And then my mind wanders as I dry heave.
The ring.
Why on earth did Waverly have a diamond ring on her hand? One I know she wasn’t wearing last night? And more importantly, why was it on a very important finger?
Suddenly flashbacks start to spark in my brain, which triggers another wave of vomit to leave my body as small moments from last night come back into focus.
* * *
I wipe my mouth with the hand towel on the sink after brushing my teeth with what I assume is Emma’s toothbrush since this isn’t my hotel room, but that is the last of my worries right now. Staring at my bloodshot eyes in my reflection in the mirror, the queasiness of my stomach fights to stay apparent when I think back on what I just remembered.
Holy fuck. Waverly and I got married last night.
The images are blurry, but the sight of Waverly wearing a blue boa and giggling across from me while I held her hands and listened to an Elvis impersonator command us to recite our vows is clear as day.
How on Earth did this happen? And was it for real? Do they even do fake weddings in Vegas? More importantly, I don’t remember how the idea even came about.
I open the bathroom door and slowly walk back into the suite.
“Wave?”
As I turn the corner, Waverly is standing there, clutching the white sheet around her body, her hair still in disarray, and her hand clasped firmly over her mouth as the band of diamonds on her finger glints in the light.
“Hayes …”
“Did you see the ring?”
She nods. “Yes. I plopped my head down on my hand clutching the toilet and it made a dent in my forehead. What—” she pauses, taking a deep breath. “What the hell am I doing wearing a ring?”
“You don’t remember what happened?”
She shakes her head. “No, not really.”
“Well,” I start before my eyes veer to the side, landing on a photograph lying on the floor next to a pile of Waverly’s clothes. I move closer to the piece of paper on the ground, and when I bend to pick it up, I feel Waverly’s presence behind me.
“Oh, shit,” she whispers as we both take in the image of her and I standing under a white arch decorated in pink flowers with our faces smashed together, beaming smiles across our lips. A poorly dressed Elvis stands behind us, barely noticeable between our heads, but there’s nothing else that could scream drunken Vegas wedding than that detail. My cowboy hat is crooked on my head and Waverly’s boa is covering half of my face. But there it is—clear as day—evidence that the montage that just played in my mind wasn’t a dream.
It was real.
Oh, shit is right.
* * *
“Are you done?”
“Done what?”
“Done throwing a tantrum over there?” I quickly gaze over my right shoulder so I don’t take my eyes off of the road for too long. Waverly is sitting in the passenger seat of my car, chewing on her nails as her face takes in the desert landscape passing us by along the 15-freeway, avoiding glancing in my direction since we hit the road over an hour ago.
“I’m not throwing a tantrum, asshole. I’m freaking the fuck out!”
“You don’t think I’m freaking out! What the hell am I going to tell Wes? And my parents?”
She huffs. “I guess you should have thought about that before you came up with the idiotic idea.”
“Don’t think you’re so innocent in all of this, Beaverly. It takes two, sweetheart.”
“We didn’t have sex and make a child, Hayes. You roped me into marrying you, for what reason I’m still not sure.”
“You obviously agreed though.”
“Anyone with the same amount of tequila in their system would agree to that nonsense.”
Since Emma and Waverly drove up from Los Angeles a few days ago, and now she and I have a lot to talk about, Emma suggested we ride home together so we had time to discuss what happens next. After we discovered the photo of our real, not fake, wedding, Waverly consulted Emma for her version of last night’s events.
Emma insisted that the wedding idea was mine, rehashing my testosterone-laced declaration that I never back down from a bet. I don’t recall making a formal wager with anyone regarding my marital status, but somehow in our drunken conversation, I made an argument that convinced Waverly to marry me.
Less than twelve hours later, we are now on our way back to Los Angeles but have yet to come up with a plan to deal with the consequences of our actions.
“Look. Regardless of whose idea this was, or how it happened, the simple fact is that it did. And we need to figure out what to do.”
I hear Waverly’s sigh but fight the urge to look over at her. “I can’t think right now. My stomach is twisting. My head is still pounding. I just…” She takes a deep breath and then glances over at me. “I need a little while to let this sink in.”
“Fine,” I huff. “But before we get back home, we need to decide what the hell we’re going to do.”
She leans against the window and closes her eyes, and I swear I see a tear leak down her cheek. “I know. Just let me shut my eyes for a little while, okay?”
“Sure.”
My stomach twists in knots again as I realize we are no closer to deciding what happens next. Within minutes, light snores come from her side of the car, but all I can do is continue thinking about what the logical next step is in
