ever again. As the elderly spinster aunt, the marquess must maintain an audience of a group of truly elderly women, but he takes advantage of the situation and keeps referring to the mathematician as “a young sort of pussy” while wearing a blooming bonnet and holding a rickety cane: “though she is a young sort of pussy, she certainly whet’s everyone’s interest in digits” and “this young sort of pussy thinks she can handle herself, but she is in want of external stimuli.” Casey has to keep from rocking himself with laughter.

But he’s tired. The mathematician’s mother finds her daughter wrapped around the marquess, and the mathematician accuses the marquess of wanting to ruin her all along, taking her away from her family and her work for sport. But the alarm on the very phone Casey is holding will go off in two and a half hours, and the marquess and the mathematician will stay put until he can tell them to resume their play. Casey returns to the page he bookmarked, removes the bookmark, and exits the app. He clicks the phone off, and leans over Autumn again, even more careful than he was before. Is Autumn cheating on him? Does she think he’s rakish? Is he rakish? He yawns. What a silly, womanly novel. He can’t wait until he can finish it tomorrow night. * * * * * The next day while in line for falafel from the food truck outside his building, he texts Autumn.

hey beautiful i’m taking you to dinner tonight

Can we meet up for drinks after work instead?

you got a hot date or something

I thought I told you—I’m going to Laura’s at 8.

?

The usual—TV and drinking. Cece will be there!

ok drinks blue [turkey emoji] 5:30

Please contain your enthusiasm [winky face].

woo

LOL. See you soon. Love yoooouuuuuuu.

Casey doesn’t respond that he loves Autumn, too, though he does. The longer he’s with her, the more scared he becomes of her. He doesn’t know what to do with her weekend cleaning rituals, or calm casualness of how she spends money. The way she knows what to make him for dinner and never complains when it’s his turn to feed her and everything ends up two and half hours later than he intended. For the hundredth time that day, he thinks about the mathematician and the marquess. And how the marquess often thinks about the mathematician, who thinks about him but also numbers and her family and her gender and her future. He considers texting Cece and Laura just to be sure that they will be with Autumn tonight, but he knows her sisters would cover for her, no questions asked.

What men does Autumn work with? Not many. She works at a local magazine. There is that graphics artist, but he’s in his 40s, married, and not her type. Casey remembers all of the times he’s cheated. Sometimes they are in their 40s or married or not his type. He eats his falafel and wishes to forget.

He cheated the most on Cleo. Cleo, with her high breasts and yellow hair and thin body. Cleo, who entranced all of his friends. Who had competed in pageants. Who ate all of his yogurt, left her hair clogging all of his drains, and never apologized for when she lashed out at him while drunk or high or both. The biggest cheating spree started when he first hooked up with a girl he met during Omar’s bachelor party in Nashville. She was plump and pleasant, told them where to go the next morning for the best omelet he’s ever had. After her, it was the accountant on the third floor of his building in a closet at the office holiday party (he cringes to think of how predictable that one was). And then, he got on the dating apps, searching only for hookups every time he got drunk.

Before cheating on Cleo, he cheated on Angela with one of her best friends. He still feels sick over it. Things never just happened, he always watched himself making them happen and not stopping them. But the act and remembrance of feeling bad does not make him a good person. Casey never told Angela, breaking things off with a we want different things, we’re different people and then leaving her to cry in a Cheesecake Factory parking lot. He did tell Cleo, hurled it in her face while she was yelling at him for moving and misplacing her favorite red purse. The color drained from her face and she looked shockingly like an angelic Christmas tree topper his mother once threw at his father when he was 12. “I didn’t mean to throw that in your face,” he’d said. She’d looked at him with such disdain, her straight nose pointing into the air, “Then what the hell was that? Fuck you, Casey. I’m so out of here.” He wasn’t sorry to see her go. He had the strangest tightening sensation in his chest that she didn’t even like him that much anyways.

The mathematician would have been furious with the marquess if he cheated on her. But she would have stayed to talk it out, to find out why and how and how much. She’d want to make it add up. The marquess would have been even more upset if the mathematician had sex with someone else. He would have wanted to punch something or run away. With Cleo, Casey had always told her his plans at the last possible moment or only when prompted. He’d hidden the dating apps on his phone. He added “Cousin” before the first name of the numbers for any girls he saved and would delete their text message history immediately. He exercised more and got his hair cut more frequently. It would be so easy for Autumn to be doing the same. * * * * * At the bar, Casey arrives ten minutes late. Autumn is already there, sitting in a booth with her phone out and a clear drink in front of her. Has she always been on her phone this much?

