Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
Twila
I feel like death, and my mouth tastes like a dumpster fire from hell. Jesus. That devil bitch tequila got me, again.
I groan as I roll onto my side. I pause when I find Emerson in bed beside me, still wearing what he had on last night, right down to his socks and shoes.
Moving slowly as not to upset the tiny monkey wielding the sledgehammer in my head, I look down at myself.
I’m still wearing my white dress, but my feet are bare.
At least I had enough sense to kick them off when we got back to the room.
But, God, how did we get back here? And what happened after we left the club?
The last thing I can remember is hanging in the VIP area with that bachelorette party. Dancing. Drinking champagne. Everything after that is a complete blank.
I force myself to hold in the groan of pain as I sit up. I don’t want to wake Emerson. At least, not yet.
“What the…?” I whisper as I lean forward, and a slip of fabric tightens around my neck.
Reaching up, I tug at it. It’s looped around my throat, so I pull it over my head and stretch it out, reading the word “Bride,” screen printed across it. It’s the bride’s sash from last night. Why am I wearing it?
Huffing out a breath, I drop it to the floor and carefully climb to my feet. My head feels like it might fall off at any moment. I need some aspirin. And a couple of gallons of water.
But first, I need to brush my teeth. If my mouth tastes this bad, I don’t even want to know what my breath must smell like.
I take stock of my surroundings and realize we’d gone to bed in my room.
Perfect. I don’t have to walk so far to get to my toothbrush.
I shuffle into the bathroom and load up the brush with enough toothpaste to clean five people’s mouths.
As I start scrubbing my teeth, I glance up at my reflection for the first time and nearly scare myself to death.
“Oh, shit,” I mumble around a mouthful of toothpaste suds.
My eye makeup has smeared, giving me what looks like melted, bloodshot raccoon eyes. My hair is a rat’s nest, and there are deeply embedded sleep lines across my right cheek. I continue brushing as I lift a hand to finger-comb my hair into some semblance of normalcy.
Something glints under the bathroom lights, and I freeze. Lowering my hand from my hair, I hold it out in front of me as tequila and champagne threaten to bubble up from my gut.
There, on the ring finger of my left hand, is a simple platinum band.
The toothbrush hanging from my mouth clatters into the sink as I shout, “What the fuck!?!”
Pain explodes in my temple, but I ignore it as I continue to stare at that ring. Dread pools in my stomach, and I start to tremble.
Emerson shouts something unintelligible, then there’s a loud thump and a grunt as if he fell from the bed. A few seconds later, he’s in the bathroom’s doorway, leaning against the jamb and holding his head like it might fall off.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he slurs, and I can’t tell if he’s still drunk or just groggy.
I slowly turn to face him, my arm still in the air. Flipping my hand around to show him the back, I demand, “What in the hell did we do last night?”
He stares at the appendage in confusion for two beats, and the second his eyes focus on the ring on my finger, his eyes widen. He whips his own hand up, revealing a platinum band on his finger. His is wider and not quite as dainty as mine, but there’s no denying it––the two are a matching set.
He raises his chin to meet my eyes, and he looks mortified. “Twila? Did we…uh…did we get married last night?”
I shake my head, the pain there forgotten. “I have no idea. I can’t remember.”
“Me, neither,” he breathes, then shakes his head. “Maybe we just bought them for fun? Like…a joke, or something? We should see if we posted any BingBangs. Maybe this is all just a stunt for…entertainment purposes.”
I nod, gripping the lifeline with both hands, but a sick feeling in my gut tells me this is no joke. Or maybe it’s just the tequila making me feel ill. Devil bitch .
“Do you remember how we got back here?” he asks as he leaves the doorway, presumably to find his phone.
“I don’t remember anything after the VIP section with the bachelorettes,” I reply, following him out.
“Yeah. I don’t either,” he says, getting down on all fours to look under the bed.
I hear my phone pinging with alerts from the living room, so I head in that direction. I spot both our phones on the coffee table, so I call out to Emerson as I pick mine up.
I have several text message notifications from my group chat with the girls, so I open that first.
Joey: Twila! What in the hell happened last night?
Raven: I guess congratulations are in order. Or is it best wishes?
Joey: Raven, that’s not funny.
Joey: Twila, are you okay? Please text us back. We’re getting worried.
Callie: How in the hell did you end up getting married last night?
“Oh, my God,” I breathe just as Emerson joins me in the living room.
“What is it?” he asks, picking up his own phone.
“My friends texted me to ask how I ended up getting married last night? How in the hell do they know when I don’t even fucking know?”
Just as I notice the onslaught of BingBang notifications, Emerson curses under his breath. When he looks over at me, his eyes are filled with empathy and a healthy dose of fear. Turning his phone around, he shows me the screen.
It shows a video posted on BingBang. Emerson and me, dressed in the clothes we’re still wearing, except I have on my shoes and there’s a short veil covering my head.
We’re swaying drunkenly at an altar where an Elvis impersonator is having us repeat vows to each other.
Then we exchange rings. As Elvis proclaims us husband and wife, a flurry of squeals and cheers explodes, and the camera pans to show the purple-clad bridal party clapping and catcalling.
“That’s it, people,” a voice says. “GreeneHouse is now official. ‘Til death do they part.”
“Oh. My. God,” I repeat with more emphasis before I look over at Emerson. “What did we do?”
“It appears we got married,” he says, his tone flippant. His expression twists into one of contrition before he adds, “Sorry.”
I shake my head and look back down at the phone. “This video, alone, has almost a million views already. And we have no idea how many people have tacked or duoed it by now.”
Dropping my phone to the couch beside me, I leap to my feet as my stomach rolls. Slapping a hand to my mouth, I run for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I retch. After a bit of bile, I’m basically dry-heaving when a pair of gentle hands gather my hair and hold it back for me.
“You…shouldn’t…be in here,” I manage to get out between heaves.
“For better or worse, right?” he asks lightly. When I shoot him a withering look, he grins. “Too soon?”
I start gagging again, and I feel Emerson secure my hair back with a scrunchie from my toiletry bag. The water runs for a few seconds, then a cool, wet washcloth dabs against my neck, forehead, and temples. It feels really good, so I close my eyes and sigh.
When my stomach settles, I flush the toilet and fall back onto my butt with a sigh. Emerson sits down on the bathroom floor in front of me, handing over a glass of water and the wet washcloth he used to make me feel better.
“Don’t worry, Twila,” he says in a comforting tone. “Everything is going to be okay. We’ll figure this out. Together.”