Chapter Seven Alex #2
I plant one hand firmly on the mattress, then shift onto my knees.
He’s not looking at me, his eyes locked on the computer screen.
A little voice in the back of my head pouts with disappointment.
I shove it deeper into the shadows as I approach him slowly.
It doesn’t take long to reach my designated spot, yet my heart is pounding like I raced up six flights of stairs.
I adjust my position to see the screen. It’s not a big deal.
Calm down. He didn’t notice anything weird.
“Ready?” he asks, hand hovering over the spacebar.
The video is long and narrow, obviously from one of our phones.
Most of the frame is taken up by Euan and me sitting in the bar’s booth.
His arm is around me, tucking me close to his side.
God, we fit so well together, like two carved figurines that look neat individually, but become a work of art when they’re placed together.
Theresa always outshone me. More than once, I’d heard good-natured jokes about her being out of my league.
In heels, she was my height, with toned legs and slim curves.
Every time she walked into a room she gained new admirers.
That wasn’t even taking her career into mind, where she thrived on an audience hanging on her every word and crushed her opponents under her heel.
Meanwhile, I was stuck in middle management, making constant decisions with little real authority.
In comparison, the Euan in the video seems easy, comfortable.
Even with a camera on him he doesn’t look like he’s performing for anyone.
His beard softens his face and makes him more approachable.
It was one of the reasons I happily accepted his invitation to drink.
After only exchanging a few words, it felt like we could be friends.
Next to him, I look so relaxed I might melt into a puddle.
My posture is horrible, shoulders slightly hunched as I lean into his side.
But my smile is wider than I’ve seen in a photograph in years.
You can actually see my teeth. Ironic, because you can’t see my eyes, which are squinted into slits, almost engulfed by my rounded cheeks.
Definitely not the poised, close-lipped half-smile I’d practiced years ago.
It takes me a few seconds to pull my eyes away from us and look at the other participants on the screen.
Two people poke over the back of the booth, one in lime green, the other in fluorescent orange.
Until now, I forgot all about the neon sea of people who had descended onto the quiet bar halfway through our drunken night.
The one in lime green grins directly at the camera while the one in orange discreetly tries to finish a drink.
There’s a tiny box in one corner with a woman on the other end of the video, who must be the Virtual Vows representative.
Her black hair is pulled back in a neat bun and she’s wearing a dark suit.
Unlike the rest of us, she looks like she’s in the middle of an average workday.
I wonder where she’s at in the world and what time it was for her.
I realize Euan is still waiting for me, so I nod, and he presses play.
“Hello, everyone,” the woman says. She has a faint accent I can’t quite place. “Thank you for gathering here today for the wedding of Alexander Marklin and Euan Blair.”
At our names, a cheer rises in the background. Lime Green pumps their fist in the air while Orange raises their glass in a toast. Video-me waves enthusiastically. Euan’s response is the most subdued, though his smile broadens.
“Witnesses, please introduce yourselves.”
Lime Green almost falls over the back of the booth in their enthusiasm. “I’m Jesse Foster!”
Orange still has their glass raised, now empty. “Hayden Marsh.”
The woman nods and seems to do something off screen. “Alright, that matches the paperwork. And you two have an officiant, correct?”
“I’m here,” a voice off-screen says. “But I have to hold the camera.”
Holy shit, I didn’t even consider who might be filming.
“That’s perfectly alright,” the organizer replies. “We’ve already received your credentials, so all you’ll need to do is sign the paperwork.”
I reach forward to pause the video. “Fuck, so do you think it was a real officiant? Does that make a difference?”
“I think the license is more important than the officiant,” Euan replies, though he sounds as uncertain as I feel.
I click play again and we watch the ceremony unfold. Since neither of us remembered the events, I expected both of us to be sloppy drunks who were obviously in no condition to make life-changing decisions. But somehow, in the video, we come across as a nervous, excited couple.
My words are slightly muffled as I repeat the typical vows, “I, Alexander Marklin, take you, Euan Blair, as my lawfully wedded husband.” I trip over some of the words, but the alcohol has made my face flush so red that I appear giddy and embarrassed over the minor mistakes.
“I, Euan Blair, take you, Alexander Marklin,” Euan trails off, gazing down at me. He raises his hand to brush a thumb over my lips.
“The kiss comes after,” the officiant says offscreen, amused. Their words make it sound like we’re too eager rather than too drunk. “You have to finish the vows first.”
“As my lawfully wedded husband,” Euan finishes, though I only know that’s what he says because the words are expected. His tongue seems clumsier now, tying the words into knots.
“Alright, now you may kiss.”
The kiss is chaste at first, just a brushing of lips.
Then Euan really gets into it, parting my lips with his tongue, crowding me up against the wall.
Not that I’m behaving any better—my hands paw at his clothes like I want to rip them off him.
Obscene, wet whimpers spill from my throat like I’m begging for more.
A cheer rises in the background, like half the bar is celebrating our marriage. Or maybe they’re all excited for their next shot.
The Virtual Vows Representative coughs delicately, then more loudly when the first time does nothing to pull Euan and I apart. When we finally separate, my lips are swollen and glossy, and both of our eyes are dazed and almost black with desire.
“Congratulations on your marriage,” she says. “Your officiant will walk you through the rest of the paperwork and you’ll receive a physical copy of everything in the mail.”
The video stops there.
On film, we look more drunk on love than alcohol, but anyone who saw us in person would have known that wasn’t the case.
There’s no way either of us could have signed the paperwork without a lot of coaxing and guidance.
And the more they talked to us, the more we would have stumbled over our words.
The witnesses were as drunk as we were, but the officiant sounded sober and had married us anyway.
Was that all part of the scam? Find a couple of drunk suckers, charge them several hundred dollars, then work together with some friends to trick them into believing in the virtual wedding? It seemed a little elaborate, but it’s the only explanation I can think of.
Or the only explanation I want to think of, because the more we discover, the more I worry that Euan and I might actually be married.
I clear my throat and say, “So, we need to find the officiant.”