“Hey,” he says, swiftly moving to kiss her on the cheek and look at her phone.

“Hey, you,” she turns her head to kiss him on the mouth. He doesn’t get a chance to see what’s on her screen.

“I’m going to go grab a whisky sour, you good?” After she nods, he heads over to the bar.

Sitting back down again, he notes her phone is face down on the table, takes a swig, and “So, what are you and Cece and Laura up to tonight?”

“Not much. Laura thinks Livie is going to propose so she wants us to come up with a good reaction, outfit, plans, whatever. We’ll have sangria and Bravo on in the background, but it will mostly be Laura in and out of dresses.”

“So Laura plans on saying yes?”

Autumn smiles and licks her lips, “Of course.”

“How do you feel about that? I just don’t remember your enthusiasm during Omar and Elyse’s wedding or the months leading up to it.”

“That’s different. And we barely knew each other then. Besides,” Autumn shrugs. “I love Laura and I love Livie. I don’t really have a choice when it comes to participating in whatever they want, however they want.” She lets the moment breathe, waiting for him to jump in or nod, but at his blankness, she proceeds. “Anyways, I’m sorry we can’t have a proper date. It’s been a while, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Casey and Autumn have only lived together for three months. He moved her in with him after a scant year of dating. He sees her every day. But he misses her. Did he know that her sister was about to be engaged? “How’s that crazy co-worker of yours?”

“Bianca? She did this really crazy thing last week with a volume of Shakespeare’s plays and the fire escape at her brother’s ex-best friend’s mother’s apartment, did I not tell you?” * * * * * That night, Casey again takes Autumn’s phone from its resting place on her nightstand. He again looks through her texts, searches for dating apps, and combs her contacts. There are a lot of men’s names that he can’t identify, but that’s hardly proof of anything at all. He could google them, look them up on Facebook or LinkedIn, but he knows he won’t. He goes to her kindle app to open the book, but it’s no longer there. She must have finished it earlier and deleted it or something. Instead, the app opens up to another book, another historical romance novel, another rake and his lady love. Casey begins this one, too, though he misses the mathematician and the marquess. * * * * *

Livie does propose to Laura the following weekend. Casey joins Autumn at a family dinner in celebration of the impending nuptials. Half of Autumn’s family are vegans and the whole meal is vegetarian. But, luckily for Casey, vodka is a meat-free and dairy-free product, so he doesn’t mind the missing filet or absent thigh. Casey is seated next to Autumn’s dad, Harry. When they get ready to sit down for dinner after milling about the living room of Autumn’s family home, everyone knocking elbows, spilling red wine on the red sofa, and furtively looking at Autum’s mom Betty to make sure she didn’t see before strategically moving a pillow or blanket or both, Autumn blinks rapidly at Casey and he can see that her eyelashes are telling him that’s she sorry she didn’t know to warn him about the seating arrangements beforehand. Casey doesn’t dislike Harry, exactly.

“So, how’s retirement treating you?”

Harry grunts.

“I should know this by now, but do you play any sports? Pickle ball?”

This time, Harry actually sets down his fork, turns his head, and looks blankly at Casey for one, two seconds.

“I guess pickle ball isn’t a real sport so much as a pass time. I played football myself growing up, but you couldn’t pay me to pick up pigskin again.”

Harry looks away from Casey and starts poking at an anthill-sized pile of butternut squash on his plate. Casey’s shoulders pick up towards his ears, embarrassed to have called a football ‘pigskin’ while talking to a vegan. He has never, ever called it anything but a football before now.

“I mean, I know they aren’t made of pigskin. I think rubber.” He now blushes, having just said ‘rubber’ to his girlfriend’s father and immediately thinking of how he convinced her to go on the pill and hasn’t used a condom in over a year. Think of England, he tells himself, though he doesn’t know what that means, only remembers the marquess cheekily murmuring it to the mathematician during their second time having sex. “So. Any sports?”

