DIGEST: Devil In The Waters, Dreamscape (complete) (Patreon)

All right, everybody, here is the completed first chapter of Devil In The Waters...

The dream began as though he were waking . . . 

* * *

The coarse whisking of the tent’s zipper roused Josh from a shallow, painful sleep. Dawning blue-gray light assaulted his eyeballs with the intense zap of high-beam flashlights. He winced and hissed, brain exploding with sharp stabbing pain. His neck throbbed, his brain throbbed, his back was sore.

While he was bewildered, there was a strange sense of place. The tent’s zipper gave it away; the awful sleep; the cold; the damp . . . He lay on a thin camping sheet, inside a sleeping bag that was zipped down to his knees, early morning chill stinging his hot, sweaty skin . . . 

Now the tent was jostling, the nylon tapping and dancing as someone came in. He reached instinctively for Kimmy, aware of a large shape looming over top of them that made him think of a grizzly bear.

“Kimmy, Kimmy,” he hissed, hand snatching outward trying to grab at his wife. She wasn’t there. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked now to see that large shape crouched at the tent’s door and zipping it closed again with a sharp, quick tug.

“What the hell?”

The figure turned, scooting down and squatting, taking Kimmy’s spot next to him. He blinked, clutched at his temples to push away the throbbing pain, trying to make sense of this.

The figure wasn’t a bear, but a man. Familiar yet unfamiliar, distant yet right here in front of him . . . His brain flexed and twisted trying to make sense. As the man’s features came into focus, things began to fit into place. Devin Stone. Dalton High. Class of ’09. Football. Lacrosse. Six-foot-two. Handsome as shit. Bully. “Stone?”

The figure said, “Waters, it’s done. Holy shit . . . ”

He worked up onto an elbow, pain shooting up his collar. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Holy shit, Waters, you were not fucking kidding . . . ”

“Kidding about . . . ? What’s happening?”

Stone frowned, brow working low, focusing on sleepy Josh, making him feel small and transported back to the frightening halls of Dalton High. It was one small piece of a larger puzzle. Now he began to comprehend the hazy periphery of this dreamy story. On waking he’d thought he was camping with Kimmy. He wasn’t. A reunion . . . A high school reunion. The ten-year reunion. Everyone gathering after the party in the gymnasium at Dalton for a weekend bash at Tiffany Hanson’s lakeside cottage. Bring your tents, bring your own booze! And he’d had a lot of booze, hadn’t he? His stomach was at once held in a vice and simultaneously a luscious, squirming thing. Acid burned, things rolled over inside him. He wanted to barf, burped instead, tasted bourbon.

“God,” he said, “holy shit, what time is it?”

Stone said, “It’s almost five. Oh, wow, dude,” then ran a big hand through his head of thick black shining hair, “that was close. I almost got caught . . . although . . . ”

“Caught what?”

“It was cold out here, we went inside but we got caught in the can . . . ”

“What does that mean: caught in the can?” Nothing made sense right now . . . 

“The bathroom, Kimmy’s friend caught us, what’s that one . . . I don’t remember her name . . . ”

“Who . . . ? Caught what?”

“Dude. What we talked about . . . It’s done.”

Josh nodded, afraid to irritate Devin by still straying behind. Best to agree and wait for the storm clouds to blow over. “Oh, okay . . . ”

Devin scowled, but seemed amused, which was a relief. “You’re not getting it, bro . . . ” Now he shook his head and chuckled, “Holy shit, Waters, I’m so glad I sat down and talked to you last night . . . ”

“What do you mean?”

“Waters, man, wake up,” Stone laughed. “You want to hear about it or not?”

“Yes, I want to hear about it—hear about what?”

Stone studied him, a puzzled look on his face. He was an arrogant asshole, never a friend of Josh’s. Through the early part of high school and public school Devin’d been a bully. There were a lot of times where he’d made Josh’s life miserable. There was even a time when Josh’s own mom and dad marched him down to the Stone household to tell Devin’s father what his son was up to. Only Papa Stone didn’t care. Smug asshole. When he and his parents went home that night his mom broke a glass in the sink she was so mad. “Fucking prick,” she’d called Devin’s father, and Mom never swore. That was Papa Stone. Young Devin Stone had always been on the path to full Fucking Prick status.

Devin said, “Are you kidding me?”

“Kidding about what?”

“Dude, right out there,” he said pointing at the closed door of the tent, “that picnic table right up back of your SUV. You and me last night, God, I don’t know, one in the morning . . . ?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, not really remembering, but not wanting to infuriate big Stone. Even at twenty-eight years old now, the guy packed a whack more solid muscle than he had in high school. He had a big frame, large hands, square jaw . . . 

