In the video, the priest prayed over the rings and gave them to us to exchange, pledging our faith though there were no vows. “Dear God, where did we get wedding rings?”
“At a pawn shop on the way to the Russian Orthodox church. Pawn shops were the only places open that sold jewelry at that time of morning.”
“The morning? How far was the church from Las Vegas?”
“Oh, it’s just in a suburb. I drove you around for an hour and half trying to get you to crash out like you were a colicky baby in a car seat.”
Upon closer examination, the gold wedding band on my finger bore minute scratches. It was definitely used. Sadness wafted through me. “I didn’t even buy us proper wedding rings.”
“You wanted to, but there weren’t any real jewelry stores open. I wanted to twist foil bubblegum wrappers into rings, but you wouldn’t let me. It’s the thought that counts.”
The thought in this case was that crap rings from a pawn shop were adequate for a wife of mine, even in these odd circumstances. Shame spiraled in my head and burned my throat like vomit.
I should have procured a better ring for her, even if I was desperately trying to figure out how to get out of the marriage.
The video lingered on our clasped hands and those inadequate rings. “Who shot the video?”
“The priest’s apprentice-guy. He was the witness.”
Yes, for there had to be an official witness to a marriage. Even that requirement had been fulfilled.
I stopped the wedding video in the middle of the hour-long file. I didn’t need to see the entire horrifying scenario.
“And then, after that, when we got here to this room, did we—” I gestured at the air between us and then at the bed.“Consummate it?”
She was drawing a breath to answer when a much worse thought accosted me.
“Dear Lord, we didn’t livestream that part, did we?”I blurted.
She laughed out loud, a raucous crow-caw that sliced my aching brain.
Her laugh would probably be fine, even sweet, if I hadn’t had an ax-shaped vodka bottle cleaving my skull.
“No.I woulddefinitely nothave let you livestreamthat,and I wouldn’t have let you ‘consummate’ me anyway. I was a little sozzled by the champagne Caesars sent up because we were newlyweds, butno.”
“We didnot,then,” I clarified.
“No.” She laughed at me. “I don’t ‘consummate’ drunk people. That’s, like,gross.Seriously, I wouldnever.”
My sigh was too long. “You have again saved me.”
“I was kind of worried about staying here with you, though. Pretending to marry a woman was one of King Henry the Seventh’s tricks when he wanted to get laid.”
I looked up. Why was she talking aboutkings?
Lexi nodded while she talked. “Old Henry would propose to a pretty young girl, find a priest, which was actually just one of his non-clergy buddies in a black robe, andsupposedlymarry her withjustthe fake priest and maybe her mother for a witness. Then, they’d tup?—”
English dismayed me sometimes.“Tup?”
“Yeah, you know,smash. But the next day, she’d find out the priest wasn’t a real priest, and he’d say the marriage never happened. It was all a trick to get her into bed.”
“And you thought?—”
“I thought you were just trying to get some ass, so heckersno,wedidn’t.And then you passed out.”
Embarrassment consumed me. “Well, I apologize for my poor showing on our wedding night.”
She chuckled, and that time, her laugh was the adorable little chipmunk-chortle again. “Forgiven. Trust me, Nico. I didn’t want my first time to be a sloppy drunk fumbling around down there and then barfing on the bed.”