“Dad actually plays volleyball, right? With a group of women that retired around the same time he did?” Autumn intercepts, jerking herself away from a discussion with one of her cousins—they all look the same to Casey, but this one’s hair is light so he thinks that means she’s Heather or Harriet, no, definitely Heather; Harriet can’t be right.

“Yes, Autumn, I do play volleyball. Those are made of leather, not rubber.”

“Right,” Casey says, nodding. “That’s fun.”

“I am sure you and I have different definitions of ‘fun.’”

“Dad!” Autumn and Cece say at the same time. Laura is sitting across the table from them, bouncing her sister’s baby, Elly, on her lap, but her ears must have pricked at her father’s prickly tone.

“I’m sorry, Casey, dear,” Betty reaches over her husband to pat Casey’s hand, a little too hard. “My husband is...”

“Being an ass,” Autumn mutters close to his ear.

“Just still in shock that another daughter is getting married. Two down, one to go. Though, of course, not soon, dear,” she pointedly looks at Autumn and Casey. He may be going crazy from too little protein in the past 12 hours, but did her nose wrinkle when she looked at him?

Harry glares at his wife and then Casey; Casey looks down at his empty glass of what once was vodka. Harry has never liked him. And he was right to not. However, Betty seemed to have no problem with him before tonight. Or rather, no problem with him until the prospect of him marrying their daughter came up.

“Mom!” This time, Cece and Laura, and their collective hiss disrupts the baby so much that she starts to almost wail but five family members, though neither of her parents, stop their eating to distract her before a cry fully forms. Casey feels satisfaction at the distraction, but then looks over to see Autumn’s face, drained of all delightful pinkness that previously adorned her cheeks from the champagne and body heat.

“You guys have known Livie and Laura were planning on getting married for a while now,” Autumn takes a breath, then adds, “Please chill. Leave us alone.”

“Yes, of course,” Harry says. “Casey, I love volleyball though I love sleeping in more and drinking at ten in the morning. Can you recommend a good bourbon?”

Casey tries to laugh but it comes out as a grimace. He knows that neither of Autumn’s parents are big drinkers. * * * * * “I’m sorry Barty was in such fine shape tonight,” Autumn and her sisters almost always refer to their parents by the couple name Cece and Laura gave them when the girls were in middle school. Autumn interlaces her fingers with Casey’s as they walk from her car to the apartment door.

“Yeah, what was up with that?”

Autumn sticks the tip of her tongue out and then ducks it back and bites her bottom lip. She uses her fob to open the building and they start up the stairs in tandem, side by side rather than follow the leader as they usually do.

“They still don’t like me?”

“I don’t know if it’s that exactly or that, they,” she breathes in through her nose and out her mouth, “they wish I were different. Stronger or maybe bolder in how I... live. Or whatever”

Casey stops Autumn in the hallway steps away from their door. “What? What do you mean? They...”

“They love me, I know. But I also know that I’m not Laura and I’ll never be Cece.”

Casey shuffles them along, fishing into his pants for his keys, and twisting the lock the wrong way before getting it right and getting them inside.

“I’m sorry,” Autumn lets her purse fall to the floor and then starts stripping off her clothes and tossing them this way and that though they still stand in the entryway. “I’m so lucky. I just hate weddings. I do—I'm sorry. You were right. Mom and I got into it last night about my being the maid of honor and planning all of this shit for the wedding. I’m in charge of food and,” she quickly glances at him and then stares back at the floor, “alcohol. I told her I’d talk to Laura about it. She said she’d already talked to Laura. It just... unraveled from there. It’s so stupid. And it brought up this stuff Cece had said before we started... dating. Or maybe, it had come up before we moved in together. It’s nothing—really. See, I can barely explain it? I’m sorry.”

Casey shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he was right about. He wants her to stop apologizing. He wants to admit that he doesn’t understand a damn thing about Autumn’s family dynamics, so different from his own. But he doesn’t want to ask more questions, scared of what else she could—and should—say to him.

“I’ll call tomorrow. I’ll fix it. I’m sorry again. It’s so... immature. Childish. I’m sure they’ll want to apologize to you, too. They shouldn’t talk to you like that.”

Casey wraps his arms around Autumn. She’s in her underwear now, a plain black bra and light green underwear.

