Chapter Eight
Julien
I hung up on Fitz.
Or maybe he hung up on me. It was hard to tell over the sound of his hysterical laughter and the roaring in my ears that suggested my cardiovascular system was staging a full-scale rebellion.
I stared at the ring.
It stared back at me, gleaming mockingly in the early morning light filtering through the hotel curtains.
Gold. Simple. Definitely real.
Definitely on my finger.
How?
How? How? How? How? How?
My chest tightened. Not the pleasant tightness of a good workout or the satisfying compression of a well-fitted suit. This was the kind of tightness that suggested my ribcage had decided to become a trash compactor and my lungs were the unfortunate garbage.
I tried to take a deep breath.
It came out as a wheeze.
Okay. Okay. This is fine. This is manageable. I just need to think. I need to remember. I need to... The room tilted slightly. I sat down hard on the edge of the bed, the opposite edge from where she was sleeping, and put my head between my knees.
Breathe. I needed to breathe.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Except my nose wasn’t cooperating, and my mouth tasted like something had died in it, and my hands were shaking so badly I had to grip my knees to keep them still.
Think, Julien. Think.
What did I remember?
The bar. Lucky’s. Whiskey. So much whiskey.
Her talking. Endlessly. About the universe and cosmic energy and soulmates and... Oh God!
Fragments started surfacing. Blurry, disconnected, like a film reel that had been cut up and randomly reassembled by someone who’d never seen a movie before. Her laughing at something I’d said.
Had I been funny? I was never funny.
I was usually just sad and philosophical and prone to quoting medical journals.
Walking. Stumbling. Her arm around my waist, holding me upright.
Neon lights. So many neon lights. A sign that said something about destiny. Or was it chapel? Destiny Chapel?
No.
No... no no no no!
Her voice, bright and excited. “The universe is literally showing us the way! Look at that sign!”
Me, slurring, “That’s not the universe; that’s marketing.”
Her, “Same thing!”
More walking. A building. Pink. Everything was pink. Why was everything pink?
A man in a white suit. Elvis? Was it Elvis? It might have been Elvis.
Oh God, it was definitely Elvis.
Music. “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” I knew that song. Everyone knew that song. It was playing, and she was crying, happy crying, the kind that made her eyes sparkle, and I was...
What was I doing?
Smiling?
Had I been smiling?
“Do you take this woman?”
No. Stop. Stop, stop, stop!
My heart was racing now. Actually racing. I could feel it hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest cavity and make a run for it.
I couldn’t blame it. I wanted to escape too.
I looked at the ring again.
Tried to pull it off.
It didn’t budge.
Of course it didn’t budge. That would be too easy. The universe, her universe, the one that apparently had a personal vendetta against me, wouldn’t allow something that simple.
I pulled harder.
Still nothing.
It’s stuck. The ring is stuck. I’m stuck. I’m married, and the ring is stuck, and I can’t breathe and—“You know,” a sleepy voice said from behind me, “if you pull any harder, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
I froze.
Every muscle in my body locked up simultaneously.
She was awake.
I turned around very, very slowly.
She was sitting up in bed, the sheet pooled around her waist, completely and utterly naked from the waist up.
And she was smiling.
Not a small smile. Not a sheepish “oops, this is awkward,” smile. A full, radiant, absolutely delighted smile, as if she’d just woken up on Christmas morning to find that Santa had brought her everything she’d ever wanted.
“Good morning!” she said brightly. “How are you feeling? You drank a lot last night. I tried to tell you to slow down, but you were very determined. It was actually kind of impressive. I didn’t know someone could drink that much whiskey and still walk.
Well, walk is maybe generous. You were more... ambulatory. With assistance.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
She stretched—a full, unselfconscious stretch that involved her arms going over her head and her back arching—and then climbed out of bed.
Still naked.
Completely, entirely, absolutely naked.
And she just... walked across the room like this was perfectly normal. Like she woke up naked in strange hotel rooms every day and it was no big deal.
She picked up what I assumed was her dress from the floor—a flowy, colorful thing that looked like it had been designed by someone on hallucinogens—and held it up, examining it critically.
“This got a little wrinkled,” she said. “But that’s okay. Wrinkles add character. My sister Phoebe says wrinkles are just the universe’s way of showing that something has been lived in. Used. Loved. Which I think is beautiful, don’t you?”
