CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (Part One): He's Just Drunk

"–OH MY GOD!"

Mitch is straddling a panicked Ashley on the floor. His knees are pinning her arms to her sides and his shirt is stuffed into her mouth, making a surprisingly effective gag. Her tank top has been yanked up so that it's stuck up in her armpits and her bra sticks out underneath. To my (and clearly Ashley's) horror, he's kissing her neck and slowly inching downward. One of his hands has made it far enough up her stomach so that his fingertips are underneath her bra. One of his hands starts making its way to his belt buckle as I hurriedly pull up the camera app on my iPod and snap a picture. As soon as that's done, I toss it off to the side and run to help Ashley. I pull Mitch off, who's still fumbling with his zipper (having gotten his belt undone). I force him onto his stomach and pull his arms behind his back, anchoring his wrists on his spine. I put my foot on the back of his neck to keep his head down. Meanwhile, Ashley has stood up and fixed her clothes.

"Are you okay? What happened?" I ask. She leans against the wall and slides down to a sitting position, taking a deep breath.

"I came out here for some peace and quiet. I'd only been out here a few minutes before Mitch found me. He sat down next to me and we talked for like half an hour. Then he kissed me. But then he tried going farther and when I told him no he forced himself on me. You came in right after that."

"God, Ashley, I'm really sorry," I say, meaning every word. "I should have known he'd try something like this. He gets absolutely stupid when he's drunk."

"There's nothing you could have done," she says.

"But there is, though. I knew he liked you. I should have kept a better eye on him, or stopped him from drinking so much, or–"

"And have him hate you later? You're not his mum, Lily. You have to remember that. This was no one's fault but his," she says, glaring at Mitch.

"But I–okay," I say. I'll let it go.

"Why did you take a picture?" Ashley asks/

"Evidence," I say. "I have a feeling he's not going to remember any of this later."

I can smell the alcohol on him from here. He hasn't protested once since I put him in this position. Just laid there mutely. Like a slug.

"I'm gonna take him up to bed," I say, taking my foot off his neck and hauling him to his feet. I use one hand to hold his wrists together as I pick his shirt up from where Ashley tossed it when she took off the gag.

"Are you gonna be okay alone? I don't want him to try anything and there's no one there to help you," she says. I glance at Mitch and laugh once mirthlessly. He is totally fixated on Ashley, not even hearing her words but just staring at her.

"I think I'll be fine," I reply. With that, I march him upstairs, keeping him in front of me.

We just barely get to the bathroom in time. He fumbles with the toilet lid, almost not getting it open soon enough. Everything he's eaten tonight has just made a surprise appearance. Fortunately, it all lands where it should. It doesn't take long for the whole room to start smelling like vomit. He struggles to push down the handle, so I go over and flush it for him.

"I'm gonna go get you some water," I say, getting up from my kneeling position on the floor.

"No, just one more beer, he replies. His words are practically unintelligible.

"I'm going to get some water," I repeat. He's too preoccupied with keeping the contents of his stomach within the porcelain throne to reply, so I slip out the door and shut it behind me. When I come back, he's passed out in a heap. There's a big dark stain on the front of his pants.

"Oh, for the love of Jesus," I say under my breath. I set the water sown on the counter and leave the room again, heading for Mitch's suitcase. I grab a pair of pajama pants and a new pair of boxers, also swiping his pillow and sheet. He's still out cold when I get back. I pray for just five more minutes of unconsciousness as I unbutton his jeans and slide them off.

Just to clarify, I was not trying to take advantage of a drunk and blacked-out Mitch. I was just trying to get him out of the pants that he'd just pissed. I try to think like a doctor, see the body from a medical standpoint, as I slip off his damp and smelly boxers. I grab the new pair and pull them on as quickly as possible. He stirs a little bit as I ease the elastic around his hips, but doesn't wake up. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding as I yank on the new pants. I don't bother trying to put his shirt back on. Too much effort. I lift his head up gently and lay the pillow underneath. I cover him with the sheet, then head downstairs to grab my own pillow. I grab my blanket from the floor next to my side of the bed then return to the upstairs bathroom. Before lying down, I wet a washcloth and gently wipe his face with it. His eyes open slightly.

"Mmm, Ashley, that feels nice," he says, half-awake.

"I'm not Ashley, Mitch," I say quietly. I set the washcloth on the counter and get out my iPod. I open up the voice memo app and press record as he replies.

"I know," he says. "You're not as pretty. Or nice. Or pretty."

I freeze.

` "That's not very nice," I say. That's an understatement. The words cut into me more than they should. I remind myself that he's drunk, his judgment is impaired, he won't remember this later.

"It's true," he says. He sounds like a little kid.

"Well, I'm sorry, Mitch. I'm not Ashley. I will never be Ashley." I can feel the hurt creeping into my voice. Stop it, Lily, I think. He's just drunk.

Right?

-END OF PART ONE-