“Well, it’s done.”

“Good,” he said.

Devin tilted his head like he would look out the tent’s door though it was zipped closed. The muscles in his stubbly jaw flexed as he smiled. “She’s still inside, but I’m telling you—we might have got busted.”

“What do you mean busted?”

“Got caught.”

He nodded but the act of moving his head too fast got him swooning with sudden seasickness. He burped, said, “Who’s inside?”

“Kimmy . . . what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Oh yeah, okay,” he said, “Kimmy’s inside.”

Devin scowled at him. “How much did you drink last night?”

“I don’t even remember.”

“We would’ve gone again—fuck, a whole bunch of times—but she shooed me out of there because there were people up in the kitchen.”

“Shooed you out of where?”

“We went in that bathroom, the one on the main floor just past the family room . . . ”

“Who . . . you and Kimmy?”

Devin shook his head. “You really don’t remember?”

“No . . . maybe . . . ”

“Out on the picnic table,” Devin said, scooting a little closer so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice, “You and I had a talk . . . ”

“What did we talk about?”

Stone moved closer so he could whisper and be heard. Josh could see the cold blue steel of Stone’s eyes. He smelled like sweat and something else . . . Devin said, “You told me your fantasy about Kimmy having sex with another man . . . ”

* * *

Josh’s eyes narrowed in incredulous challenge. “I did not.”

“Don’t pull this now,” Devin said, plucking at the sleeping mat he lay on. “I knew you would do this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Last night you told me about your fantasy Kimmy would have sex with another guy, and I joked I always had a fantasy of being with Kimmy ever since high school. You told me to do it, you told me you wanted me to do it.”

His heart began to pound in his chest; his neck swelled with pulsing blood. As it hit his brain and temples, it felt like his head exploded. He winced, lurched forward, held his stomach. Everything in him wanted to come right back out again. He was still drunk, still full of whiskey . . . that had to be it, because there was no way this was real. This had to be a hallucination.

“No . . . I didn’t . . . That’s impossible . . . ”

“You did. You told me to, and I thought you were kidding at first, but you were so serious. I mean, the idea isn’t that crazy . . . Once you crashed, I laid it on your wife and, Josh, she was an eager little bunny rabbit . . . ”

Josh frowned and moaned, wanted to fight back and knew what he was hearing was ridiculous. Devin taunting him was nothing new, but this crossed a line. You could taunt him—the man—but Devin’s reference to his wife was off limits. Try as he might to formulate a response, instead Josh’s cheeks hollowed, his lips pursed, and he faced a strong interior desire to hurl. He closed his eyes; still felt spinning.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, Josh, I’m still rock hard right now. If there weren’t so many people around, I would be in there going round three . . . ”

His voice was a tight squeeze as his insides clenched: “Round three?”

“Kimmy can really go. Makes me wish I’d fucked her in high school . . . ”

“No way,” Josh said, leaning back, putting his hand over his heart, feeling its ridiculously high rate.

“I am like a fucking crowbar right now,” Devin said, rubbing the top of his head and raking back his thick shock of black hair. “Shit, maybe we should get out of here, go get breakfast somewhere and I’ll take her into the bathroom . . . ”

“No, no, no, no,” Josh muttered, head nodding forward as his eyes closed, his mind reeling with disbelief at the absurdity of what was happening and what he was hearing. “What are you . . . why are you even saying this?”

Devin grunted. “Look at this,” he said and when Josh opened his eyes, Stone’s steely gaze was locked on his, chin nudging downward indicating for him to look. His eyes moved down Stone’s masculine chest, the man’s muscle stretching out a plain black T-shirt. A thumb hooked in the front of his sweatpants shorts, pulling them outward; Devin wore no underwear, and from a nest of thick black pubic hair his huge tree trunk of an erection protruded. It was massive, twice as long as Josh’s, and thick as a woman’s wrist. It was a darker brown color than Devin’s already tanned skin, and the foreskin retracted over a shining purple-gray helmet the size and shape of a ripe plum. “Josh,” he said, “your wife is so tight.”

A small groan creaked in his throat; lightning flashes shimmered in the corners of his vision. The urge to retch came in again like a wave, washing up the back of his throat like sea water on a nighttime beach. He swallowed, blinked, shook his head and narrowed his eyes on that awful part of Devin Stone being revealed to him. The whole thing farcical yet not unfamiliar. It was unreal that a man was in his tent showing him his erection, but simultaneously this was not his first time seeing Devin’s penis. All through school Devin Stone took great glee in swanking his endowment around to all the other boys, and enjoyed in ribald comparison of his size to any poor shower-goer caught peeking at his extra-large penis or accidentally making eye contact. Or sometimes only because he was a cruel asshole.

