Getting him into the apartment was a wrestling match. Nancy was sweating by the time she dumped him onto the king-sized bed.
She knelt to take off his shoes. Her stomach still ached where she had hit the table, a dull, throbbing reminder of the night's chaos.
She stood up to leave, to get water, to escape.
Julian's hand shot out. He grabbed her wrist.
"Don't," he rasped.
He pulled. Nancy lost her balance. She fell onto the mattress, landing beside him.
He rolled over, pinning her. His body was heavy, hot. He smelled of vodka and rain.
He stared down at her. His eyes were open, glassy but intense.
"You're here," he whispered.
"I'm here," Nancy said, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was terrified he would hurt the baby, but she was also paralyzed by his proximity.
He buried his face in her neck. He inhaled deeply.
"You smell like... home," he mumbled. "Don't be like her. Don't leave."
He was confusing her with Fiona. He had to be.
"Julian, you're drunk."
"No," he groaned. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His leg tangled with hers.
For a moment, Nancy let herself sink into it. The warmth. The weight. This was what she had wanted for three years. To be held.
Then, a sound cut through the room.
Ring. Ring.
It was a specific ringtone. A harp melody. Fiona.
Julian stiffened. His hand fumbled for his pocket.
Nancy reached it first. She pulled the phone out. The screen lit up the dark room: Fiona Q.
She pressed answer. She didn't speak. She held the phone out.
"Julian?" Fiona's voice was sugary sweet, dripping with fake vulnerability. "Are you awake? My legs hurt so bad. The storm makes it worse. Can you come rub them?"
Julian froze. He looked at the phone. Then he looked at Nancy.
He saw the exhaustion in Nancy's eyes. He saw the wet hair. He felt her body beneath his.
Something shifted in his drunken haze. A flash of clarity.
He reached out. He took the phone from Nancy's hand.
And he pressed the red button. End call.
He tossed the phone onto the floor.
Nancy stared at him, shocked. "You hung up on her."
"I'm tired," Julian muttered. He rolled off her, collapsing onto his back. "Just... turn off the light."
Nancy lay there for a minute, listening to his breathing even out into sleep.
She got up and went to the guest room. She didn't sleep.
The next morning, she woke up scratching.
She went to the mirror and gasped.
The concealer had worn off. The allergic reaction had rebounded with a vengeance. Her neck, chest, and arms were covered in angry, red, raised welts. Her face was swollen.
The door opened.
Julian stood there, holding a cup of coffee. He looked hungover, but when he saw her, the coffee cup rattled in the saucer.
"My God," he said. He crossed the room in two strides. "Nancy? Your face."
"It's nothing," she said, turning away.
He grabbed her arm, spinning her around. "This isn't nothing. You're breaking out."
He pulled out his phone.
"I'm calling Dr. Walker. Now."
