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Bleurgh. “No worries,” I force myself to say, voice bright. “Any time, boss.” And it’s the wrong thing to say, because Guy winces, and then it’s like he shuts down. He scrubs a hand down his face, and then he’s all business. Orgasm? What orgasm?
“Feeling better?”
I tug my dress straight. “Yup. Definitely.”
“Ready to go in?”
I nod. My throat is so tight.
“Okay, then. Let’s go.”
Guy
Effie is quiet as we walk through the Lucky Bet lobby. Normally, she’d be jabbing her pointy elbow into my ribs, pointing out the trashy decorations and telling me how much she loves everything. But instead, she’s silent and drawn, and even her steps are muffled as she crosses the checkerboard tiles.
That’s my fault. I did this.
I never should have put my hands on her again.
“Hey, lovebirds!” The woman on reception waves as we approach, tortoiseshell glasses perched on her upturned nose. A curly red bob quivers as she shakes her head, grinning. “You can’t go round again, you know. Don’t get greedy.”
The last part is said with a wink, but her smile fades as she gets a better look at our faces.
“Ah.” The receptionist clears her throat, then starts to fiddle with her pen. “Second thoughts, huh?”
“Yes,” Effie whispers. “But, um. Do you have any photos of us?”
I glance down at her, surprised. We don’t need any more clues—we’re here. Our final destination. But my assistant studiously avoids my eye, and when the receptionist produces a giant wedding album, Effie flicks through the images of us with that wistful look back in her eyes.
I lean over her shoulder. We’re clearly wild in the photos, bright-eyed and flushed, but we must have seemed normal enough to fool the chapel into marrying us. And we look… good.We lookrightnext to each other. Like we belong.
And Effie in a flowing white wedding dress, a veil cascading over her dark waves—that’s a sight I want permanently burned into my eyeballs.
“I can print you off copies for ten bucks apiece.” The redhead taps a lacquered nail on the photo of me holding Effie bridal style. I already know I want copies of all these. “That was your favorite last night. Oh yeah, you still got the cap, hon?”
They chat together, but my mind’s too busy to listen properly. There’s a buzzing noise rattling in my skull.
“We did it, then?” I rasp. Probably interrupting, but I can’t bring myself to care. “We got legally married. With a license.”
The receptionist chuckles and points to a picture of us with Elvis. “By royal decree.”
Right. Fine. We knew that was probably the case.
We knew we might need a divorce.
Effie plays with her hair while she chats with the receptionist, and fuck, I cannot divorce this woman. The process might kill me. It’ll be like sawing off my own limb.
“You’ll need to return the dress before you leave,” the redhead is saying, “else you’ll lose your deposit. I have some pamphlets here about your options, too. Annulment and divorce and so on. And if you want to return the ring, as long as it’s not damaged I can give you a full refund right now.”
Effie stills beside me. When I peer under the brim of her wedding baseball cap, she’s gone pale.
“No.” I stop my assistant’s hand as she reaches for her ring finger. “She’ll keep that. Thank you.”
“Are you sure?” Effie whispers as we stumble across the lobby once more ten minutes later, both gripping a pile of wedding photos and the most depressing stack of pamphlets I’ve ever seen. “It looks expensive. And if we’re annulling or divorcing or whatever—”
“I’m sure.”
About the rest of it? No, I’m not fucking sure. I am anything but sure. Everything is a giant mess and I have no idea which path to take forward, and I am surely the worst boss in the world. I have no idea how to make this right.
