“Of course not, but those things don’t negate the fact that he got me through that period.” Michael turns to me. “I’m not making excuses for him or trying to paint him as a decent guy. To be honest, I need to remember those good times because if someone like him comes along again, I’m afraid of not seeing the red flags because, hey, he’s such a nice guy.”
I shudder at the thought, and take his hand. “Another guy like him comes along, he’ll have to get past me. Assuming there’s anything left after Ian gets his hands on him.”
Michael smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, you’ll see it before I did. You saw it with Steve.” He pauses. “When did you see it?”
Now it’s my turn to stare up at the ceiling. It’s hard to imagine there was ever a time when I didn’t wish a fiery death on that man, but as sickening as it is to look back on it now, there was. Finding the dividing line, that moment when I began to see him for what he was, isn’t so difficult now, because there are few things in my life I remember more clearly.
I clear my throat. “Your sister’s wedding.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’d started getting a weird vibe off him for a while. Ian and I both felt a little ‘off’ about him, but couldn’t put our finger on why. That night…” I shift my gaze toward him. “You’d been acting really strange the last few times I’d seen you.” I cringe at my own stupidity. “I thought you were just exhausted from school. It was getting close to finals, and it didn’t even occur to me that there was something else going on. And he was kind of short with you whenever I saw you guys together, but… I don’t know, I guess I didn’t see it, or I didn’t want to see it.” I lick my dry lips. “But that night…”
Michael fidgets beside me. “What was it that tipped you off?”
Nausea creeps up my throat at the memory. “When you spilled your wine on him at the reception.”
He shudders hard. I lace my fingers between his and squeeze gently.
That moment plays through my mind like it’s being projected right onto the bedroom ceiling above us. We’d all been having a great time at the reception, even if Michael had been exhausted from—I thought—studying nonstop and his boyfriend had been a little irritable. Michael had just topped off his red wine, and he and Steve had exchanged a few terse words about it. What Steve’s problem was, I’ll never know. Unlike that jerk, Michael’s never been a problem drinker, and if he gets drunk, he gets giggly. He isn’t even loud. He just thinks everything is funny—Michael drunk is like me stoned, and I’ve always thought it was pretty cute.
He wasn’t silly or giggly that night. I’m not even sure how much he’d had by that point, but he was still steady on his feet.
His aunt, however, couldn’t hold her liquor or walk in high heels. While Michael and Steve stood with Ian and me, she went tottering past, stumbled and crashed into Ian. He and Michael instinctively tried to stop her from falling, and they succeeded, but Michael’s wineglass went tumbling out of his hand, bounced off Steve’s arm and splashed across his shirt.
And Michael went white.
Ian helped the drunk aunt to her feet, but Michael’s gaze stayed fixed on Steve, and something in the pit of my stomach had turned to ice as Steve’s narrow eyes slid toward Michael.
I’d seen Michael scared before. I’d seen him nervous before plays, terrified before he came out to his parents, shaking as he waited to find out if a knee injury had ended his baseball career. The way he was looking at Steve, shrinking back and pale—I’d never seen him like that before.
Oh God, I remember thinking. What the hell is going on?
For the rest of the night, I’d tried to get Michael alone for a minute or two, but Steve was on him like the wine on his shirt. Then I turned around and they were gone, and Michael’s mother said they’d taken off because Steve wasn’t feeling well. It was two days before I heard from Michael again, and he insisted everything was fine.
“You don’t have to answer this,” I say cautiously, “But what happened that night? After you guys left?”
Michael rubs his hand over his face, and I can’t remember when he started trembling. “After we left, he managed to make me feel two inches tall because of a spilled glass of wine, and…” He squirms uncomfortably. “Remember when I said I encouraged him to drink because drunk and violent was better than the alternative?”
A sick feeling coils in my stomach, and I nod.
“He was designated driver that night. It was the first time he ever got violent with me without the booze.” Michael closes his eyes and shudders. “And of course, after he’d calmed down, he was still sober enough for makeup sex.”
The sick feeling lurches upward, and I force it back down. “Was that make-up sex consensual?”
Michael swallows, and when he speaks, he’s barely whispering: “Not with three cracked ribs, it wasn’t.”
My jaw falls open. “Holy shit.”
He shakes himself and clears his throat. “I mean, technically I consented, but only because in that kind of pain, giving in hurt less—physically—than trying to fight him off.”