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The monkey leaps into the air, rebounds off of poor Liam’s face, and launches himself into the twinkling embrace of the suite’s crystal chandelier.
One thing’s for sure: I still want my fucking award back.
“Bad monkey! No!” Ladyboy Celine Dion says, pointing an aggressive, sparkly-tipped finger at the monkey as—of all things—he rips into the bag of weed, pulls a Thai baht out of his vest and begins to roll a joint.
“I’ll be damned,” Liam swears, staring up at the monkey in awe. “The horny little bastard smokes weed.”
“I don’t know how I feel about this,” Becky says, crossing her arms and staring up at the monkey’s impeccable rolling skills. “I don’t even smoke weed. Does this monkey seriously go harder than me? Like, that’s not fair, right?”
“Y’all,” Mysti May says, putting her hand on her hip. “I know that no one else wants to say it, but I think we need to kill the monkey.”
“No!” I say before Miss. Texas decides to pull out a concealed six-shooter and take matters into her own hands. “Ineedthat monkey, Mysti May.”
“Poor little guy just wants to get lit, Myst,” Becky says solemnly. “Blaze on, little dude.”
“I need the Monkeysober, Becks. I…” I place my face in my hands and suppress a scream over what I’m about to say next. “I gave the little bastard my award last night and told him not to give it back to me until I remembered everything.”
“That’s great, though!” Becky said, grinning. “Because now you have, right?”
I look around the trashed suite, drawing in a deep breath. “I think so,” I say. “But I don’t know how to convey that to…him.”
I gesture at the monkey in frustration, and he looks down at me like I’ve deeply offended him.Whatexactly he’s offended about, I’ve got no fucking idea. He’s the one hanging from the chandelier, rolling joints from an increasingly irritated Thai Ladyboy’s bag of weed.
“Maybe remembering isn’t enough,” Becky says, taking my hands into hers. Her little green eyes are lit up with hope—Becky always was such a romantic. “Maybe…maybe you need to rememberwhyyou need to remember. Maybe this is it, Sammi! You fell in love last night! Maybe you need to rememberwhy.”
I roll my eyes. Hard.
“Lock Williams is…I don’t know that you can call what I have with Locklove, Becks.”
Which is true. I’m not just being frustrating, I fucking swear. How am I supposed to piece together a bunch of half-remembered drunken sexcapades into something resembling love?
It doesn’t add up. Does not compute. Calculation: failed.
“He rescued you from the mafia,” Liam reminds me.
“And he took you to that aquarium,” Mysti May adds. “You nerds love aquariums!”
“He married you last night, Sams.” Becky squeezes my hands and looks at me pleadingly. “Lock Williams, playboy billionaire marine biologist.Marriedyou. Don’t you think that means something?”
I shake my head. Not because it means nothing to me…
But because I don’t knowwhatit means.
“None of that is love, guys,” I say with a sigh while Weed Monkey swings above us, his joint held between his teeth as he pats his little vest down for a light. “That’s not love, is it? That’s just a series of actions. They don’t necessarily mean anything.”
“Sammi B.! What is love if not a series of actions carried out with meaning!?” Becky looks like I’m breaking her little romantic’s heart right now, which I hate to do—but I just can’t get with this.
“I don’t know!” I drag my hands out of Becky’s clutches and run my fingers through my hair. “Love is—love is flowers! Roses and lilies or some shit! It’s fucking communicating—telling each other stuff instead of sending each other on wild goose chases around Bangkok fucking Thailand all day trying to piece together clues.
“It’s not just getting married, Becks. It’s putting the rings on each other’s fingers so you have proof of it the next morning when you wake up.”
“I know you don’t mean that, Sammi,” Becky says, looking disappointed at me.
But she doesn’t have long to look at me like that, because the doorbell to the suite rings, and she has to go and get it.
“So. Let’s talk planning,” I say, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation over to literally anything else. “How are we getting this monkey out of the chandelier?”
“We could—aw, bollocks,” Liam says, cut off mid-sentence by the doorbell again.
