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1
BRIDGET
Even with the blackout curtains drawn, the bright desert sun manages to find its way through every crack and crevice to light up the bedroom suite. My head feels like it's been clamped in a vise, and with each second that passes by, it feels like it's getting tighter and tighter. I don't want to move, but my bladder is screaming at me to wake the fuck up.
I squint through my heavy eyelids and see the bathroom is just a few feet away from me. The journey from the bed to the door seems like a million miles, but my bladder will not relent.
Get up. Get up!
Through hooded eyes, I roll off the bed. My foot catches on my dress, crumpled on the floor. I wave my foot wildly to kick it off me as I stumble towards the bathroom and my sweet relief. There's no time to try and find the light switch blindly, but with the bit of sunlight that’s found its way into the room, I find what I need.
“Thank you, Jesus,” I moan as I empty my bladder.
Sometimes I swear that finally getting to pee after holding it for so long feels better than an orgasm. And that argument can be backed up by the fact that my fiancé, Michael, hasn’t given me an orgasm that I don’t have to assist with since we started dating.
Just the thought of Michael makes my head throb even harder, and my fists clench in my lap. Images flash in my mind from last night, but my hangover is making it nearly impossible to recall any of them clearly.
I remember standing around in the airport, having just arrived in Las Vegas with my bridesmaids, Veronica, Jessie, Beth, and Claire. We were waiting for something, but I can’t remember what. Then we were all in the suite getting ready to go out. The thumping in my head reminds me of the bass of the music in the club that we went to. My maid of honor, Veronica’s angry face flashes in my mind—we were fighting, but about what? I push aside the pain in my head and try to remember.
“He cheated on you!” her words suddenly echo in the back of my mind.
My nails dig deep into the palms of my hands as my fists clench tighter. That’s right. I suddenly remember how I couldn’t get ahold of Michael after arriving in Las Vegas for my bachelorette celebration. It wasn’t until we got into the club that someone finally picked up his phone, and it wasn't him. It was a woman. She informed me that "Mikey” couldn’t come to the phone because he was in the shower.
“That motherfucker,” I grumble, my voice still gravelly from sleep.
I’d suspected that something was going on with him, but I thought it was just the stress of the wedding planning that was making him pull away. He refused to help with any of the planning, and when he did put in his two cents, he'd want to change something that was already decided on and locked in, refusing to relent until he got his way—inevitably postponing the wedding even further.
I remember arguing with Veronica in and outside the club about it. Apparently, she was holding back her true feelings about him, allowing me to look like such a fool for not realizing something was wrong sooner.
I’m humiliated. I’m angry. I’m relieved—wait. What? Shouldn’t I be heartbroken? I wait and try to focus. But my heart doesn’t hurt. It feels free. Michael and I have been together for so long that I’m not sure when it was that I fell out of love with him. It was just expected of us from our family, our friends (at least most of them), and society. We were going through the motions of a relationship, but none of the love, only obligations.
I stand and pull my panties up. Eventually, after some waving of my arms, I managed to find the light switch. I walk over to the sink to wash my hands, but that's when I notice the black ink marks on my fingertips.
"What the hell?" I ask no one as I vigorously run my hands under the water from the faucet.
The memory of red and blue lights flashing pop into my mind. But the harder I try to remember what happened, my head throbs even harder.
There’s got to be some explanation for what's going on. I need to find my phone and call one of the girls. One of them must know what happened. It’s not like we went to the club together last night and went off on our own without telling one another—that would be crazy.
I walk out of the bathroom and see a man asleep in the bed I just woke up in. His broad, bare back is turned to me, and I can't see his face. Did I hook up with a complete stranger? Before my mind can even attempt to sift through the pieces of memories from last night, he turns over in his sleep.
It’s not a stranger in my bed. It’s Michael’s brother, Jordan.
JORDAN
Am I dreaming?
The sight of Bridget standing in front of me in a white lace, floor-length gown makes it almost impossible to catch my breath. The thin lace veil draped over her face softens her features but does nothing to diminish her beauty. She reaches out her hand to me.
I’ve been in love with her since high school, long before my brother ever came into the picture. It was instant. The moment I saw her walking across the Hawthorne Academy quad, I knew she was the girl I wanted to marry.
And here she is in her wedding dress, reaching out her hand to me, ready to start our happily ever after.
“I’ve always loved you,” I say, looking up into her gray-green eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?” she yells.
My eyes flash open, and I sit up—big mistake. The wave of nausea that hits me has me immediately laying back down. My whole body hurts like I've been beaten with a baseball bat.
