Chapter Twelve
Julien
But I paid it anyway.
Because despite everything, despite the cosmic nightmare my life had become, despite the wedding ring that wouldn’t come off my finger, despite the fact that I was legally married to a woman who believed crystals had healing properties, I wasn’t a complete asshole.
I couldn’t just... abandon her.
Even if every fiber of my being wanted to.
“This is beautiful!” Athena had said when we pulled up to the entrance, her face pressed against the car window like a child at an aquarium. “The energy here is so welcoming. Very grounded. Earth tones. I can already feel my chakras aligning.”
“It’s a Marriott,” I’d replied.
“It’s a sanctuary.”
Vivian had caught my eye in the rearview mirror and grinned.
Benedict Arnold.
That was what she was.
A traitor of the highest order.
Because the entire drive from the airport, forty-three minutes of what should have been blessed silence, had been nothing but Athena talking and Vivian encouraging her.
“So then what happened?” Vivian had asked, leaning forward slightly, her eyes bright with barely contained glee.
“Well,” Athena had said, “after the ceremony—which was beautiful, by the way, very intimate, very cosmic—we went back to the hotel room and—”
“We’re not discussing the hotel room,” I’d interjected.
“—and Julien was so sweet,” Athena had continued, completely ignoring me.
“He kept saying these really profound things about the nature of consciousness and whether souls exist independently of neural pathways, and I told him that of course they do, that the universe is made of energy and we’re all just different frequencies of the same cosmic vibration... ”
“I was drunk,” I’d said. “Very, very drunk.”
“You were philosophical,” Athena had corrected. “And then you kissed me, and it was like the universe just... clicked into place. Like everything that had ever happened in both our lives had been leading to that exact moment.”
Vivian had made a sound that was half-laugh, half-squeal.
“That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” She’d grinned happily.
“It’s not romantic,” I’d replied. “It’s a cautionary tale about the dangers of alcohol consumption.”
“It’s destiny,” Athena had insisted.
“And then what?” Vivian had asked, completely ignoring my existential suffering. “What happened in the morning?”
“Oh, well, Julien had a bit of a panic attack.”
“It wasn’t a panic attack.”
“Which was totally understandable because big life changes can be scary, even when everything is meant to be. But I explained to him that the universe had a plan, and that we were soulmates, and that everything was going to work out exactly as it should.”
“And how did he take that?” Vivian had asked, her voice dripping with amusement.
“He called his lawyer.”
Vivian had laughed so hard she nearly drove off the road.
“I’m sorry,” she’d gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry, I just... Julien, you called Richard? Your insurance attorney?”
“He’s the only lawyer I know.”
“He reviews malpractice policies.”
“He went to law school. It’s the same degree.”
More laughter.
From both of them.
My own sister and my accidental wife, bonding over my suffering.
It had continued like that for the entire drive. Athena talking, Vivian asking follow-up questions, me slowly dying inside while maintaining a death grip on the door handle.
By the time we’d reached The Meridian, I was ready to open the car door and tuck-and-roll onto the highway.
But I’d walked Athena inside instead. Booked her a room. Paid for three nights, because apparently that was what you did when you accidentally married someone and needed time to figure out how to un-marry them.
“You don’t have to do this,” she’d said, looking up at me with those wide, earnest eyes. “I can find somewhere else to stay. Maybe a hostel? Or I could sleep in a park. I’ve done that before. Very grounding. Really connects you to the Earth’s energy.”
“You’re not sleeping in a park.”
“The universe would protect me.”
“The universe,” I’d said, very carefully, “has done enough.”
She’d smiled at that. A soft, genuine smile that made something in my chest do an uncomfortable flip.
“Thank you,” she’d said. “For this. For being kind even though you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You’re terrified. I can see it in your aura. All these jagged red lines, like lightning. But underneath...” She’d tilted her head, studying me. “Underneath there’s blue. Calm blue. You just can’t reach it right now.”
I’d wanted to argue.
To tell her that auras weren’t real, that she was seeing pareidolia, that the human brain was designed to find patterns even where none existed.
But I’d been too tired.
So I’d just handed her the room key and left.
Now, standing in my apartment, my apartment, my sanctuary, my perfectly ordered space. I finally, finally allowed myself to breathe.
Silence.
Blessed, beautiful silence.
No talk of cosmic destiny, or chakra alignment, or the universe’s grand plan.
Just me and my apartment and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
I closed my eyes and leaned against the door.
I’m home.
I’m actually home.
This nightmare is almost over.
Except it wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Because tomorrow, I had to go back to the hospital.
Tomorrow, I had to face my colleagues.
Tomorrow, I had to deal with the fact that Fitz—Fitz—had definitely, absolutely, without question, told everyone what had happened.
But that was tomorrow’s problem.
Tonight, I was going to unpack, shower, and sleep in my own bed.
Tonight, I was going to pretend that everything was fine.
I pushed off the door and walked into my apartment, taking in the familiar space with something close to religious gratitude.
Everything was exactly where I left it.
My books on the shelf were arranged by subject, then alphabetically by author.
My kitchen counter was clear except for the coffeemaker, which I’d positioned at a precise ninety-degree angle to the edge.
My throw pillows on my couch were arranged in descending size order.
Order.
Control.
Sanity.
I set my suitcase down and began unpacking with methodical precision.
Dirty clothes went into the hamper. Lights separate from darks because I wasn’t an animal.
Toiletries went back into the bathroom cabinet and were arranged by frequency of use.
