Eileen covered her mouth with her hand and turned her gaze back to the bright white ceiling above them. What had happened last night? What had they done? Eileen pulled her hand from her mouth and placed it between her legs to see if there was some horrifying and irrefutable clue as to what happened and why she ended up in bed with her sister’s husband. There was nothing so obvious as a used condom down there. She was wearing underwear, not her pajama pants, and had on the same T-shirt from last night—no bra. She forced her brain to focus on anything she could remember—the beach, wine, Clare’s study, sitting on the couch and talking about when Simon first met Clare. A slick swell of shame rolled in and settled in Eileen’s gut.

Sometime later in the night, after they had finished the second bottle and maybe there had even been a third, she had a memory of Simon holding her. They were both crying, both drunk; Simon opened his arms and she had fallen into them.

He kissed her. On the top of her head at first, and then she had lifted her face to his—shit, shit, shit. What the hell was wrong with her?

Eileen shifted the white sheet and duvet off her and slid her legs over the edge of the mattress, willing the bed to not move or make a sound. Please, God, do not let him wake up. She simply could not deal with looking her sister’s husband in the eye while they were both still half naked in the same bed. Thankfully, this was not her bed at home, the eighteen-year-old, sagging sack of squeaking springs on a rickety metal bed frame that shifted and shimmied any time she or Eric took a deep breath or rolled over. No, her sister had only the best. Eileen’s bare feet met the rug, and she transitioned out of the bed without a single tremor to announce her departure. She collected the pants she’d worn yesterday and her bra from the floor and clutched them to her stomach as she dared to turn and face Simon’s still-sleeping and slack expression. God, what had they done?

Eileen backed toward the door, trying not to imagine Simon’s eyes flying open at any moment and catching her awkward, shame-riddled escape, but stopped dead.

Strewn across the floor at the end of the bed, there were the large photos of her husband and Lauren Andrews and the note from Dave threatening Eric. Eileen held her breath—why were these out? She glanced again at Simon, still sound asleep, before kneeling down and raking together the pictures as quickly and quietly as she could, scooping them up into her pants and bra bundle. She grabbed her phone off the dresser and backed out of the bedroom, careful to close the door so the latch wouldn’t click.