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I glance down the hallway, wondering if said basketball team is in sight. Maybe just fresh off the court from a morning scrimmage. Seriously, this guy must have the wrong room.
“We apologize for not having a larger suite available last night for your celebration, but we’d like to offer you complimentary in-room breakfast for your special occasion.”
His words are confusing. What celebration? My bridal gown line launch? My birthday?
I’m sure the food is delicious being from a Michelin-star restaurant in a five-star hotel, but my stomach revolts at the idea of putting anything into it right now.
“I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong room.” I take a step back, hoping he will agree with me so I can close the door and strip this robe off my boiling flesh. I desperately need to take that ibuprofen, chug some water and lie back down. I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover in my life.
He glances back at the number by the door.
“3019.” He confirms my hotel room number. “Mr. and Mrs. Hart?”
“Now I know you have the wrong room.” I sigh. “It’s just me. All alone.”
When I wave to the empty hotel room behind me, something on my left hand catches my eye. My ring finger is adorned with a simple gold band. It’s nothing flashy, yet the sight of it sends my heart rate through the roof. The adrenaline dump that follows makes my stomach lurch.
What is this?my still foggy brain asks. And just like the song playing during my first dance with a boy in middle school, or the scent of my grandmother’s decades old perfume, the sight of the gold band on my finger is like a key to the vault containing my memories from last night and they all come rushing back to me at once.
My fashion show. Alec’s engagement. Penny slots with the little blue-haired woman. What was her name? Dottie. Then, Jess and I went to the male revue dance show. Griffin pulling me up on stage for my birthday.Griffin.
My lower belly clenches at the thought of him. His gorgeous smile, his strong arms flexing as he held himself above me onstage, the scent of his body wash when he leaned in close to whisper in my ear. I inhale. I can still smell it now.Okay, focus.
Drinks. Shots. Lots of lemon drop shots. And by lots, it might have been three. I’m a lightweight and it doesn’t take much for me to become a limp noodle. That’s what Jess calls me when I get tipsy and dance. She says I’m like one of those windsock advertising tubes. The ones that fill with air, then lose air and nearly collapse before filling with air again and moving back upright. I imagine I was in prime limp noodle form last night.
There was dancing at the club. Dancing with Griffin, his hands holding me close. Laughing and having fun. Kissing on the dance floor. I vaguely remember a car ride, which now doesn’t make sense because the club we were at was inside the hotel. Then it gets fuzzy. Maybe the ring is one of those novelty toys out of a vending machine. A fun thing I decided to try on. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Oh my God, what if it means something?
“Your picture package from the wedding chapel arrived as well.” He hands me a manila envelope. I glance down the hallway, wondering if this is some elaborate prank that Jess set up. But she knows how badly I want to get married; like legitimately, not some drunken drive-thru quickie. There’s no way she would do this after the whole Alec engagement thing. I flip open the top and yank out the pictures.
If this is a prank, it’s good. Photoshop skills are on point. There, in the photographs, standing on the pink carpeted wedding stage are me and Griffin. I’m in my mother’s wedding dress, the dress I had hoped to redesign and wear someday at my wedding, holding a bouquet of tasteful pink and white roses. I guess I can check that off my list.
With Griffin’s black t-shirt and black wash denim, he looks like a casually cool groom, and my white slip dress is elegant, yet simple. We look like we could be on the cover ofBridemagazine. ‘Effortlessly Chic Wedding Attire’ the caption would read. ‘What to wear to your spontaneous Vegas wedding.’
My stomach clenches. I have to fight back the panic that is trying to rise out of it. Okay, but let’s be real because people don’t get married in Vegas and not remember it. That can’t really be a thing. It happens in movies like theHangoverand television comedies likeFriends, but not to bridal gown designers from New York who have been planning their elaborate wedding since childhood.
“No. Is this for real? It can’t be for real,” I ask the waiter. Poor guy, he just came here to deliver food and he’s now dealing with my existential crisis.
“This was also in the package.” He reaches for something else on the cart.
I pull my hand from where I’m twisting the gold band around and around to accept the plastic-covered paper he hands me. It has the words Marriage Certificate scrawled across the top. There, clear as day, is my signature, along with what I would guess is Griffin’s signature. I’ve never seen it before seeing as I met him last night, and between the revue show and our time at the club, I didn’t bother to ask for a handwriting sample. There’s a third signature, a witness, whose name I don’t even recognize.
“Oh, God.”
I stare back at the band. I’ve wanted to get married since I was a little girl attending celebrity weddings with my photographer father. His photos capturing the light and love in the couple’s eyes on their wedding day. I’ve always wanted that kind of love. The weak knees, stomach twisting, can’t live without that person kind of love.
I turn my attention back to the photo. Griffin’s arms are wrapped around my lower back, pressing our bodies tightly together. I’m nearly tipping backwards, except I’m not because he’s instructed his very competent arm muscles to hold me there.
I remember his strong, sculpted arms. What it felt like to be inside them.
My attention is on the camera, a huge smile on my face, while Griffin’s mouth is smiling into my neck. Objectively we look like a happy couple in love.
“Don’t worry,” the waiter interrupts my thoughts. “That’s just a copy. The wedding chapel will send the original to the county for recording. You should get the original mailed back to you in seven to ten business days.”
I stare at him blankly.
“I only know that because my ex-girlfriend works in the county courthouse as a file clerk.”
My gaze falls to the room service cart. I recognize the flower arrangement now as the bouquet from the wedding photo. “What is wrong with me?” I whisper.
