The first thing I remember after walking out the ER’s sliding glass doors is catching a ride with a woman on a motorcycle. She took me to The Deuce Longue, on The Strip, where I saw coverage of the Love Inc. fire on the news, got pissed off, and hit the bartender in the face. I don’t remember any of that, but I have the police report. Apparently I told the cops I wasn’t sure if I was really Marchant Radcliffe.

They asked me for ID, and I said I wanted a ride to the local morgue, because I was no one. They decided to take me to the hospital. When I arrived, I got a shot of sedatives and told someone to call Rachelle so she could verify that Love Inc. had not burned. Rachelle called Dr. Libby. We talked for a while, and I told her I stopped taking my Lithium weeks ago. March 15, to be exact. I woke up feeling like shit and I flushed it down the toilet. She understands why. She knows what that date means to me.

I stayed inpatient for five days, long enough to try ECT twice and decided I didn’t like it enough to try it a third time. Long enough to get my medicine figured out and get me within a few days of Dr. Libby’s return. Long enough to remember bits and pieces of what I can only assume was a fantasy.

I remember a mole on her belly. Does she really have a mole there?

I shouldn’t open the door now, but I do. It’s like fucking magic: Suri Dalton, flesh and blood, sharing air with me. She looks me over, head to toes, and frowns.

“Marchant…hi. I—” Her voice lilts a little and she blinks a few times. “I was here, looking for my grandmother’s ring, which I didn’t find, and I wanted to stop by and…bring you this.” She holds a sheet of paper in front of my face. I read it once, then twice, so it sinks into my sluggish brain. “Speedy and painless…” I give her a tiny smile. “I’d drink to that.” Except, of course, I’m back on the wagon.

She looks me over again. “How are you? You seem…tired.”

I rub my eyes. “Yeah. Long day.” I don’t know what else to say. Hi, I had ECT less than twenty-four hours ago and I can barely remember my middle name. Apparently sex with you was a key part of my psychotic delusion.

I take the note. “Thanks.” I let my eyes meet hers. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Lucky guess.” She smiles, and it’s so perfect I can feel an ache through the thick cloak of my medicine. I tap my fingers on my leg, and suddenly I feel illuminated. Like the blood is pumping through my body again. Like I’m alive. It takes me a moment to adjust, and when I do, I can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Hunter wants to hear from you.” Suri’s thin brows scrunch a little. “He’s worried.”

I hold out my arms. “Still kicking.” Except I realize there are track marks on the inside of my elbows. And I’m probably giving her a good look at my tattoo. Fuck.

I scrub my hand back through my hair. “I’m fine,” I tell her. I look down at a bowl on a table in my foyer. My housekeeper, Mrs. Everett, likes to fill it with Starburst—my favorite candy. I pluck out a red one and eat the damn thing in front of her. I don’t know why. I’m nervous maybe.

“You doing okay?” I ask after I swallow.

“Can’t complain.” She runs her palm over her hair. “I’m flying back to Napa tomorrow.”

I want her to stay, but that’s delusional. Irrational. I have a hazy memory of something unpleasant going on between us in the hospital in El Paso when I was manic Marchant. I bet I was an asshole.

I force a smile. “I hope you have a good flight.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like there’s something else that I should say to her, but I can’t think of it. They told me this was normal after ECT—memory problems; particularly problems with short-term memory. And for all that I hated the anesthesia IV and I hate the way it makes me feel like my insides were scooped out and there’s nothing in me now, I’m not manic anymore.

I look down at my feet and then back up at her. I say the only thing I can think of: “It was nice meeting you. You’re a nice person.”

“Thanks,” she says, frowning.

And I want her to go now. I want her to go because I want to kiss her, and I don’t like feeling out of control the way I do now that I am breathing her perfume.

She takes a small step back, and the vice around my throat loosens a little. And then her eyes widen. “Would it be okay if I used your bathroom? I’m so sorry to ask.”

I can’t tell her no, so I open the door a little wider and she comes inside.

* * *

SURI

He looks uncomfortable. Unhappy. I remember how he hasn’t been returning anyone’s calls and how strung out he acted on the plane. I remember when I asked if he was okay that night at the hotel and he told me not to. Clearly, he’s got…stuff. And I bet he wants to keep it private. So it’s not surprising that he doesn’t want me in his house. I wish I hadn’t had to ask, but I’m a long way from the nearest gas station, and I chugged a big bottle of water on the way over here. Nerves, I guess.

