Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Jackson
S un streams through the window, casting the room in a yellow glow.
The sights of Las Vegas greet me. The black pyramid of the Luxor. The white walls of the Excalibur. The buildings of the New York, New York and the Strip beyond it.
All beneath beautiful blue skies. There isn't a cloud in sight.
Only Daphne, sitting on the bed, naked, staring at the ring on her left hand.
This should be a dream. My new wife, in nothing but her wedding ring, in our bed.
Her wavy hair falls down her long, elegant back. An image straight out of a movie. Except for all the hurt in her posture.
She stares at the rock, transfixed, as if she's not sure how it got there. As if she's not sure how she got here.
She turns to me, her eyes wide, her face racked with some strange mix of fear and confusion.
I've seen the look on other people, other women, but never here. Never the morning after.
But then, I've never married someone on a dare.
Maybe this is the normal reaction on day one.
"Did we…" Her voice trails off. She doesn't quite get to a period or a question mark. She knows. But she doesn't know.
What is it she's asking?
If we had sex.
If we got married.
If we fell in love.
Did she forget all of it or just the part where I slipped a ring on her finger?
I don't know what to say, so I turn to her, and with as soft a voice as I can manage, I ask, "Are you okay?
She sits there, her eyes still on the ring, her feet still on the ground, her body's still tense and stiff.
That's a no if I've ever seen one, but which part hurts her?
It's one thing if she regrets her over-the-top dare. It's another if she wants to erase the entire night.
It meant something to me. It filled me in a way nothing else has.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I need a minute."
"Okay." I can give her space. If that's what she needs. "Do you want me to leave?" I'm not sure where to go. Only that I want to be somewhere else. Somewhere she isn't so hurt.
She shakes her head. "No, I'll go." She presses her palms together. "I'll text you later." She doesn't add when I'm ready to talk about this . Or If I'm ready to talk about this .
No. Daphne is a grown-up. This is awkward, yes, but we both know better. We're both prepared to communicate.
Aren't we?
I was sure of that last night. Right now, I don't know.
Things aren't more clear in the bright light of day. They're just different.
"Do you need anything?" I ask.
She shakes her head. She stands up and tries to smooth her dress, but she's not wearing one. She's not wearing anything except the ring.
She looks down at her long, naked body as if she's not sure how that got here either.
But is she thinking all the way back to birth or just last night?
She must remember the sex at the bar.
In the limo.
At the club.
Neither of us was drunk then. Not yet.
After, maybe, but not then. I looked in her eyes. I saw into her soul. That's how it felt.
Maybe I imagined something, but not that. Not the clear-eyed desire to fuck me.
I may not know marriage, but I know sex.
I don't offer to leave again.
Instead, I climb out of bed and move to the bathroom.
She barely looks at me as I move. The start of a marriage norm—nudity, who cares—or because she can't face last night?
No. I'm not obsessing. Not yet, anyway.
I close the door and go through my morning routine. When I'm finished, I stand at the door and listen to her dress.
Her movements are rushed, but they're not entirely frantic.
She's starting to think. Maybe how the fuck do I get out of this . Maybe wow, we sure went there, but it's all good .
I don't know.
I try not to question it. I try not to do what I've done in every other relationship and assume we're on the same page, assume I know what book we're reading.
This is new to both of us.
I want to give her time and space for that. To take the time and space myself, too.
She calls something to me from the room.
Goodbye. I think. I don't chase her down. I let her leave. I give her space.
It's strange. I want to hold her close, and I want to set her free.
How can I want such opposite things?
Maybe that's what I missed before. Maybe that's something about love. It means wanting the best for someone else, no matter what.
I do want the best for her.
Even if it isn't this.
I just—
I'm not considering that yet.
I take a shower and dress in clean clothes.
I look at the pictures we took last night.
Cell phone snapshots aren't my thing. Maddie always teased me about that.
How would anyone know we were together? How would anyone know I even existed if I never took a photo to prove it?
But that's silly. People existed before we had cameras in our pockets. They existed before photography. There's nothing to prove and no one to prove it to.
We were together, whether I took a picture of us lounging by the pool or not.
But now, I see what I was missing.
The desire to capture a moment. To share my joy with someone else. To feel a happiness so intense, I needed to prove it existed.
I've never felt that before.
But it's in these pictures. I shouldn't have dismissed Maddie. Just because I didn't feel that bliss, because I didn't love her, because I didn't see it. She felt it. She wanted it.
I didn't listen.
Right now, looking at the photos I took last night, I see every inch of it.
This is two people enjoying their time together. Two people who want everything they're doing.
Photos from the bar. The bartender. Our drinks. Our hands, intertwined. The bartender, offering us a lost and found ring.
Daphne, on her knees, holding up the rings.
And the venue. The wedding itself.
Daphne looks happy in her white sequined dress, her eyes on the ring.
This time, she's staring at it like it brings her all the joy in the world. Like she can't believe she actually asked, and I said yes, and we made it to a chapel.
I can't believe it either. But looking at the picture, me and my slacks, and her cocktail dress, and Elvis in a studded jumpsuit between us—
It feels right.
It is right.
Husband and wife. Till death do us part.
It was her idea.
As was—
Shit.
She posted the photo right away. On all her accounts. And all of mine.
And there it is, on my Instagram. I already have a thousand likes. I don't even have a thousand followers. I haven't posted in months.
Who the hell is liking these pictures?
Comment from RipMeANewLaw. What a happy night! I bet you know how to rock a honeymoon.
My work rival.
The fucker even dropped a winking emoji.
If he found out I got drunk in Las Vegas and married a woman who isn't the one I had phone sex with at the office—
He will use that against me.
No question.
Why is he even following my account? I don't use it. I only made it for fun with Cassie. Shit, Cassie.
Right on cue, as if propelled by some sort of younger sister sense, she knocks on the door.
"Jackson," she says. "Seems like we need to talk."