Dear Mia self.Miaself.Myself it starts. I bite back a grin. I remember tiny ticks of this moment, sitting on the toilet lid and struggling to focus on the pen and paper.
You’re sitting on the toilet writing a letter to yourself to read later because you’re drunk enough to know you’ll forget a lot tomorrow but not so drunk that you can’t write. But I know you because you’re me and we both know that you’re a terrible drinker and forget everything that happens when you’ve had gin. So let me tell you:
he’s ansel.
you kissed him
he tasted like lemon and scotch
you put his hand in your underwear and then
you talked for hours. yes, you talked. i talked. we talked. we told him everything about the accident and our leg your leg my leg.
this is confusing.
I’d forgotten this. I look up at Ansel, a prickling blush rising beneath the skin of my cheeks. I can feel my lips flush, too, and he notices, his eyes smoothing over them.
“I was so drunk when I wrote this,” I whisper.
He only nods at me, and then nods at the paper, as if he doesn’t want me to be interrupted, even by myself.
you told him you hate speaking but love moving
you told him everything about dancing before the accident and not dancing after
you told him about how it felt to be trapped under the hot engine
you told him about two years of physical therapy, and trying to dance “just for fun” after
you told him about luke and how he said it felt like the old Mia died under the truck
you told him about dad and how you’re sure he’s going to change Broc and Jeff from sweet kids into dickheads
you told him how much you dread the fall and moving to boston
you actually said “i want to love all of my life as much as i love this night” and he didn’t laugh at how stupid you sounded
and here’s the weirdest part
are you ready
I close my eyes, weaving a little. I’m not ready. Because this memory is sliding back into my thoughts, the victory, the urgency, the relief. I’m not ready to remember how safe he made me feel, and how easy he was. I’m not ready to realize that he’s witnessed something no one in my life has ever seen before. I suck air into my lungs and look back down at the letter.
you didn’t stutter. you BABBLED.
I meet Ansel’s eyes when I read this, as if seeking confirmation, but he doesn’t know what the letter says. His eyes go wide as he searches my expression, barely holding back from speaking. Does he remember everything I said?
so that’s why you proposed and he said yes really fast with this drunk smile like it was the best idea he’d ever heard because of course we should get married! now you’re headed there but i wanted to write this first because you might not remember why, and that’s why. don’t be a jerk. he might just be the nicest person you’ve ever known.
xo
Miaself
ps. you haven’t had sex with him yet. but you want to. A lot. Please have sex with him.
pps. you just asked him if you guys were going to and he said “we’ll see.” :/
I fold the papers up as neatly as I can and push them back inside the envelope with shaking hands. My heart feels like it’s doubled in size, maybe conjoined to another, a new one that prefers the staccato of panic. The doubled beats bounce and reverberate in my chest.
“So?” he asks. “You know I’m dying of curiosity.”
“I wrote it before we . . .” I hold up my left hand, displaying the simple gold band. “The last time I wrote myself a letter . . .” I start, but he’s already nodding. I feel like I’m spinning beneath the weight of this.
“I know.”
“And I proposed to you?” I suppose what actually surprises me is that there was a proposal at all. It wasn’t just drunk stumbling. I remember his teasing the night before that I should go with him to France, but this took discussion, and planning. Getting a car, giving directions. It required us to sign papers, and pay, and select rings, then repeat vows coherently enough to convince someone we weren’t drunk off our asses. I’m actually a little impressed by that last part.
He nods again, smiling.
“And you said yes?”
Tilting his head slightly, his lips pout the words, “Of course I did.”
“But you weren’t even sure if you wanted to have sex with me?”
He’s already shaking his head. “Be serious. I wanted to have sex with you the first time I saw you, two nights ago. But last night, we were really drunk. I didn’t . . .” He looks away, down the hall. “You left to write yourself a letter because you were worried you would forget why you proposed. And you did forget.” His brows rise, as he waits for me to acknowledge he’s made a decent point. I nod. “But we got back to the hotel, and you were so beautiful, and you . . .” He exhales a shaky breath. It’s so jagged, I imagine I can see the slivers of it fall from his mouth. “You wanted it.” He leans closer, kisses me slowly. “I wanted it.”
I shift on my feet, wishing I knew how to pull my eyes from his face.
“We did have sex, Mia. We had sex for hours and it was the best, most intense sex of my life. And see? There are still details you don’t remember.”
I might not remember every touch, but my body certainly does. I can feel his fingertips tattooed all over my skin. They’re in the bruises I can see and they’re invisible, too: the echo of his fingers in my mouth, dragging along my legs, pumping inside me.
But as intoxicating as the memories are, none of this is what I really want to talk about. I want to know what he remembers from before the wedding, before the sex, when I dropped my life in his lap. Having sex with a virtual stranger is weird for me, but it’s not unheard of. What’s monumental is for me to have opened up so much. I never even talked to Luke about some of these things.
“Apparently I said a lot to you yesterday,” I say, before sucking on my bottom lip and working it with my teeth. It still feels bruised and I get tiny, teasing flashes of his teeth and tongue and fingers pinching my mouth.
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes move over my face as if he’s waiting for me to reach some understanding he reached hours ago.
“I told you about Luke? And my family?”
He nods.
“And I told you about my leg?”
“I saw your leg,” he reminds me quietly.
Of course he did. He would have seen the scar extending from hip to knee and the tiny ant trail of staple marks along the long, silvery gash.