I stared at her.
My brain had officially given up. It had filed for early retirement and moved to a beach somewhere where naked women didn’t parade around hotel rooms talking about the philosophical implications of wrinkled fabric. She draped the dress over a chair and padded, still naked, toward the bathroom.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she announced. “Do you want to join me? I know some people think showering together is just for romance, but I think it’s also very practical. Saves water. The universe appreciates conservation.”
“No,” I croaked.
It was the first word I’d managed to say since she’d woken up.
“Okay!” She disappeared into the bathroom, completely unbothered.
I heard the shower turn on.
I sat there, frozen, my hands still shaking, my heart still racing, my brain still refusing to process any of this.
She’s showering. In my hotel room. Because we’re married. Because I got drunk and married a woman whose name I don’t even know.
Oh God.
I don’t know her name.
I was married to someone whose name I didn’t know.
This was it. This was rock bottom. This was the lowest point a human being could reach. There was nowhere to go from here except possibly actual Hell, and even that seemed preferable to my current situation.
The shower shut off.
She emerged a few minutes later, still naked, water dripping from her hair, looking refreshed and energized and completely at peace with the universe.
She smiled at me again.
“You look stressed,” she observed. “You should try meditation. Or yoga. Or both. The universe responds really well to mindful movement and intentional breathing. It helps align your chakras and—”
“What’s your name?” I blurted out.
She blinked. “What?”
“Your name.” My voice was getting higher. Tighter. “I don’t know your name. We’re married and I don’t know your name.”
“Oh!” She laughed. Actually laughed, like this was delightful rather than horrifying.
“I’m Athena. Athena Imogene Malpas. Well, I guess I’m Athena Darcy now, right?
Or are you taking my name? I’m totally open to that.
The patriarchal tradition of women taking men’s names is kind of outdated anyway.
We could hyphenate! Darcy-Malpas. Or Malpas-Darcy. Both sound good. Very cosmic.”
Athena.
Her name is Athena.
I married someone named after a Greek goddess.
Of course I did. Of course, the universe, her universe, would do this to me.
She started getting dressed, pulling on underwear and the wrinkled dress with the same casual ease she’d shown while walking around naked.
“So,” she said, running her fingers through her wet hair, “I was thinking about our future. I know this probably seems really sudden, but the universe doesn’t really do things on human timelines, right?
And I think we should probably talk about where we’re going to live.
I mean, I have my apartment in—well, I guess it doesn’t matter where, because obviously we’ll need to find a place together.
Somewhere with good energy. Maybe near water?
Water is very cleansing. Very healing. And we should probably talk about kids.
I’ve always wanted three, but I’m open to however many the universe sends us.
And names! We should start thinking about names.
I really like celestial names. Luna, Stella, Orion.
Oh wait! I can’t have Orion. That’s my nephew’s name. ”
Something inside me snapped.
Not a gentle snap. Not a controlled, measured breaking point.
A full, catastrophic structural failure.
“STOP.”
She stopped mid-sentence, looking at me with wide, curious eyes.
I stood up. My legs were shaking, but I stood up anyway because sitting down felt like surrender and I was not surrendering to this insanity.
“I need you,” I said, very carefully, very precisely, “to tell me exactly what happened last night. How we got married. Where we got married. When we got married. Every single detail. Right now.”
She smiled.
Oh God, she smiled.
That bright, radiant, absolutely delighted smile that I was rapidly learning meant I was about to regret every decision that had led to this moment.
“Oh, you want to hear our story! That’s so sweet. Most people remember their wedding night, but I think it’s actually more romantic that you don’t because now I get to tell you and it’ll be like experiencing it for the first time all over again, which is very special, very cosmic—”
No.
No, no no no no!
“—so after you had that seventh whiskey, or maybe it was the eighth, I lost count around six, you started talking about how the universe was chaos and nothing made sense, and I said that’s exactly the point, chaos is just order we haven’t recognized yet, and you said that was the most ridiculous thing you’d ever heard but also maybe the most profound, and then you tried to order another drink but the bartender cut you off—”
She was pacing now, gesturing enthusiastically, her eyes bright with the memory.