Conference materials were returned to my office and filed into the appropriate folders.
My wedding ring caught the light as I moved, a constant reminder of my spectacular failure in judgment.
I tried not to look at it.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed again.
It’s just a ring, I told myself. Just a piece of metal. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except it did mean something. It meant I was married.
Married.
To a woman who thought the universe had a personality and opinions about my life choices.
I finished unpacking and moved to my laptop, opening my email with the kind of dread usually reserved for biopsy results.
147 unread messages.
Of course.
I started scrolling through them, my anxiety increasing with each subject line:
“Welcome back! How was Vegas?” - From Gabriel. Innocent enough. Probably didn’t know yet.
“DUDE” - From Fitz. All caps. Definitely knew. Definitely told everyone.
“Congratulations???” - From Hayden, with three question marks, which somehow made it worse.
“I heard the most INSANE rumor” - From one of the surgical nurses.
I closed the laptop.
Opened it again.
Closed it again.
Tomorrow, I told myself. I’ll deal with this tomorrow.
When I’m rested.
When I’ve had time to prepare.
When I’ve figured out what the hell I’m going to say.
I stood up and walked to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes and stepping into the shower.
The water was exactly the right temperature. I’d programmed the smart shower system to my preferences months ago, and I stood under the spray, letting it wash away two days of Las Vegas grime and cosmic chaos.
But it couldn’t wash away the reality of my situation.
I was married.
I was married, and everyone knew.
I was married, and tomorrow I’d have to face the consequences.
The questions.
The gossip.
The looks.
“Is it true?”
“What were you thinking?”
“Did she come home with you?”
“What’s she like?”
And what would I say?
She believes in astrology and crystal healing and thinks the universe arranged our meeting.
She defended me to my own sister.
She sees things in me that I don’t see in myself.
She’s chaos incarnate, and she’s driving me insane.
I turned off the water and dried off, going through my nighttime routine with the same precision I applied to everything else.
Brush teeth: two minutes, electric toothbrush, circular motions.
Floss: waxed, mint-flavored, between every tooth.
Moisturizer: SPF 30, even at night, because skin cancer doesn’t care about your schedule.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Same face.
Same gray eyes.
Same everything.
Except for the ring.
And the wife.
And the complete destruction of my carefully ordered life.
How did this happen?
How did I, Julien Darcy, neurosurgeon, man of science and reason, end up married to a woman who thinks crystals have healing properties?
The answer, of course, was alcohol.
And Fitz.
And my own stupid decision to try to be spontaneous.
Never again, I thought. Never ever again.
I walked to my bedroom, my sanctuary within my sanctuary, and pulled back the covers.
Egyptian cotton sheets, 800 thread count, washed weekly.
Memory foam mattress, medium-firm, optimal for spinal alignment.
Blackout curtains, blocking out every photon of light pollution.
Perfect.
I climbed into bed and closed my eyes.
Silence.
Darkness.
Peace.
And then, unbidden, a memory:
“You’re terrified. I can see it in your aura. All these jagged red lines, like lightning. But underneath... underneath there’s blue. Calm blue. You just can’t reach it right now.”
I opened my eyes.
Stared at the ceiling.
She had been right.
I was terrified.
Not of her, exactly.
But of what she represented.
Chaos.
Unpredictability.
Loss of control.
Everything I spent my entire life trying to avoid.
And yet...
“He’s not an idiot. He’s brilliant. He’s a neurosurgeon who saves people’s lives. He’s careful and thoughtful and yes, maybe a little too controlled sometimes, but that’s because he cares.”
She’d defended me.
To Vivian.
To my own sister, who knew every embarrassing story, every failure, every moment of weakness.
Athena had stood up for me.
A woman I had known for less than forty-eight hours.
A woman who was, by all objective measures, completely incompatible with me.
She’d seen something in me worth defending.
I closed my eyes again.
Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with the hospital. With the questions. With Fitz’s inevitable gloating.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out how to get an annulment.
Tomorrow, I’ll start putting my life back together.
But tonight...
Tonight I was just going to lie here in my perfectly ordered bed, in my perfectly ordered apartment, and pretend that everything was fine.
Even though I knew, knew... that tomorrow was going to be absolute chaos.
Because Fitz had definitely told everyone.
Everyone.
I could already hear it:
The whispers in the hallway.
The barely concealed laughter in the break room.
The questions disguised as concern.
“Julien, is everything okay?”
“We heard you had quite the trip.”
“So... married, huh?”
My reputation. My carefully built reputation over years of precision and professionalism was about to become hospital gossip.
Dr. Julien Darcy, the neurosurgeon who got drunk and married a stranger in Las Vegas.
Dr. Julien Darcy, who believed in science and reason until he apparently didn’t.
Dr. Julien Darcy, whose life was a cautionary tale about the dangers of spontaneity.
I pulled the covers up to my chin.
Tomorrow, I thought again. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
When I’m rested.
When I’m prepared.
When I’ve had time to construct a reasonable explanation that doesn’t make me sound like I’ve had a complete mental breakdown.
But as I lay there in the darkness, one thought kept circling back:
She’d defended me.
This woman, this chaotic, spiritual, completely maddening woman, had seen me at my worst and still thought I was worth defending.
And I didn’t know what to do with that.
I didn’t know what to do with any of this.
So I did what I always did when faced with a problem I couldn’t immediately solve:
I went to sleep and hoped that tomorrow would somehow be less catastrophic than I knew it was going to be.
SPOILER ALERT: it wasn’t!