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It was him.
He’d found me—how the hell had he found me?—there in the basement of city hall.
For half a second, I kissed him back, because that’s all I’d wanted for all those years was to brush my lips against his just one more time.
Just in case you didn’t know, half a second goes by pretty damn fast.
I realised that mouth—reeking of cheap whiskey and cigarettes—was not his.
“Get the fuck off me!” I shouted as I pushed away the complete stranger.
JoJo was hitting him with her little tie-dye purse. The man stumbled back and laughed.
“Ah shite!” he slurred. “I t’ink I got the wrong lass!”
Security arrived just as a woman stumbled down the stairs shouting, “I’m ready! I’m ready!”
When everything was sorted, the two drunk idiots went off to get married (for how long, I’ll let you guess). I went about scrubbing my lips of any trace of the bastard.
What really made me the most upset wasn’t that I’d stupidly mistaken the voice or that I’d been kissed against my will or that the guy stunk to high heaven. It was that I could still hear him: laughing, kissing his woman, having a grand ol’ time while I stood there still waiting.
“Who knew today was going to turn into such a shit show,” I grumbled as I tried to straighten the wrinkles out of my dress.
JoJo practised a few punches, I guess just in case we were assaulted again during our stay in purgatory. “You know, for a second I thought you were kissing him back.”
I blanched. “Of course not.”
JoJo grinned. “Not getting the nasty from Tim?”
I groaned.“I’m getting plenty of the— Tim and I have a perfectly fine sex life.”
“‘Perfectly fine’, tell me more,” JoJo teased, chin cupped in her hands.
Just when I thought my day couldn’t possibly get worse, the woman returned to her chair. She seemed in no hurry whatsoever as she rearranged herself in her chair. No hurry as she scooted back up to her desk. Inch. By. Painful. Inch. No hurry as she tidied the stack of documents in her hands and cleared her phlegmy throat.
“Well?” I asked impatiently as a bad feeling swelled in my stomach.
The woman looked up at me from above her glasses.
“Miss Garcia, I’m afraid you are not legally qualified to get married.”
She slid a piece of paper across to me that I ignored.
“Why?” I demanded.
The woman tapped a nail to the sheet of paper.
“Because,” she said in a tone like she was reading me the weather forecast for the weekend and not ruining my goddamn life, “you’re already married.”