Josh closed his eyes and turned his head away. Stone persisted. “Feel it,” he said.

Eyes still closed, Josh scoffed, grunted, “What—why?”

“Feel how hard it is, Josh.”

“Just get out of here,” he moaned, his head nodding, his mind softly riding imaginary waves that lurched his stomach, Devin just a voice in his head.

“Come on, little Joshy, put your hand on it. I have a reason.”

“Mm, I’m not doing that . . . ”

“Give me your hand,” the gravelly voice said. Stone’s large strong hand closed on his wrist, guiding him lower. From a lifetime of acquiescence, Josh allowed himself to be manipulated; and soon his fingers closed mid-shaft around Devin Stone’s massive erection. It was hot and gummy in the middle, the girth surprising his grip. He shut his eyes tighter, and complained in his throat.

Devin said, “Kimmy makes me so hard, Josh . . . I wish there weren’t so many of her friends creeping around the house.”

He loosened his grip, moved to pull his hand away, but Stone still held him in place by the wrist. Josh said, “Are you kidding me?”

“No, why would I be kidding you?”

Josh opened his eyes in thin slits, saw Stone leering close. He whispered, “Did you have sex with my wife?”

Stone waited a moment, drawing in an easy breath then exhaling. “You told me to, Josh.”

“You really didn’t have sex with her, did you?” His voice was high and pleading, thin with disbelief.

Devin smiled. “Here,” he said, “smell your hand,” guiding Josh’s wrist back up to his face. Josh recoiled, groaned and closed his eyes, but Devin pushed the hand closer. He submitted, opening his hand and smelling the palm.

“You smell pussy? That’s Kimmy’s pussy, right?—you recognize it . . . ”

Now he didn’t want to smell it, recoiling further, collapsing onto his back, his head missing the pillow and knocking into the thin camping sheet over hard ground. It was enough to send him over the edge. Brand new pain oscillated through his body in radiating waves from the crown of his skull. His stomach tightened and he tasted bile in his throat. But in his nose was the smell of sex. Whether or not it was his wife’s insides was indecipherable; it was just the funky body-smell of sex—and it was impossible that Kimmy had sex with Devin Stone. A strange hot stone of jealous rage and hurt throbbed in his heart now, his tormentor’s lies getting in his head and working their magic.

Near his ear, he could hear Devin’s whisper: “I got balls deep in her, Josh. Balls deep. You should have heard her—bet she never made a sound like that before . . . ”

“Go . . . jus’ get out . . . fuck outta here . . . ” His weak voice slid out on an exhale, and his hand faffed outward to push Devin away—but careful not to be forceful as any force would be met with double in return, those were long-established rules.

But his hand met nothing, only air next to him. He made a soft crying sound as his temples boomed with throbbing ache. One eye squinted open. Devin was still there, up on his knees now, unzipping the tent’s door, the front of his shorts humped out by his massive erection, muscles in his arms bulging as he worked the zip, then peeked out into the dawn. He glanced Josh’s way, smiling.

Josh said, “I don’t believe you.”

Devin shrugged, unaffected, unconcerned with convincing. He said, “You made a deal with the devil last night.”

“I didn’t make a deal with you.”

“You did, my friend. We have a contract, and it’s open ended.”

“We don’t have any contract, Devin, just tell me you didn’t, it’s just crazy, okay . . . ”

“I did what you wanted, Josh. I’m going to do it again.”

“I don’t want that . . . ”

“Kimmy wants it, believe me. Like I said, if there weren’t her friends around the house right now I’d have her knees up over my shoulders, dumping in her guts. She begged me to come inside her.”

That was the real crossing of a line, and for the first time he was roused to angry action. But his body was pinned to the earth, his eyes fading closed even while his heart burned with rage. He said, “That’s not fucking funny—that’s not fucking funny, you asshole . . . ” There was no way she could’ve asked for that. This was taunting; this was bullying. And Stone didn’t know how low he’d gone.

"Kimmy’s a dirty little slut, Josh. Your wife’s a dirty girl . . . ”

“Get out of here,” he hissed, the force making his ears ring.

“This is your fantasy, Josh, you started it.”

“You didn’t really do it. Kimmy didn’t do it. You’re just an asshole.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Waters,” Devin said, getting up on his knees now, poking his head to the outside and looking around. He ducked back in. “Kimmy says you’re out in Ajax now.”

