Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Emerson
Okay, yeah. I’m being all Zen and “we’ll figure this out” for Twila’s benefit, but on the inside, I’m freaking the fuck out. If we were anonymous people who got drunkenly married in Vegas, it wouldn’t be such a big deal. We could get an annulment and be done with it.
But we’re not anonymous people. We guaranteed that by broadcasting the evolution of this relationship to the world on BingBang.
The masses are invested. We made sure of it.
I know rational people would realize we just officially met three days ago, and a marriage is utterly ridiculous, but the naysayers would pounce on this as proof that we’re not real. That we never were.
Viewers would stop caring about us. I can’t let that happen. Not yet. I still need to help my mom and sister, and I’m sure Twila still has some debt to pay off.
“I need to take a shower,” Twila says, so I hop up and offer her a hand. She takes it, and I help her to her feet as she adds, “Thanks.”
When she closets herself in her bedroom, I turn back to my phone to address the barrage of text messages I ignored earlier. I see my sister’s name, but avoid her message to open the group chat with my roommates, first.
Ritchie: What the hell, E?
Mason: He was obviously shitfaced. You were shitfaced, right, bro?
Stone: Drunk or not, he’s a married man, now. Congrats, bruh.
Ritchie: I don’t think congratulations are in order, here, Stone.
Stone: Sure they are. She’s hot.
Ritchie: Irrelevant. He can’t be married to a person he just met 3 days ago.
Mason: Except that he is. Married.
Ritchie: Come on, E. Text us back and let us know if you’ve been kidnapped or body-snatched, or something.
I blow out a long breath as I type out a reply.
Me: Not kidnapped or body-snatched. Apparently, I am married, though I don’t remember it because, yes, I was shitfaced. So was Twila. Neither of us remembers it, at all. I’ll get back to you guys later when this hangover eases off, and I can actually think straight.
Just as I hit send, a piece of paper on the coffee table catches my eye.
Leaning forward I pick it up. It’s a marriage announcement with a wedding chapel’s logo in the corner.
It states that Twila and I were married with today’s date––we must’ve stumbled in after midnight.
And apparently, we had enough foresight to apply for a marriage license, first, because according to this announcement, we are legally married.
Dropping it back to the table, I hold onto my phone and head into my bedroom.
I need to shower and pack because check-out time is at eleven.
That’s when Twila and I will part ways, and fuck, I wish we’d decided to drive together so we could talk this whole thing out on the way home.
It only would’ve added a couple of hours to my trip to go get her.
And now? Now, we have about an hour to figure out what we’ll do next.
I plug my phone into the charger, ignoring all of my other notifications…including the text from my sister. I need to get clean and rehydrate before jumping down this rabbit hole with Kennedy. And I need to talk to Twila so we can come up with a plan and get our stories straight.
I rush through my shower, get dressed, and haphazardly throw my clothes into my suitcase before heading back out into the common area. Twila is nowhere to be seen, and her bedroom door is still closed. I shuffle near, and when I don’t hear her shower running, I rap my knuckles against the door.
“Twila? Can we talk?” I call out, and I hear her give me permission to enter.
When I slide the door open, I see her folding her clothes and stacking them into her suitcase with surgical precision.
“Are you okay?” I ask, then flinch at the ridiculousness of the question.
She got wasted last night and ended up married to me, a guy she barely knows. Of course, she’s not okay.
“I will be,” she says, her tone soft. “Let’s just pack up and get out of here. We can go have brunch and come up with a plan.”
“Okay. Sounds good,” I say.
I watch her methodically pack her luggage for a few more beats.
She didn’t make eye contact with me once during that little exchange.
Letting out a quiet sigh, I spin and head back to my room.
My mind reels as I grab everything from the bathroom and toss it into my bag.
Then, I unplug my phone and chuck the charging cord in on top of my clothes.
Taking a look around to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, I zip up the suitcase and set it on the floor.