He points me down a darkish hallway with stone floor and cream walls dotted with framed photos. I notice college-aged Hunter in a few of them, with college-aged Marchant.

“First door on the right,” he calls behind me, and I wonder in what state I’ll find the bathroom.

The bathroom door is tall and heavy—cherry wood with a crystal doorknob—and the half bath I step into is done in warm sage and cream, with a simple pedestal sink, an ordinary-looking toilet, a plush brown rug, and a rough woven basket that holds magazines. I lean over the magazine basket, expecting Playboy or Hustler, and I’m stunned to see The New Yorker and Scientific American. I glance up at the frame above the towel rack and am surprised to find myself staring down a Jack Kerouac quote.

“Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain’t this and that at all?”

I make a surprised face at myself in the mirror over the sink and glance once at the door before sitting down to do my business. I get up quickly, wash my hands, and dry them on a small brown towel monogrammed with an “M.”

As I blink into the mirror, I remember the lines of his beautiful torso—the mouth-watering body that’s standing right down the hall. The way his weight felt against me on the bed. The way his mouth felt on my neck. The way his cock felt inside of me. And I can feel myself react.

This has never happened before. Ever—except that evening when I first met him in the Wynn.

I look into the mirror and my cheeks are pink. Pink like it’s snowing outside and I have windburn. Pink like too long on the upper deck of a ship on a sunny day.

Before I leave the bathroom, I tell myself to calm down. He seems tired and kind of quiet today. Clearly, not in the mood for a repeat.

I wonder if he really went to rehab. He certainly seems more…settled somehow, now.

I take one more look at the framed quote on the wall and step back into the hall. My mind is spinning. The best thing to do would be to run—not walk—back to my rented Jeep and rely on my team of jewelry-finders to find Gran Gran’s ring.

I’m glad I came and saw him, glad I wished him well, but I lose my head around this man. I’m losing it more now that I know he likes Kerouac.

Real pimps don’t read good literature—do they?

I hurry down the hall and find him leaning against the wall at the mouth of the living area with his arms crossed. I can see the tattoo on his side, the mysterious date I remember from before.

He looks me over. His eyes are intense and slightly heavy. I can feel his attention on me like a laser, making me squirm.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.

“Favorite color?”

He holds up a basket filled with Starbursts.

“Oh. I like the pinks.”

“Good choice.” He picks three pinks out and offers them too me. “For the road,” he says.

“Thank you.” That reminds me of the Kerouac quote.

I let my eyes have their way with his bare chest once more, willing him to respond. Willing him to take me to his bedroom. When nothing happens, I give up. I’m proud of myself for having the nerve to come out here, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I take a step toward the door, and he moves with me. His eyes look a little brighter now; his body seems a little tenser.

“I like the reds,” he says, “I’m an addict.”

I’m not sure what to say to him. I’m almost to the door, but how do I say bye? I’m flipping through my list of possibilities when I feel his hand on my shoulder.

I turn toward him, struck again by how flipping hot he is without his shirt. Skin so smooth…every muscle flawless. And his eyes—those gorgeous brown eyes are honed on me.

“I…uh. I feel like I should be saying thank you for something. Something big. But I can’t remember what it is. I don’t…I can’t remember much about the last week and a half. Fucking weird, I know.” He moves his hand off my shoulder rubs his head.

“You remember the night of the fire, don’t you? The um…pool and everything?”

His face goes white. He blinks a few times. “I had forgotten that you pulled me out.” His voice sounds low and very deep. His shoulders are visibly tense. I think he may be embarrassed.

Clearly, this confirms he has a drug problem.

“You don’t have to say thank you. I would do it again in a heartbeat. I’m just happy I was there.”

“Well anyway—thank you.”

He turns around and grabs the basket. “Stay and let me pick out all the pinks?”

I’m surprised to feel my cheeks go hot. The way he’s looking at me today…it’s almost…sweet. Strangely, it makes him seem even hotter. I wonder briefly if his asshole moments were all because of drugs. If he doesn’t remember the pool, does that mean he also forgot our night together? That would really suck.