“So . . . ?”

“I get through there at least three times a month.”

“So . . . ?”

“So I’ll be seeing you.” With that, the door was zipped wide open again and brighter dawn light filled the tent and made him squint his eyes shut. He held up a hand to block the light and watched through narrowed eyes as Stone climbed through the gap, turned around, winked, zipped the tent door shut.

As he heard the man’s footsteps passing through the grass, his head sought the softness of his pillow. He rolled to his side and begged for this all to be an awful nightmare.

* * *

Mind shut off, and laying on his back, the hard and painful throb of his heart lulled him to a distant place near sleep. He dozed, set himself adrift paddling with the hope that this was all an illusion.

When he opened his eyes again, the pain had lessened. The day was brighter beyond the tent’s nylon, and there was the sound of voices outside now. He snorted, sat upright, grabbed at his neck again as fresh pain poked behind his eyes. First thing he did was look to where Kimmy should lay. The spot was still empty and it pinged in his head immediately that truth worked against his hope his dream was really just that: a dream.

Now he fell forward onto both elbows, examined with one squinted eye where he’d imagined Devin had been. Kimmy’s sleeping bag was disturbed, but there was no obvious sign that jolted a recall to prove Devin had ever been there. What was he looking for anyway?

“Ah, fuck,” he groaned, rubbed his face with one clawed hand. His breaths came hot and labored, his head throbbed. People were talking near the tent, but far enough he couldn’t make out what they said. Someone laughed; further away, a guy shouted out for someone’s attention. Face buried in his hands, he lingered, breathing through his fingers, gathering the strength to rise.

It had all been a dream. It just had to be. One: he wouldn’t ask Devin to sleep with his wife. What the fuck was that? Why would his brain conjure that story? Solely to torture himself, he figured. it was the stuff of nightmares. Devin and Kimmy together was a wildly frightening thought. Two: even if he’d asked Devin to sleep with Kimmy (seriously, get the fuck out of here with that shit), what dream-Devin had said would require Kimmy’s acquiescence. Not in a million years, sorry, Devin. Unless he forced himself on Kimmy, pinned her down and (good Lord) raped her, the things dream-Devin told him weren’t true. If dream-Devin turned out to be real, then real Devin only sought to fuck with old Josh like this was still high school. And that made sense; doing something like tricking a guy into believing he’d asked Devin to fuck his wife was right in Devin’s character. 

Now he let out a satisfying groan, scratching nails over the back of his head, getting his neck tingling. It was ridiculous, and now as he came more awake, the details of the dream began to grow foggy. Fucking weird though, dreaming of Devin coming in and saying all that shit, and even weirder, dreaming of Devin showing him his massive erection. What the hell was that all about? You could chalk it up to the high school reunion, he figured. Being in the old school halls and around those familiar faces conjuring up some of the more frightening ghosts of his past. And what was more striking than entering puberty, forced into naked shower proximity with bigger boys, seeing the bigger boys’s bigger sexual organs, and them capitalizing on the revelation of your slower development. And Devin was the epitome of the bully. And, yes, he had a big dick, fuck, everybody knew that—why he would dream of the guy hard like that was beyond him.

Bag unzipped, he slipped a leg out and the movement showed him he was worse off than he thought. His temples pounded anew, his eyes blossomed with faint white orbs; his stomach rolled over. “Oh fuck,” he sighed. He was still drunk too, he could feel it.

It was cold out of his sleeping bag, and he padded hands around, wincing and squinting, finding his sweatshirt and donning it. He pulled up the hood, located his jeans and put his legs in them, the whole while fighting with the queasy pounding effect of too much alcohol.

Now he was unzipping the tent, poking his head out into the morning. Campfire smoke hung heavy in the air. On his left a fog hovered on the flat surface of the lake. Morning was still and quiet except for the sound of a single songbird. Dotted in disarray around the campfire were overturned lawn chairs and empty beer bottles and Solo cups. There, behind his SUV, was the picnic table where dream-Devin had said the two of them chatted. Ridiculous. The two of them would never chat, even ten years removed from high school. And on that picnic table there were beer bottles and the bottle of whiskey he’d been drinking last night. It was empty. That was another truth . . . 

He broke from a crouch, tried to stand, ended up hunching over with his hands thrust in the pouch of his sweatshirt; he lurched up the grassy hill toward the log cottage that looked out over Birch Lake.

Lights shone in the kitchen, and he could see through the windows people were awake and moving. He checked his watch. It was seven now. Probably two hours since him and dream-Devin had their exchange in the tent. 