“They can talk to me however they want. It’s you I want them to talk better to.” * * * * * Slowly, surely, Casey begins not to not believe Omar, but not to disbelieve him. He starts to forget to remember that Autumn could cheat on him. At least that’s what he tells himself to justify using her phone at night, and reading her romance novels. She seems to favor historical ones, though occasionally she’ll read a modern one, or really, one that was modern 10, 20, or 30 years ago. He admits, he doesn’t like these as much. The characters oddly feel less like him than the ones in the historical romances. Regardless, he especially loves ones where the sex scenes happen in the first half of the book. And are graphic.

But all of this late-night reading is making him tired and miss his early morning runs and gain weight. If Autumn wasn’t cheating on him before, she is now.

“Case, your mom called me this morning while you were out jogging,” Autumn tells him one weekend while he’s making bacon for himself and pancakes for them both. “She said she’s going to be in town in three days. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He flips a pancake.

“She said you’re having dinner Thursday?”

“Yup.”

“She invited me.”

“Fine.”

“I said yes, but I can always beg off or something.”

“Nope. You should come.”

“Really?”

Casey finally abandons his breakfast making and turns around, making a scrunched-up face at her, then turning back around.

“Okay then.”

Casey remembers Omar complaining about when Elyse made them sync calendars. Maybe he should suggest it to Autumn. But what if one day he doesn’t want her to know where he is.

“I know I don’t know all of it. But I’ll be there,” she comes up behind him, snaking her arms around his middle, “I’ll have talking points prepared and everything. We can plan a series of under the table touches—nothing dirty—just a squeeze that means Shut it down now and another one that means Ten more minutes of this and I will explode, how does that sound? And I promise not to bring up volleyball.” Then more quietly, “Or bourbon.”

He knows she wants him to laugh, but he doesn’t, instead focusing on stacking the cooked pancakes on a plate.

“No sports talk. No work talk. No money talk. Does she like reality TV?” She kisses him between his shoulder blades.

He reaches around a grabs her ass with his left hand.

“Hey, none of that before I consume a mountain of carbs. We’ll go to dinner with her,” Autumn keeps saying, even though Casey already was planning on getting dinner with his mother, “No drinks, obviously, no dessert, no more than a few hours.”

“I know.” * * * * * Later that night, Casey cannot focus on the latest romance novel about a naïve, talkative eighteen-year-old who falls in love with a duke twice her age who lost his duchess and heir.

Before dinner with his mom and while Autumn has to stay later at work than expected, he grabs a quick drink with Omar and their friend Bradford.

“So, Kyle started teething, huh?”

“So, you still think Autumn’s cheating on you?”

“What?” Bradford almost spits out his drink, “Autumn’s cheating on you.”

Casey glares at Omar. “No, she’s not. I just had a moment of paranoia a few weeks ago. Moment’s over.” * * * * * Casey goes back to the apartment to pick up Autumn for dinner. The whole ride, she’s texting on her phone. He gives her a gentle squeeze on her thigh. She jumps and immediately closes her phone, but doesn’t say anything.

Fuck.

His mother is already drunk when they arrive at the restaurant. She is more silicone than mother at this point and he wants to hate her, wants her to be different, but he still gives her $427 at the end of the meal when she asks for it. It would have been over $500, but he hadn’t withdrawn enough cash when he’d stopped by the bank between work and the bar, thinking he had more than a few twenties socked away in his wallet.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Autumn asks on the ride home, before coughing. She talked nearly nonstop through the whole meal, carrying the conversation on her back so much that she is hunched over now, exhausted. She barely ate any of her goat cheese salad.

“Who were you texting on the way over?”

“No one. A friend. About work.” * * * * * Back at the apartment, Autumn lets Casey take a shower first. When it’s her turn, he pours himself so much scotch, it is less of a few fingers and more of a handful. He sips, burning his throat delightfully, and heads to bed.

After he and Autumn have sex, she asks, “Do you remember Elyse and Omar’s wedding?”

Casey nods, even though the day is a haze; he mostly remembers Elyse’s cousin’s slinky bridesmaid dress scrunched up around her waist.

“I thought you were so beautiful, though you were so drunk,” she pauses to let Casey say something or laugh or make any sort of sound, but he does not. He shifts in bed, caging her in his arms. “And you were there with Cleo. I already loved you so much.” She whispers the last part against his throat.

Casey doesn’t even remember noticing Autumn until Elyse and Cece revealed they were both pregnant five months later. She was at the brunch her parents hosted for the pair and their husbands.

