Chapter Five Eleanor #2
“Greatest cover of all time,” I say as the cab pulls up to the curb outside the chapel and the driver turns the volume back down again.
“Debatable,” Adam argues. “It’s great, but best ever? What about Jimi Hendrix’s ‘All Along the Watchtower’? Or Aretha’s version of ‘Respect,’ for that matter.”
“Fair,” I say as I swipe my debit card. The payment goes through, and I try not to think about how close I am to overdrafting.
Adam gets out first, and I scoot across the back seat after him. Once on the sidewalk, I pause to grimace up at the neon sign.
I am not someone who has spent a lot of time fantasizing about my dream wedding.
But like anyone who read Twilight at an impressionable age, I’ve imagined getting married in the lush forests of the Pacific Northwest. I’ve also had the passing thought of getting married in the backyard of the house I grew up in, despite the fact that my mom sold it when Iris and I graduated high school.
My last serious relationship was with Griffin, and the only time marriage came up was when we were visiting a vineyard in Napa.
A bride and groom were having their photos taken nearby, and I made some innocuous comment about it being a nice place for a wedding, and then Griffin had scoffed and sipped his wine and said that when we got married, it wouldn’t be in a place as overdone as Napa.
The point is, never once did I picture my wedding taking place in a squat building just off a major road, with a sign that buzzes if you listen hard enough.
Resentment swarms inside my chest because I hate thinking about Griffin, and I wouldn’t have to if Adam hadn’t come to Las Vegas.
I wouldn’t be remembering that day in Napa if I hadn’t come to this chapel with a different music executive I had no desire to marry.
I’ve worked hard to banish these kinds of memories, and Adam being here is forcing them all to the surface.
I cut a sidelong glare at Adam and discover he looks as miserable standing here as I feel. Good.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say with a scowl.
He blows out a big, disgruntled breath before following me toward the chapel.
Based on the signage and general aesthetic of…
the entire city of Las Vegas, I expect it to look something like a cheesy Valentine’s Day party.
Like Cupid threw up on the walls. Hot-pink carpet and curtains made of the same cheap red satin you’d find on a heart-shaped, coin-operated bed in some sleazy motel.
Or… I don’t know… a rack of polyester veils you can rent for the occasion that they sanitize with Lysol spray after each ceremony, like bowling shoes.
Instead, what I find is a waiting area tastefully decorated in a woodland fairy-tale theme.
A rustic flagstone fireplace sits in one corner, and while it isn’t lit, an abundance of very realistic LED pillar candles in staggered heights are arranged inside.
The doorway leading to the chapel itself is adorned in a twig garland and tiny lights, the kind that look like fireflies.
Right now the chapel is empty, and I catch a glimpse of the altar.
I try to picture Adam standing under the wooden arch, delicate flowers dangling over his head while I walked—or perhaps stumbled—down the aisle.
I’m hit with a whole-body pang, and I blink hard, cursing my hangover as I drag my focus back to the walls of the waiting area, which are painted a soothing shade of cream.
The desk, which appears to be antique, has one of those cute little brass bells on it to get someone’s attention.
Not that we need it, because a petite gray-haired woman in a blush pantsuit is already standing behind the desk, smiling at us like we’re long-lost friends.
“Thought I might see the two of you again.”
Adam and I exchange a questioning look. “We were here last night.”
The woman—Beatrice, according to her name tag—smiles brightly, oblivious to the question hidden in Adam’s statement. “Yes, you ran off before I could give you your marriage license and photo package.”
“Photo package?” I propel myself forward and peer over the desk as she flips through a stack of papers.
“Of course, I understand your eagerness to get on with enjoying your wedding night.”
She shoots me a wink, and I shake my head vehemently. “No, not—that’s not—”
“Ah, here we are. I’m so glad you came back for them!”
Oh my. The photo package apparently includes an 8 × 10 glossy print of us standing at the altar. It’s tucked into a flimsy card stock matting with the words “Happily Ever After” embossed in gold along the bottom.
It takes several seconds for my brain to process that Adam is kissing me.
Not a chaste little peck on the cheek either.
This kiss involves Adam’s hands gripping my waist, holding me close to his body.
My arm is slung around his neck, opposite hand cupping his jaw, like I want him to kiss me deeper.
Make it last longer. And I guess I should have realized the likelihood that we kissed at some point last night, what with the whole you may now kiss the bride thing generally being part of the process.
But I didn’t, or I chose to ignore that possibility, and looking at this photo, all I can think is: What a shame I don’t remember.
It’s just, the way he’s gently dipping me, that one dark piece of hair curling over his forehead like Prince Charming…
it’s very fitting with the whole vibe of this place.
And I haven’t been properly kissed in a long time.
If I ignore the fact that it’s Adam doing the kissing, it seems like it might have maybe been enjoyable.
Adam peers over my shoulder to get a good look at the photo. His body is a hard line of heat against my back, and it doesn’t take much to imagine his hands on me like they were in the picture, just this side of possessive.
Then Adam recoils from the counter wearing a pinched expression, like he’s suffering from another bout of nausea, courtesy of this photograph.
I snatch it off the desktop and stuff it roughly into my bag.
Poor Beatrice winces, hand fluttering as though she was tempted to lunge across the desk and take the picture back, smooth it out, and lecture me about putting it into a proper frame with UV glass.
I’ve clearly offended her, but come on. Read the room, Beatrice.
“So this is real.” Adam points at the license. “We’re married. Legally married.”
Beatrice appears baffled by this question. “Yes. Of course it’s legal.” She dips her chin and peers between us over the rim of her glasses. “Did you… not know Las Vegas weddings were legally binding?”
Adam’s scowl is so severe there might as well be a cartoon rain cloud hovering above his head. “I need fresh air,” he announces, and walks toward the exit without another word.
I shoot Beatrice an apologetic smile and thank her for the pictures before following him outside, tucking the license inside my bag on the way.
I find Adam standing at the edge of the sidewalk watching traffic with his hands laced together on top of his head.
I sidle up next to him and slide my sunglasses back on.
I miss the air-conditioning of the chapel.
I’m desperate enough to cool off that I pull my unopened coconut water out of my bag and take a sip.
Which I promptly spit back into the bottle. I grimace and glance sideways in time to catch Adam’s lips twitch. “How do you drink this stuff?”
He shrugs. “I like it.”
“Do you really? Or is it another thing you actually hate, but started pretending to like once it became popular?”
Adam huffs a dry laugh and turns to face me fully. “Gee, Eleanor, it almost sounds like you’re not talking about coconut water anymore.”