boston {h.s.}

vingt-deux.

"GOOD MORNING, BABE," Asher's voice is warm honey on the other end of the phone. Sweet and soothing, I should have known that he would already be awake and chipper at this early hour. Neither Harry nor myself had shut the blinds last night. Morning sunlight filled my bedroom and woke me up earlier than I had cared for. Certainly after the activities of last night had left my body feeling exceptionally depleted. "I'm heading out in about an hour. Can I grab you anything on the way?" There's some shuffling on his end of the phone, like he's packing up the last of his things before he heads out. Something about the mental image that I associate with that is exceptionally sweet.

I purse my lips.

Tears prick at my eyes as I stare at myself in the mirror. Really stare at myself. My entire body looks both used and abused. Dried cum sits between my legs, my breath is offensive, and my hair hasn't looked this ugly since I was a little girl who didn't know how to style it. I'm covered—covered—in questionable bruises. Bite marks linger across my body, there's a hickey on my left breast, and bruises all over the skin of my hips. Both of my legs are sore and walking from my bedroom to the bathroom had taken me ten minutes with my hand groping along the wall for support. Nothing about this situation is okay. Last night, I'd been careless. Damn it felt good to be careless but today I have to own up to the realities of what I've done last night.

Shame. White hot shame courses over my body the longer that I look at myself; the woman that I don't recognize. Margeaux Beauchamp would never do this to the man that she loves. She would never cheat on him. Last night felt like the first time that I had done something truly wrong. The first time, we'd both been drunk. The second time, he'd caught me by surprise in a public restaurant, and the third time I rationalized that it was only phone sex. Rationalizations became instinctive, my brain working overtime for the turnaround between instance and explanation.

But last night had been different.

Last night I had been the one to make the move. I had been the one to invite him here and I had been the one to consciously plan out the way that I would cheat on my boyfriend. I had crafted a plan in which I could finesse both men, thinking not at all about myself. "Asher," I whimper, my voice coming through squeaky and broken.

"Margeaux, what's wrong?" Immediately he is on high alert. The shuffling on his end stops and I can tell that I have his full attention. Somehow, that makes things worse.

"I have to cancel," I'm blubbering, the words tripping out of me. Subconsciously I am aware that for this weekend, I chose Harry. I made plans with the man that I am cheating on my serious boyfriend with prior to the plans that I made with my serious boyfriend. I let my man on the side hit me, spit on me, fuck me, and... God, whatever else. All the while my boyfriend was at home counting down the hours until we would reunite. Sick doesn't begin to explain it; both the extent of my actions and the way that I feel now. "I'm so sorry. I'm sick." Not far from the truth. Just a triple entendre, as it turns out.

"Are you okay?" Concern is evident in his voice. "I'll come and bring you some soup and we can watch movies and—"

"No, no," I shake my head immediately, even though he can't see me. I can't let him see me like this. I can't let him see the scratches over my body and the marks that claim me as someone else's. I can't let him know that I had been unfaithful. Last night I'd been consumed with a new man; a man who is not my own. A man who belongs to someone else. I mistook and confused great sex with a meaningful connection. What I have with Asher ticks all of my boxes. He's kind, he knows what I do, he's smart, he's good with kids, he loves me, and we have good sex. Until I had met Harry, I would have said that we had great sex. Now saying such feels like a disservice and unkindness to what I had shared with Harry last night.