“Is that what has you shaking?” he asks. “That I saw your nak*d leg? That I touched it?”
He knows it isn’t. The smile pulling at his mouth tells me he knows my secret, and he’s gloating. He remembers everything, including his unique achievement: a babbling Mia.
“It was probably the gin,” I say.
“I think it was me.”
“I was really drunk. I think I just forgot to be nervous.”
His lips are so close I can feel their shadow on my jaw. “It was me, Cerise. You still haven’t stuttered this morning.”
I press back into the wall, needing space. It isn’t just that I’m surprised to find I’m so fluent with him. It’s the intoxicating weight of his attention, the need I have to feel his hands and mouth on me. It’s the headache that lingers and the reality that I’m married. No matter what happens, I have to deal with this and all I want is to climb back into bed.
“I feel weird that I told you everything and I don’t know anything about you.”
“We have plenty of time,” he says, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. “Till death do us part, in fact.”
He must be kidding. I laugh, relieved that finally we can be playful. “I can’t stay married to you, Ansel.”
“But in fact,” he whispers, “you can.” His mouth presses carefully to the corner of mine, tongue peeking out to taste my lip.
My heart seizes and I freeze. “What?”
“‘I want to love all of my life as much as I love this night,’” he quotes.
My heart dips and spills into my stomach.
“I realize how this sounds,” he says immediately, “and I’m not insane. But you made me swear I wouldn’t let you freak out.” He shakes his head slowly. “And, because I promised, I can’t give you an annulment. At least not until you start school in the fall. I promised, Mia.”
I pull back and meet his eyes just before he leans back in, opening his mouth to mine. I sense that I should be more wary of this entire situation but his effect on me hasn’t diminished even with the hangover and the alarming reality of what we’ve done.
He sucks at my lips, pulling them in turn into his mouth before he gives me his tongue, tasting of orange juice and water and grapes. His hands brace on my hips, and he bends lower, kissing me deeper, teasing me with a rumbling moan. “Let’s go back upstairs,” he says. “Let me feel you again.”
“Mia!” Harlow’s voice cuts down the hall through the stale smell of cigarettes. “Holy shit, we’ve been looking for you all morning! I was starting to worry you might be in a gutter or something.”
Lorelei and Harlow jog down the hall and Harlow stops in front of us, bending to brace her hands on her knees. “Okay, no running.” She groans. “I think I’m going to barf.”
We all wait, anxiously scanning the vicinity for a bucket, or a towel, or maybe just a quick exit. Finally, she stands, shaking her head. “False alarm.”
Reality descends in a curtain of silence as both Lola and Harlow study us with uncertainty.
“You okay, Mia?” Lola asks.
Ansel’s touch and his suggestion we should remain married, my headache, and my rebelling stomach all conspire to make me want to slide down onto the floor and curl up in a tiny ball of freak-out. I don’t even care how gross the carpet is. “Nothing a little death won’t solve.”
“Can we steal her for a few?” Harlow asks Ansel, and her tone surprises me. Harlow doesn’t ask before she takes, ever.
He nods, but before I can move away he runs his hand down my arm and touches the ring on my finger. He doesn’t say a word; it’s just that tiny touch that asks me not to leave this city without talking to him.
Lola guides me down the hall to the lobby, where there’s a cluster of enormous chairs in a quiet corner. We each collapse into the plush suede, lost in our own miserable hangovers for several long beats.
“So,” I say.
“So,” they reply in unison.
“What the hell happened last night?” I ask. “How did no one say, ‘Wow, we probably shouldn’t all get married’?”
“Ugh,” Harlow says. “I knew we should have been classier.”
“I’m going to blame the seven hundred shots we had,” Lola says.
“I’m going to blame Finn’s impressive cock.” Harlow takes a sip from a bottle of water as Lola and I groan. “No, I’m serious,” Harlow says. “And son is into some stuff, let me tell you. He’s a bossy little shit.”
“Annulment,” Lola reminds her. “You can still bang him when you’re single.”
Harlow rubs her face. “Right.”
“What happened with Ansel?” Lola asks.
“Apparently a lot.” Instinctively, I rub my finger over my bottom lip. “I’m not sure we actually slept. I’m disappointed I don’t remember it all, but I’m pretty sure we did everything.”
“Anal?” Harlow asks in a reverent whisper.
“No! God. Put ten dollars in the Whore Jar,” I tell her. “You’re such a troll.”
“I bet the French guy could get it,” Harlow says. “You look like you were pounded.”
Memories rise like smoke in front of me, just tiny wisps in the air.
His shoulders moving over me, fists curled around the pillowcase beside my head.
The sharp snap of his teeth when I licked across the head of his cock.
My hand splayed across the giant mirror, feeling the heat of his breath on the back of my neck just before he pushed inside.
His voice whispering, Laisse-toi aller, pour moi. Come for me.
I press the heel of my hands to my eyes, trying to pull myself back into the present. “What happened with you and Oliver?” I ask Lola, redirecting.
She shrugs. “Honestly, by the time we were leaving the chapel, we both started to sober up. Harlow was in their suite making all kinds of noises. You and Ansel were in ours.”
“Erp, sorry,” I mumble.
“We just walked around the Strip the entire night, talking.”
“Really?” Harlow asks, surprised. “But he’s so hot. And he has that whole Aussie thing going on. I’d love to hear him say, ‘Lick my cock.’”
“Five more in the Whore Jar,” Lola says.
“How did you understand a word he said?” I ask, laughing.