And after all that, I’ve come up with one simple conclusion––I’m scared.
Not because I find myself married this morning, but because of what this situation will end up doing to my relationship with Twila. Not the fake one we’ve been showing the world, but the real one that started here, in Vegas. In this room. On this bed.
I don’t want to lose it. Not like this. And not when we’ve barely just begun.
“Emerson? You ready?” she calls out, and I take a deep breath before rolling my suitcase out of the room.
We head out to the parking structure and deposit our luggage into our cars.
Then we walk to a little café next to the casino.
We bypass the mimosas, for obvious reasons, and opt for tall glasses of ice water, coffees, and thick, greasy, bacon, egg, and cheese croissant sandwiches to help ease our hangovers.
I watch Twila as she mixes cream and sugar into her coffee. Her color looks better than it did this morning, but her expression is still vacant. She’s obviously lost in thought, and I decide to stay quiet until she gets her feelings sorted out and is ready to talk.
When she finishes fixing up her coffee and takes a long sip, she finally meets my eyes. I offer her a nervous smile, but her face remains blank.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, and she frowns.
“For what?”
“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t ordered those margaritas…” I say, letting the words trail off.
She shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. I do blame the tequila, though. Devil’s poison.”
“But––”
She cuts me off with another shake of her head.
“We are both at fault, equally. You ordered the margaritas, and we both drank them. I ordered the shots, and we both drank those, too. Hell, if you need to blame someone, blame that damn bachelorette party. I’m starting to get flashes of memories, and I’m pretty sure they plied us with liquor before convincing us to get married, then paid for the ride to the chapel. ”
“Seriously?” I ask, my eyebrows hiked up in surprise.
“Seriously,” she says. “I don’t remember everything, but I do remember them pressuring us. Saying our fans would love it. That we owed it to everyone to give them an HEA .”
“HEA?” I ask, confused.
“Happily ever after,” she clarifies with a groan.
“So, what do we do now?” I ask, but her response is cut off when our food arrives.
We both take a few bites before she answers. “Okay, hear me out.”
“Okay,” I say, dragging out the word.
“I think we should stay married. At least, for a while,” she says, shocking the ever-living hell out of me.
“You do?”
“Yeah,” she confirms with a nod. “We’ve worked really hard to build this romance. This brand . We can’t let one questionable decision ruin it for us.”
Her use of the word “questionable,” rather than “bad” or some equally negative descriptor intrigues me.
“I agree,” I say, and this time, it’s her turn to look shocked.
“Okay,” she says, her expression settling. “So…do you want to move in with me?”
“Woah, woah, woah,” I say, holding up my palms. “That’s a little sudden, not to mention, forward , don’t you think?”
“Sure it is, husband ,” she says with a chuckle before tossing her balled up straw paper at me.
“But seriously, you should. It would be weird if I came to you when I own my house, and you rent with three roommates. Would it be hard for you to leave L.A. for a while? If it is, we’ll figure something else out. ”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “It’s not like I’d be moving across the country, or anything.”
“Then it’s settled,” she says. “You’ll come stay with me. We can post a series of videos of us trying our hands at domestic married life, and when it doesn’t work out, we can split amicably and truthfully say we’ll always be friends.”
That part about splitting up leaves a sour feeling in my stomach. Or maybe it’s last night’s tequila still fermenting in there. Either way, it doesn’t feel good. But I agree, nonetheless.
“It’s a good plan,” I say softly, and Twila smiles.
“My friends are going to love you,” she says, then seems to catch herself. “And, uh, if you want to invite your friends down sometimes, I have room.”
“Sounds good. They’re going to love you, too,” I say, my tone low and laced with velvet.
“So, does tomorrow work?” she asks after clearing her throat.
I nod. “Yep. I can be there in the morning.”
“Good.”
“Perfect,” I say.
“Stupendous,” she adds.
“Astonishing,” I say with the beginnings of a grin, and she smiles widely at me.
“Fantabulous.”