“And now I have you,” she kisses his mouth. “You taste like a bar.”

He checks her texts after he’s sure she’s been asleep for at least 15 minutes, but the most recent message is from Bianca timestamped 6:56 pm. He considers going to the kitchen and pouring himself another glass of scotch, maybe transitioning to vodka or bourbon or both. At least the current romance novel has picked up. The duke is teaching the debutante how best to use her mouth. * * * * * Casey first realized he may be in love with Autumn when she and Laura came to the hospital to help discharge Cece and visit Elyse. They’d already been dating for a few months. Autumn had joined him in the hallway for a cup of bad coffee, linked her arm with his, and said, “How am I going to tell Cece that her baby looks like one of Jim Henson’s scarier Muppet trolls.”

“Just lie and say she’s beautiful like everyone else is.”

They had been staring at pictures of babies on walls and she had linked his hand with hers. For some reason, it made him think of how little she demanded of him, how little she tried to change him. Cleo had always been buying him newer, nicer clothes. Thin black ties. Signed them up for cycling classes. But Autumn never took anything away from him—not his time, not his hobbies, not his patterns established long before her. Except for his hand in this one moment. * * * * * It’s Casey’s thirty-third birthday two weeks later. His mother didn’t even mention anything about it when she was in town. He doesn’t think Autumn is planning anything, but Omar, Bradford, and even Elyse have been cagey with him lately. He’s not even surprised when he walks into the Blue Rooster and there are some half-hearted balloons around and a screamed “surprise” followed by a chorus of “happy birthdays!” The other patrons in the bar are nonplussed as he passes around hugs and thanks. Somehow, Autumn greets him last. She’s wearing the prettiest pink lipstick and summer dress. He wants to take her, a bottle of Jameson, and go home.

Neither Cece nor Laura are there and Autumn doesn’t know his or even Elyse’s friends that well, even this far into the relationship. She strikes up a conversation with a few of his college friends and their significant others.

Casey’s a few drinks in when he sees that Cleo is here. He hasn’t seen her since she stopped by to grab her stuff two days after he told her about the cheating. All they’d said to each other was that neither cared if the other kept the espresso machine they’d bought together last winter during Black Friday sales. He missed that milk frother attachment.

“Hey,” she leans in for a hug, but he keeps himself still and stiff since he’s sure Autumn is watching. “Happy birthday. How does it feel?”

Cleo is two years older than him, much less than Autumn’s six years younger than him.

“I feel the same. Why are you here?”

“Oh come on now, don’t act like we’re strangers or that it’s that weird I’m here. I’ve been wanting to see you. To reach out. I miss you.” Her tone is bright but lacks the looseness of the truly casual. She reaches out to touch him, but grabs his drink and takes a sip instead.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you, but I’m happier now. I hope you are, too,” Casey almost beams with self-congratulation. It’s his birthday and he’s handling this situation incredibly well.

“Oh, fuck you, Casey. Don’t be so proud of yourself. You’re not better than me.”

Or maybe not. Nothing changes. “Why are you here?”

“I was invited. I was curious. Whatever.”

“It’s not an open bar.”

She lifts his drink in salute and turns around, winding up in front of Bradford and a few of their other friends who raise their eyebrows and exchange glances, but entertain her caustic remarks and tolerate her drunken loudness.

It’s then that he notices Omar taking Autumn aside to one of the darkest walls of the bar, his hand on the small of her back. Are you fucking kidding me? * * * * *

They get back to their apartment after last call. He drunkenly kisses her cheek, but misses and his lips end up in her hair.

“Birthday boy’s got some moves.”

He gives her the chuckle she is fishing for and fishes for the hem of her dress.

“Wait—I have a gift for you. And it’s not me. It’s on the pillow.” She grins so prettily he wants to throw both of their phones out the window out of love.

“Are you sleeping with Omar?”

“No. No.” She steps away and stumbles and shakes her head. “No.”

“Have you slept with Omar before?”

He watches the skin of her throat slide with a swallow. “Will you sit with me on the couch?”

He nods. “When?” He sits down on one side so they can comfortably face each other from an intimate distance, but she sits in the middle, too close to his body.