There were familiar faces strewn on the lawn, people with similar hangovers, proffering timid waves his way, some holding heads, some looking like they were going to heave their guts in the toilet if they could just make it into the house. Someone hadn’t even made it into the house or a tent. They lay on the grass, but some kind sole had put a pillow under their head and two blankets over top of them. 

He mounted the back deck steps, leaned on the barbecue for a moment looking into the house through the sliding glass doors. Devin Stone stood in there talking to Amy (another person he hadn’t seen since high school). Amy was telling Stone off about something. Arms folded across her chest, she scowled at him while he spoke. Stone’s back was to Josh so he couldn’t see his face, but he pictured it as smug and uncaring.

Once he had the strength, he heaved off the barbecue, made it to the back door and slid it open. There were girls on the other side of the kitchen he hadn’t seen because of the drapes—maybe a half dozen of them. Kimmy was one of them.

He was so glad to see her. But when she turned, she wasn’t glad to see him—or at least didn’t acknowledge seeing him. She was upset. Her black wavy hair hung heavy around her pretty face, her brow was lowered as if in a scold, but her eyes had the glassy shine of a person upset; on the verge of crying, or already having cried. Her face looked puffy, her meager makeup cleared from her face, just her natural beauty—as pinched as it was in a mask of vex. She still wore her oversized cotton cardigan—one with deer and moose in a broad stripe around the torso—belted around her waist; she was swimming in it. Her narrow shoulders barely peeped out from its broad shawl collar.

When their eyes met, pain went through Kimmy’s face, and her lips wriggled like she would cry. A girl she stood with registered Kimmy’s reaction and looked his way over her shoulder. Another girl moved to console Kimmy, putting an arm around her.

His heart made a funny sag, then committed to sinking. Was it possible Stone was real and he wasn’t lying?

He made the dozen steps past the kitchen table, put his elbows on the island, asked his wife, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

* * *

“Nothing,” the girl facing Kimmy said in a soothing tone, turning, putting up her placating hands, preventing him from coming around the island. “Nothing’s wrong, Josh, nothing’s wrong at all.”

He asked his wife anyway: “Kimmy, what’s wrong?”

The girls surrounded her protectively, and Kimmy’s voice came from behind them saying, “I’m fine, I’m fine . . . ” She’d dipped her head, now rubbed her brow with the heel of her hand.

One of the girls with Kimmy was her friend Karina. They’d stayed friends since high school, through college, and ever after. It was Karina’s stupid idea to go to the reunion, and even worse, it was her idea to come to Tiffany’s party, even though Kimmy expressed reservations. Karina was watching him, a look of worry on her face too, but when their eyes met, Karina mouthed: “It’s okay, Josh.”

He mouthed back: “Is it?” She nodded.

Karina and Kimmy shared the same set of freckled cheeks; Kimmy a Polish strawberry blonde with a short bob, Kimmy a half-Taiwanese beauty with a Betty Page. Two slender, well-behaved girls who cared for each other; Karina rubbed Kimmy’s shoulder while Kimmy still pressed hand-heel to forehead.

Josh turned, squinted against the light, watching Amy and Devin talking still, Devin casual, smug like he’d predicted, smiling. Amy still had important things to say, her posture showing some anger. Was this drama Devin related or was this coincidental? No one else in the house seemed engaged in Kimmy’s emotions, no one else seemed engaged in Devin and Amy’s kerfuffle. People lounged on couches, three girls (shit, women now, high school was a long time ago) sat in a circle on the floor cross-legged and going through their purses; Moe from the soccer team ate cereal from a bowl at the kitchen table. Most everyone oblivious to the living theater happening on two opposite sides of the house’s main floor. Devin and Kimmy could have two separate problems . . . 

Josh looked back to Karina, mouthed, “What’s going on?”

Karina shook her head, shrugged, turned up her nose. “Just girl stuff.”

He looked back to Stone again, now with his arms crossed, big hands tucked in arm pits, head cocked. Still smiling. Shit, he was wearing sweatpants, shorts, and a black T-shirt, just like dream-Devin. Had he worn that last night? No, he didn’t think so. That was what the guy wore to crash in at bed time, it looked. Had he seen Devin wearing that? He must have—if he didn’t, dream-Devin was real. More likely, he’d seen Devin wearing that outfit in his blackout drunk phase before he’d crashed in the tent (which he didn’t even remember doing).

