“I know there’s probably a million other people you’d wanna talk to before me, but...I’m here.”
To Spencer’s extreme surprise, Yvonne calls her back two hours later.
“The thing about those million other people,” Yvonne says, instead of saying hello. “They didn’t call.”
Which is how Spencer finds herself, fifteen minutes later, parking her car in the lot of a cheap motel on the outskirts of town.
Yvonne opens the door of Room 5 and hands Spencer a whiskey on the rocks.
“Tawdry, right?” Yvonne asks, her smile brittle. “Candidate’s disgraced daughter drowns her sorrows at the Budget Inn. In light of recent developments, the campaign didn’t think I should be living at my boyfriend’s quote ‘sex trailer in the woods,’ end quote. Bad optics.”
Spencer isn’t sure what exactly she’s doing here, but she feels like she owes Yvonne something. An apology. An explanation. A chance to land a punch, bloody her nose instead of Caleb’s.
“I’m so sorry,” Spencer begins, but Yvonne silences her with an exaggerated wave of her hand.
“Sorry is for suckers,” she says, dismissively. “Sorry is nothing. It’s what people say in this business whenever they get caught.”
“But I really am-”
“My mother wants me to apologize,” Yvonne announces, her voice a little slurry. “Do you think I’m sorry? Sorry that I missed a chance to audition for Teen Mom? Sorry that she pushed all those abstinence only programs through the school board? Sorry that the condom broke and forced me to make the hardest decision of my life when I was sixteen years old? Sorry that I went to Smith instead of marrying the preacher’s son and waking up three times a night to breastfeed? Because I’m not.”
Spencer takes a sip of her whiskey. It burns the back of her throat. Yvonne may be drowning her sorrows, but she looks incredible doing it. She’s wearing a white blouse and gray pencil skirt, standing with a hand on her hip. Her pose is challenging, defiant. “Okay,” she agrees. “No apologies.”
They don’t talk much, but they polish off most of the bottle while sitting, then lying on the bed, streaming the new season of “House of Cards” on Yvonne’s laptop.
“It’s late,” Spencer says, when she looks at the clock. And it is, it’s after 3am. “I should go.” She has a fuzzy image of the barn in her mind, quiet and lonely without Caleb.
“So crash here,” Yvonne suggests. She puts a hand on Spencer’s arm. “You shouldn’t drive.”
Spencer feels herself staring at Yvonne’s hand, which is warm and feels a little electric against her skin. Then she looks up and meets Yvonne’s eyes, notices their faces are much closer together than she would have expected. She can feel Yvonne’s breath mingling with her own. And then somehow they’re kissing and Spencer feels like her lips are on fire, like her entire body is combustible, like the hard liquor in her veins is an accelerant and Yvonne’s weight pressing against her is the match that’s going to burn the whole block down.
Spencer’s hands are unbuttoning Yvonne’s shirt as Yvonne straddles Spencer’s hips in a way that makes Spencer gasp and break the kiss. The world feels blurry, she forces herself to focus, concentrates on her tongue as she tries to form words. “This isn’t what I came here for,” she says.
“I know,” Yvonne assures her, her lips against Spencer’s neck. “You wanted absolution. Isn’t this better, though?” Yvonne runs a fingertip along Spencer’s jaw, and suddenly Spencer thinks about the ring Toby’s been carrying around in his pocket.
“We can’t,” Spencer says, even as she kisses Yvonne again, wanting another hit of this feeling that’s simultaneously floaty and super charged.
They’re both topless, with one of Yvonne’s hands tangled in Spencer’s hair as the other reaches down to unbutton her jeans when Spencer pulls away again. She sits up, shakes her head a little to clear it. She grabs her shirt, gazes around for her bra but isn’t sure where exactly it got tossed in the heat of the moment.
“I can’t,” she says, stumbling to her feet. “I’m sorry.”
Yvonne walks her to the door, kisses her one last time. A kiss that’s sweeter than the others, lingering with no demands.
“Don’t be sorry,” Yvonne tells her. “I’m not.”
Spencer takes a few deep breaths of the cold night air, steadying herself. It’s not a long drive back, she thinks. These roads are so familiar, she could do it in her sleep.
Three minutes after she pulls out of the parking lot, red and blue lights flash in her rearview mirror. Toby’s partner steps out of the cruiser and hands her a breathalyzer. Spencer actually chuckles as she bangs her head against the back of her seat, right before she blows a 0.15.
She looks deranged in her mug shot, her hair is wild and her eyes are bleary. It makes all the news sites the next day, knocking Yvonne’s story neatly off the front page.
Yvonne doesn't call to apologize. She won't, Spencer realizes, as she listens to her parents strategize over the best rehab facilities - which one is the most private, which can get a bed open before dinner.
There's no need.
Sorry is for suckers.