Chapter Five Eleanor
I’m in the cab on the way to pick Adam up when I realize I’m still wearing the wedding ring.
For a moment I’m mesmerized by the shine, the way it looks on my finger.
It’s a simple, timeless metal band. I have no idea whether I picked it out or if Adam did, but it’s exactly my style, the sort of ring I could see myself wearing every day for the rest of my life.
If it were given to me by someone else, that is.
I mutter a harsh curse, which draws the driver’s gaze to his rearview mirror. I meet his eye and shoot him a tight smile before dropping my gaze back to my hand. I tug at the ring. It doesn’t move. I try surreptitiously licking it and twisting harder, but it will. Not. Budge.
We pull onto the palm-lined drive leading up to the resort, and I force myself to give the ring a rest as the front entrance comes into view.
It occurs to me that I don’t have Adam’s number, but thankfully he’s already waiting outside with a drink tray balanced in one hand, so I’m able to wave him over easily.
He slides into the back seat and wordlessly passes a Starbucks cup to me.
“Oh.” I grab the cup and frown at it for a moment. It’s a nice gesture. Like, weirdly nice. Makes me feel like an asshole for not bringing him the eye drops. “Thank you.”
He nods and holds out a small bottle of pink raw coconut water. “Got these too.”
I’ve never been a fan of coconut water. Even the expensive stuff tastes like melted plastic mixed with a bath bomb to me. I’m a little slower to accept this drink from him. “You can take the guy out of LA, huh?”
“You’re dehydrated. It’ll help.”
It may also make me puke, which I am determined not to do. But he’s right, I am dehydrated.
“Thanks,” I say again. “This was thoughtful.”
He grunts in response, already tipping his head back like he’s going to try to sneak in a nap.
Since his eyes are closed, I take advantage of the opportunity to look him over.
It’s obvious he showered, his hair neatly combed and slightly damp.
His stubble seems to have intensified in the past hour, but I can’t say the scruff is a bad look on him.
I’m almost annoyed by how well he’s managed to pull himself together, but then I notice he’s inexplicably swapped his shoes for fuzzy white slippers.
I stare at them for a long moment before shaking my head and lifting my gaze back to his face.
He’s also wearing glasses. I’ve never seen him in glasses before.
I didn’t even realize he wore contacts. It feels like the Superman effect in reverse—like I’m seeing Clark Kent for the first time—and it’s unnerving.
The driver pulls my attention away. “Where are we headed next?”
I give him the address of the chapel, which happens to be named Happily Ever After.
Hahaha, fuck my life.
According to my phone, it should take about ten minutes to get there. It is also, evidently, the top-rated chapel in a one-mile radius. Five stars on Yelp.
Good to know drunk Eleanor still has some standards.
My phone lights up in my lap—another call from Iris. A sharp needle of guilt hits me as I send her to voicemail. Almost immediately, it starts buzzing again with a series of texts.
I’m having a minor crisis.
You know how Henry’s friend Craig was supposed to walk Duchess down the aisle?
Well, apparently he sprained his ankle
He’s going to be on crutches at the wedding
I was sort of hoping you’d be able to take over?
Duchess loves you, and you know how stubborn she can be on a leash. Plus, you’re the only one in the bridal party without a date, so it’s kind of perfect—
I sigh and exit out of the messages without reading the rest. I’m obviously going to say yes. I’m going to escort my sister’s smelly, partially blind, elderly Chihuahua down the aisle. And then presumably be charged with taking care of her the rest of the night.
I just… can’t message her back right now.
I can’t start a conversation with my sister, because as soon as we start talking I’ll want to spill everything that’s happened on this trip, and I can’t do that either.
Not because she might get angry. If I’m honest, that’s pretty unlikely to even be her reaction.
No, Iris would be worried about me, which is worse.
For the longest time after Griffin, my mother and Iris acted like I was this fragile thing, a dried flower liable to crumble unless handled with kid gloves. I won’t let this be another reason for them to treat me that way.
My gaze slides back over to Adam. He seems to have given up on napping now that the car is in motion.
He sips his coconut water, and I watch his throat move as he swallows.
Aside from the slippers, he’s wearing a light blue polo and khaki shorts.
I can’t decide if he looks more like a frat bro or a boomer at a country club.
“When’s your tee time?”
Adam pauses mid-sip. “Huh?”
I hide my smile behind my own coffee cup. He glances down, fingers plucking at the front of his polo, and then he turns back to me with a scowl.