“We haven’t had sex. But,” she reaches to take his hands in hers, but he crosses his arms and her hands land empty in her lap, “a few weeks after Elyse had the baby, he came over to borrow some formula from Cece, who was sleeping with Elly. Laura was also there, too, and the three of us commiserated a bit about new babies and being around post-partem women. And then Livie came and picked up Laura, and it was just me and Omar. I was surprised he stayed. He doesn’t even like me. He told me how pretty I looked and then was kissing me.”

Casey makes a strangled noise, but Autumn only pauses and doesn’t stop.

“We didn’t have sex. Afterwards, he briefly said that you always cheated on all your girlfriends. He didn’t mention Elyse. Cece had mentioned before that Omar and Elyse had an open relationship for a time or were into swinging or whatever.” Autumn climbs over to mount Casey’s lap. “I think he was trying to leave the door open for… But I just told him to go. Our relationship was still so new. Is still so new. You had just asked me to move in. And I only ever wanted you. I think he knew that. He told me you suspected something today. He said he’d tried texting me, but doesn’t have my number and ended up accidentally texting Elyse’s friend Audrey something, something strange. Is that why you’ve been checking my phone?”

It’s a rush, but he follows and decides to only pick up on the conversational thread of her phone. Despite everything and feeling like a caricature of himself, Casey laughs. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

She shakes her head. “I started to suspect and then could tell from the activity report. And you were getting sloppier going back to the page I was on in my books. Do you hate me? Do you love romance novels?”

He gently removes her from his lap and doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?” She starts to cry.

“No. No. I’m the one who ruins things. I deserve this,” she inhales, biting back a howl, but he keeps going, “but I don’t, can’t, won’t hate you. I love you. I’m totally obsessed with you.”

They both laugh.

“I thought maybe you too were into casual or open relationships. To explain the stuff with Cleo that Omar said. But honestly, I didn’t care to know. You never said anything to me. And she makes me sick. Seeing you with her tonight--”

“I didn’t invite her. I didn’t know---”

“Obviously,” she swallows and softens. “Obviously, you didn’t even know about the party. But she’s so pretty. You look so good together. And you both have always...”

“What?” he grabs her again, regretting losing contact, and she climbs back in place. She lets him grips her ass, grinding her against him. What’s wrong with him? He wants her to know he still wants her. Or will she think he’s thinking of Cleo?

She sighs happily, melting into his chest, tucking her head into his neck, licking his collar bone. He jerks, remembering it’s his birthday.

“Drunk a lot. The alcohol.” She leaves it unsaid, but they both hear it. It worries her. It worries him.

“I know. Fuck. I know. Everyone knows. Even your parents know.”

She nods. He should quit and go to AA. But he doesn’t say that.

They are silent and he suddenly notices that their breathing has synced.

“And the books?” she prompts, though she doesn’t move more than her lips.

“I don’t even know what to say. I’m embarrassed—”

“Don’t be! Obviously, I love them. Do you have a favorite?”

“No,” he lies, “They’re just a fun way to end the day. And they make me think of you.”

“I love you. Will you still have sex with me tonight, even though I ruined your birthday?”

“You didn’t ruin my birthday. But no,” he says, surprising himself, “Let’s just go to sleep. Please.”

“Will you ever sleep with me again?”

She wisely doesn’t bring up Omar again. Or swinging. He nods.

She picks her body up off of him, and stands up. “Will you open your present?”

He nods again.

She goes and grabs it from the bedroom and hands it to him and in silence, he patiently unwraps it, tearing the paper as little as possible. It’s small so it doesn’t take him long. “It’s a kindle.” He takes out a smaller piece, “and a library card.”

She bites her lip, “I figure this way, you won’t have to go back and forth, remembering which page of the book I’m on and which one you are. And you don’t have to read what I read. The library card is something you should have already had, but also the best way to get books. Or how I like to do it. I already downloaded a few of my favorites for you. Not sure if you’ve read them or not? I can’t remember what I’ve even read in the past few months.” He can also tell that she is unsure of when exactly he started checking and using her phone. “I want to specifically recommend An Insurmountable Equal. I know, I know. The names can be a bit silly. But this one is about a lord and his brilliant lady love. She’s invisible to him until she’s not, hijinks ensue, and then I just love the ending.”

He opens the book on the device and recognizes it as the story about the marquess and the mathematician.

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how about a kiss, saumensch?