4. Keeley
KEELEY
B oom, boom, boom .
The sound is like a basketball hitting a microphone, or cannon fire.
It takes me a second to realize it’s my head making this godawful racket.
My eyes open slowly, blearily, as I struggle to make sense of what I’m seeing. Where am I? Every single room at the Langham faces the golf course, a boring and endless sea of green. Except I’m looking out over…a city.
A city that isn’t LA.
I’d like to claim I’ve never woken up in an unfamiliar room—obviously a lie, since I just did it yesterday—but I can at least say I’ve never woken up in the wrong city , until today.
Please be Six, please be Six , I think as I roll over.
Graham Tate’s pretty face is mashed against the pillow.
Goddammit, Keeley.
Suddenly, music starts, and water arcs high in the air outside the window from a fountain—one I’d know anywhere because I always stay at the Bellagio when I’m in Vegas.
I’m in fucking Vegas .
How? How is this even possible? Vegas is a five-hour drive from LA. None of us were sober enough to make this trip, and as grossly irresponsible as I am, I would never get in the car with someone who’d been drinking.
I close my eyes, willing my stomach to stop rolling and my head to stop throbbing as snippets of the night before materialize: Graham beside me on a dance floor, looking very certain and very serious, which means I probably did something bad.
And then, standing outside a nightclub in downtown LA with Drew, Six’s sister-in-law—one of those drunken, emotional conversations, though I have no idea what we discussed, and honestly…
it’s unlike me, drunken superpower and all.
I extend a hand blindly, hoping to discover my phone and put this whole mystery to rest, when it clinks against the nightstand.
Even before my eyes open, the horror is spilling inside me like a stain. Because it’s the sound of a ring, which is something I don’t wear.
My stomach sinks as I look at the simple platinum band. I roll over, my head throbbing in protest. Graham’s hand is currently splayed on my pillow. And he’s wearing one too.
No. No, no, no. I squeeze my eyes shut. Keeley, please don’t have done this.
My eyes open and yep , I did this.
Sometime over the course of the night, Graham and I went to Vegas and got married.
It couldn’t have been premeditated. But somehow, we got to Vegas and one of us was drunk enough to say, “hey, we’re walking by this little chapel, and wouldn’t it be funny if we got married by Elvis?” and the other was drunk enough to say, “let’s do it . ”
And while I do have some vague memory of walking down an aisle, I decide here and now that this didn’t happen. We talked about it, bought rings, arrived too late and fell asleep. Though judging by the condom wrappers on the nightstand, we didn’t fall directly asleep.
God, why do I remember so little? There are only flashes of last night in my head: a champagne bottle opening and Graham’s dark gaze on me as I tugged at his belt in the back of a limo, his teeth grazing sensitive skin, the urgency of it all.
His voice against my ear, saying, “Fuck, I’m gonna come so hard. ”
How very Keeley of me to only remember the sex, and not the part where we traveled for five hours from another state and committed to each other for life.
And when Graham wakes, he’ll be even more horrified by this situation than I am, which is when the blame will begin, as I’m pretty sure the wildest thing Graham Tate has ever done is declare a home office deduction on his taxes.
Therefore, only one possible solution exists: to slide out of this bed, find a way back to California, and pretend it didn’t happen.
But, holy Lord, I’ve got to stop drinking.