An anger returned now, and Josh rubbed his face. If there was one guy on earth who deserved being taught a lesson it was Devin Stone. But who would teach it to him? Even though he was an adult now, it wouldn’t be Josh. Stone still dangled power over everyone’s head. He was taller, more muscular; physically there wasn’t anything Josh could do. Devin inherited a management position at Stone Custom Brokerage LLC (go figure, how did you get that job, Devin?), and made incredible money; what way was there to put him in his place? But if something had occurred here between Kimmy and Devin (not sex, Josh, come on already) and it was bad enough to upset Kimmy, shouldn’t he stand up to the bully? Wouldn’t he be compelled to march over there right now and confront the man? For Kimmy he would, despite the knowledge it wouldn’t go well. The fear of humiliation swelled up from somewhere inside him where it had hidden deep for the last ten years since high school. That nausea returned and he instantly knew he would soon throw up. His upper lip went sweaty, a prickly heat crawled his neck. Just the idea of going over to Devin had him wilting and his balls retracting. Bourbon reminded him helpfully how weakened he was: Don’t do it, Josh, for God’s sake, even if you were at your best it would be an awful task . . . He wiped his mouth, looked away from Devin and tried to push back the terrifying though of confronting his high school bully in front of all these former classmates.

Karina crossed to his side, leaned on the island’s counter, the two of them on their elbows facing each other. She asked him if he was all right.

“Mm,” he moaned, rubbing his neck, “not feeling so good.”

“You drank a lot.”

He sighed, bile in his stomach rising, a lurching fear he may barf right in front of Karina and all over Tiffany’s emerald tiled countertop—shit, how would he go to school on Monday? He chuckled to himself at the absurd thought, took long deep breaths to quell the noxious rising tide in his belly. The storm calmed, the queasiness appeased. With his eyes closed, he said to Karina, “What’s going on with Devin?” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, rolled with his ribs against the island’s edge craned his hurting neck to look at Amy and Stone again; the room swayed drunkenly. He burped, groaned.

Behind him, Karina said, “It’s no big deal, Josh.”

Stone shrugged now, the motion exaggerated, his big shoulders up to his ears; he still showed Amy that arrogant expression. In a demanding tone, Amy said something, a firmer reiteration: “So just go, okay?”

Stone said, “I still don’t know what the big deal is.”

Amy said, “She wants you to.”

Over his shoulder now, he saw Kimmy trying to get away from her clutch of friends, weaving around them with her arms folded; they prevented it, putting hands on her. “No, come on, hold on, guys,” she said softly.

As she got nearer, Josh asked her again what was going on.

She looked his way but not in his eyes, instead at his chest and stomach. “Nothing’s wrong, Josh, it’s nothing . . . ”

“Kimmy, something’s wrong,” he said, moving to meet her at the end of the island, putting out a shaky hand to stop her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “can you just give me a minute—just one minute . . . ”

“One minute for what?”

“I’m dealing with something, Josh.”

“What’s been going on?”

Karina said again, “It’s just girl stuff, Josh, just give her a minute.” She rubbed Kimmy’s shoulder.

The words were just placation, it was obvious—not girl stuff at all because now we watched as Kimmy left the kitchen to enter the family room, headed to where Devin stood by the leather loveseat that backed onto the high cathedral window looking out to the lake. Whatever the problem was it did involve Devin and Kimmy. Amy saw Kimmy approach, crossed her arms, gave an uncomfortable smile to Kimmy and stepped backward.

Josh shook his head and closed his eyes. The girl stuff was between his wife and the guy who’d come into his dreams to tell him he’d fucked his wife. He watched intently, Amy entering the kitchen now, walking with her arms crossed, trying to avoid him, but he met her gaze and gave an expression that demanded answers. Amy came to the counter and leaned her back against it; he wanted to ask her what the fuck was going on, but watched his wife instead.

Kimmy got closer but kept her distance, Devin watching her with restrained amusement. Kimmy had the same pose as all the women involved: arms crossed, mad, shocked maybe, shoulders slumped. All signs that while Josh’d slept off a bottle of bourbon something major had transpired. Kimmy still stood, her approach hesitant. She wore cut off jean shorts but you couldn’t see them under the long cardigan, so it looked like his wife was just standing there before Devin in only a sweater, legs and feet bare.

Kimmy said something to Stone they couldn’t hear, and with her hair hanging down and blocking her face from this angle he couldn’t read her lips or her expression. Stone nodded his head to the right. They disappeared from view, heading toward the fireplace like they need a more private place to talk.

He asked Amy what the fuck was going on and Amy looked for an answer, her eyes going up and to the right where everyone sought to find the most appropriate lie. She returned with, “I think they just had a fight.”

