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“Let’s have this conversation tomorrow.”
“Now!” he shouts petulantly.
“You’re drunk, and you probably won’t remember anything.”
“Now!” he insists again.
“You know why,” I answer without hesitation.
“We have brunch at my parents on Sunday.”
My jaw drops open at the implicit demand. Laura told me she had a tennis lesson on Sunday morning and wouldn’t be able to host us. “We don’t. Your mother isn’t home.”
He scratches at the scruff on his face. “Mother hurt her wrist. She won’t be playing tennis anytime soon. Brunch.”
The last thing I want was to do is sit at a table with Foster’s parents acting as if everything is perfect between us.
“I’m not feeling well.”
“You’ll be better by Sunday,” he dismisses. “It’s two days away.”
Foster sways and leans against the counter to steady himself. “I don’t feel so good,” he slurs. Before he can move, he’s bent over the silver garbage can, throwing up. The smell is revolting, and it turns my stomach, causing me to shift away. Unsteadily, he rights himself and goes to the sink to slurp water directly from the faucet. It is one of the few times I’ve seen Foster this vulnerable. Soon, he backs away, stumbling and bumping into the handle of the refrigerator, which causes him to curse.
“Sleep it off,” I advise.
“Damn right I will,” he says as he wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his black suit. I wait for him to retreat, then go about changing the garbage by securing the bag in a knot before I fish it out of the can. The floor below us has a refuse shoot that I take it to. Our garbage is usually changed by cleaning services daily, but the smell was so bad it would permeate the entire kitchen.
When I get back, I find the master bedroom’s door open and Foster snoring loudly, still dressed in his suit, his legs hanging over the bed. He looks uncomfortable and as angry as I am with him, I am empathetic to his condition. After I remove his shoes, socks, and tie, he stirs.
His breath is a sour mix of brandy and vomit. I cringe when he speaks, trying not to breathe.
“If you want to get me naked, just ask,” he mumbles.
“I’m trying to make you more comfortable. If you’re going to be an ass, I’ll leave you here!” I bark.
Foster props himself up until he is sitting. Instead of removing his clothes, he circles his arms around my waist and locks his hands at my back. Caught off guard, I am trapped as he nestles his head against my belly.
“Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone.”
I stroke his messy hair, running my fingers through it. “Foster, this relationship is not what I want.”
“I love you,” he whispers pitifully. His body shakes, and I realize he is crying. My stomach tightens, and I wrap my hands around his head, holding him to me. Seconds tick away, and he finally stops, letting me go. Against my better judgment, I kiss the top of his hair.
“Let’s get you ready for bed,” I murmur.
“Can we talk in the morning?”
I sigh. “Yes, but I doubt it will do any good.”
“Thank you.”
I help him undress. Once he is under the covers, I shut the light off as he starts to snore. Exhausted, I weakly slip into bed shortly after I put Foster into his.
Disturbingly, my dreams are about weddings. I watch myself become the center of attention, dressed in a white wedding gown with a long train, and Foster waiting for me at the altar. I wake up bathed in sweat just after three in the morning. My mouth is dry, so I get up to get a drink of water.
As I pass by Foster’s partially open door, I hear him mumbling my name. Pausing, I listen. His mutterings tug at my heart, but I remind myself not to falter after our discussion. We are two different people, and he will never change. His focus is not on our marriage.
Foster grips his head with both hands. “Don’t raise your voice, my head hurts.”