“Seriously, though, what’s with the slippers?” I ask, pointing my chin toward his feet. They’re even embroidered with his hotel’s insignia.
Adam’s cheeks go ruddy and he nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The walk back to my hotel earlier was a bit rough.”
I don’t know what that means, which must be apparent in my expression, because Adam elaborates with a huff.
“I threw up on my shoes.”
My lips curl in. That is truly foul. And a visual I could have done without, considering I still feel like I’m white-knuckling my way through my own nausea. “Was that the only pair you brought?”
“Obviously. Why, how many pairs of shoes did you bring?”
I wore flats on the plane, the Louboutins last night, and right now I’ve got on Birkenstock sandals. “Three,” I tell him.
“You packed three pairs of shoes for a two-day trip?”
I stare at him for a beat. “Says the man currently wearing terry cloth on his feet.”
A shard of memory forces its way to the front of my mind—the two of us walking back to the hotel from some destination that is still fuzzy in my mind.
It must have been late, but there were still plenty of people out and about, noise spilling out of each bar we passed.
The sun had been set for long enough that the intense heat of the day had dissipated.
We’d been shuffling along, not exactly leaning on each other, but not exactly walking independently, either, when Adam stopped abruptly.
“C’mon,” he said, beckoning me with two fingers.
“What?”
He shifted in front of me and crouched down. “Hop on.”
“You’re offering me a piggyback ride?”
“Your feet hurt,” he said. “I’m tired of hearing you whimper in pain with every step.”
I blinked at him. Swayed on my feet. He wasn’t wrong. Every step I took was like getting stabbed in the balls of my feet with dull knives. I shuffled forward and put one hand on his shoulder. “Okay, but don’t drop me.”
“I won’t.”
I leaned against him. “Just tell me if I’m too heavy, though, okay?”
He reached to curl his palms around the backs of my thighs, then hitched me up onto his back. My arms wrapped around his neck automatically, squeezing across his collarbone as he straightened his legs and started walking. “You’re not.”
“I’m not calling your masculinity into question. You’re a very tough, strong man, with manly muscles.”
“Aw, thanks for noticing.”
“But if you face-plant—”
“Will you relax?” He did a little hop to adjust his hold on me, which did not help me relax. “I’m not going to drop you.”
By the time we made it back to my hotel lobby, my muscles were loose and my face was smooshed into the crook of Adam’s neck, right where his cologne was strongest. I was too drunk to decipher any of the specific scent notes, but I remember liking the way he smelled.
Warm, and a bit spicy, and very nice. He had to pat my thigh to get me to release my octopus hold on him.
Realizing how long I’ve been frozen in thought, I quickly shift to look out the window and pray my sunglasses prevented Adam from noticing my stare.
I don’t know how to reconcile that memory—or him bringing me not one, but two drinks this morning—with the fact that he came to Vegas with the obvious intention of ruining my day.
“There was probably somewhere you could’ve bought new shoes back at your hotel,” I say, because despite his olive branch, I’m still in a vindictive mood.
“I tried,” he says shortly. “My credit card was declined. I think my account’s frozen. I have to call them.”
I shake my coffee cup. “How’d you pay for this, then?”
“Company card,” he answers, eyeing my shirt like he’s trying to come up with something insulting to say about it. It’s vintage, from David Bowie’s Serious Moonlight tour. It belonged to my mother, but after the third time I stole it from her closet back in high school, she gave it to me.
I cock an eyebrow and wait.
Adam’s lips purse and he huffs through his nose, wisely choosing to keep his mouth shut.
He sulks in silence for the span of five blocks.
I can’t tell if he’s genuinely distraught over our current predicament or just grumpy about his shoes, but I’ve always pegged him as someone with the emotional depth of a birdbath, so I would not be shocked to hear it’s the latter.
“Can you silence your phone?” he grouses when yet another text comes through. “That buzzing is driving me nuts.”
I roll my eyes and dump the phone into my bag without silencing it—Iris will run out of things to text me eventually. Besides, the driver is playing some great music.
“Would you mind turning that up?” I lean forward to ask.
He twists the volume dial, and Joe Cocker’s “With a Little Help From My Friends” blasts through the speakers, plenty loud enough to drown out my phone.
I face Adam and pointedly sing along. When he ignores me, I lean closer and sing louder, until finally Adam cracks and belts out the chorus along with me.