“Just a fight?” He feared that it was far more than that. His hands tingled with dread. “What happened last night?”

Before she answered he slid himself farther along the island so he could see where they went. Kimmy and Stone stood at the mantle, a crossing timber through stacked fieldstone twenty feet high. Amy joined him, her movements hesitant.

She said, “You went to bed, you had some help . . . ”

“I was drunk.”

“You were,” Amy said tentatively, her voice slowing down as she sought time to manufacture a suitable story. “Yeah, you went to bed and a bunch of us stayed up. Things got, I guess . . . heated.”

“Is Kimmy okay?”

“She’s totally fine, they just got to work something out.”

“Kimmy and Devin?” Amy nodded. They watched Devin and his wife now talking by the fireplace. Around him, Amy and Karina watched, the other girls, too. Two faces were familiar, two may have been wives of guys who went to Dalton. Had all of them witnessed this heated event?

He leaned to Amy. “Did Devin say something?”

“Yeah . . . ”

“What is it—is it really bad?”

Amy’s mouth went to one side as she frowned. “She’ll tell you . . . let her tell you.”

“Well . . . do I need to do something?” Like what, Josh, go fuck him up?

“No, let her deal with it. Kimmy’s a big girl.”

Now he watched his wife standing close with Devin Stone who was a head taller than her. She looked small and slender next to his tall, lean build. Devin put up a muscular arm on the timber mantle set in the stone fire place. They talk low, talked like two people settling something. Then whatever was needed to be said was done, Stone showed his palms, Kimmy shook her head no, rolled her eyes. Now she returned to them, padding bare feet silently across the polished maple floor littered with beer bottles. She came straight to him, and he received her with his open arms, a sudden relief and warmth flooding his heart. She lay her head in the hollow of his neck and he put his arms around her. He whispered, “Can you tell me what the hell is going on?”

“He’s just such an asshole,” she said.

“What did he say? Did he do anything? . . . ”

Kimmy rocked her head on his chest. “Can we just pack up and get the hell out of here, please?”

* * *

Everything was packed up in twenty minutes and loaded into their Qashgqai. Uncomfortable goodbyes were said, uncaring hugs were given. The reunion had been fun, but he was looking forward to not seeing the majority of these people again for another decade. Devin Stone was nowhere to be seen, but as they drove out Tiffany’s tree-shaded gravel drive, they passed his black Mercedes Roadster gleaming in the sun. Kimmy clucked her tongue when she saw it.

He said, “Are you ready to tell me what happened now?”

“No,” she said.

He was in the passenger seat, head pounding, practically seeing double. He’d thrown up in the toilet in the middle of packing the tent, abandoning Kimmy to run into the house and get it done finally. It made him feel only marginally better. When he’d come back, Kimmy had taken the slack, kept working, the Nissan loaded with their gear and his wife looking to get the hell out of Harrowsmith.

Kimmy was behind the wheel in her big cardigan, Converse on her feet now. He watched her bare legs on the leather seat because it was too bright to look out the window. He said, “Are you okay?”

“I am. Can I tell you about it some other time?”

“Just tell me what happened last night. With me . . . ”

She sighed, scratched her head, silver bangles singing on her skinny wrists. “Where do you remember up to?”

He hummed, head aching, stomach sloshing still, hugging his arms around himself. “I remember the barbecue, remember swimming, I remember drinking a lot of beer . . . ”

“Then the whisky came out,” she said, turning left onto a wider road, looking both ways, sitting more upright.

“Right . . . ”

She got the Nissan up to speed, the roadway desolate and devoid of traffic. “Then, I don’t know, we were all hanging around by the fire, everybody was just talking. You passed out . . . ”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, near the where the car was parked—”

“By the picnic table?”

“Yeah . . . Me and Amy helped you into the tent . . . actually you said you had to pee, and we took you in the bushes. I got your stuff off and then I got you into your sleeping bag as best I could . . . ”

“You helped me pee?” Another wave of dread came over him; how fucking embarrassing.

“You said you had to pee, I didn’t want you to pee in your sleeping bag . . . ”

Shame rose up fast and he could feel his cheeks burning. How emasculating. So drunk his wife had to help him pee so he wouldn’t wet the bed like a little boy. “God, I’m so sorry . . . ”

“It’s fine, Josh, you know it’s fine,” she said.

“What do you mean you helped me pee?”

“What it sounds like,” she said in a way that made him understand she knew how shameful his drunkenness was.

“Really?” Now he could assume she’d taken his pants down or drew down his fly. Did she have to hold it for him? “Was Amy there?”

“We didn’t want you to fall.”

“So she was there.”

“Don’t worry, she wasn’t looking.”

“But she was there? . . . ” He buried his face in his hands and moaned into them. Amy had held him up so he wouldn’t fall over and his wife had held his dick to aim his pee. Jesus Christ. His stomach flinched with an awful thought. He croaked: “Was Devin there too?”

Kimmy frowned. “Devin? No.”

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Kimmy.”

She patted his leg and it made him jump. His eyes popped open to see her hand on him. “It’s okay, baby.”

“It’s so embarrassing.”

Both hands on the wheel, she said, “Don’t worry. Everyone was in the bag. You didn’t embarrass yourself. I don’t think anyone saw . . . I got you to bed.”

“No one saw except you and Amy.”

“She loves you.”

He groaned again, unable to shake this tangible physical feeling of awesome regret. Why did he drink so much? 

He said, “And you stayed up?”

“Yeah.”

Now it occurred to him she’d maybe never gone to bed. “Where did you sleep?” Don’t say the tent because I know you weren’t there, Kimmy, if you say the tent you’re a liar and Devin Stone fucked you . . . 

“I didn’t sleep,” she said, not a brag or a proclamation; Kimmy’s own regret and shame dripped from her words.

He sighed. "You okay to drive?"

"Better than you . . . " she smiled then knowing that sounded mean and probably not the way she intended. "I'm fine, Josh."

He bit his lip, rolled his head her way. “What did you do all night?”

Her mouth made an awkward movement and he didn’t like the beat it took her to answer. “We were up talking.”

“You and Devin?”

She looked his way, troubled. “No, Josh. Devin was up, yeah . . . Me and Amy and some of the others . . . Not everybody crashed.”

Kimmy barely drank. It wasn’t in her culture. Her Dad was hardcore Christian, her Taiwanese side of the family thought alcohol was a terrible detour from life. “But Devin was up with you guys?”

“He was around.”

“Well, he must have been around . . . and you must have been talking for you guys to get in a fight.”

Kimmy’s jaw clenched, she grimaced, shook her head. A hand came up again to shake through her hair, bangles singing. “Can we just drop it? For now, Josh . . . ”

It was all too much for him to endure, anyway. His body pulsed with pain. The bourbon still punished him. Him mind throbbed, his thoughts were poisoned by a man that came to him in a dream. Right now it was clear everything pointed to Kimmy messing around with Devin. Devin’s visit was real. It wasn’t a dream. The only thing that made him think Kimmy had fucked Devin was because Devin had come into the tent to tell him that. Devin and Kimmy got in a fight. Kimmy was no dummy. She might not be a VP of some shipping brokerage but she was a lawyer (even if she wasn’t working right now). That was something she’d earned, not been gifted. Kimmy had smoked Devin in some argument and Devin said something nasty that hurt her feelings. Then that wicked asshole knew how to get back at her in the profoundest way possible: fuck with her husband’s head—her husband who he already abused and tormented since they were young. Maybe there was more to it, but right now logic was insurmountable. His body wanted to hibernate and his brain literally wanted to die. Trying to think his way out of this was like swimming in a straight jacket. One thing he knew: had he not been visited by Devin and his huge erection in the middle of the night and instead woken fresh and untainted to the drama playing out in Tiffany’s cottage this morning the last thing he would have thought of his wife was that she’d cheated on him with Devin fucking Stone.

“Whatever,” he said, “it’s okay, Kimmy.” He ducked his head down, and Kimmy turned on the radio, tuned it to BBC news.

They came to a stop sign and he looked around, the world around him swimming and uneven. The intersection was a weird five-way pentagram in a very small town; red brick buildings, white clapboard homes. Kimmy sighed, “Where the fuck?” She leaned close to the windshield trying to read the road signs. No other traffic rushed them, they were the only car. She tapped the Nissan’s display, got it to navigation, tapped again for the route home. She pointed out the window to a road that led sixty degrees south, saying to herself, “I guess it’s that one,” because he was of no help to her now. The car rolled through the intersection and in a couple hundred meters the nav showed they were on the right path, the car’s woman voice saying they would arrive home in one hour and fifty-five minutes.

He rubbed his neck; Kimmy reached behind them between the seats, pulled through the gap a pillow and passed it to him. “Put that under your head,” she said.

“I have such a headache.”

“You took Tylenol?”

“I took a ton of Tylenol,” he said. “Moe had some.”

“You hungry—you want to stop soon, grab something to eat? I bet there’s a Timmy’s in Odessa . . . ”

“Maybe in an hour,” he said, nestled his head in the pillow and closed his eyes . . .