"What's going on?" Dom demands in that scratchy voice, sidestepping Klein. He has the sensibility to take a seat in a chair in the far corner of the room, instead of returning to the bed.
Klein and Paisley look at us like we're telling a joke that is not at all funny.
"This isn't what it looks like, I promise," I say, just to get it out there.
Paisley's pulling her phone from her pocket, swiping quickly over the screen and crossing the room in a few steps. She plops onto the bed, thrusting her phone in my face. "This isn't what it looks like?"
Every breath in my lungs disappears.Poof.Gone.
It's me.
It's Dom.
We're standing in front of a wall of multicolored fake flowers. Dom holds me by the waist, dipping me backward. My arms encircle his neck, one leg kicked out. Above us is a neon sign that readsJust Married.
All the breath that vanished comes rushing back, too much for my throat. I'm dragging it in, holding my chest.
"What?" I manage. "No." Alarmed eyes find Dom, already crossing the room. Paisley hands him the phone. A second later, Dom's looking down at me, eyes wide.
Memories develop like film in a darkroom. Slowly but surely, coming into stark relief.
Dancing with Dominic. My fingernails raking over the back of his neck. The hard press of him against my backside. Him groaning into my neck as the music thumped through us.
Sweaty and loving it, the burn of our muscles matched by the burn of tequila. Dom ceased being the guy who'd said those awful things. He was the same guy from the beginning of our date. The one who had my hopes up, who arrived early and saidShe's beautifulandWho said I was playing?
"Dom," I start, at the same time he says, "Cecily."
I feel as he looks, aghast and horrified and confused.
"Do you remember?" he asks.
I nod, only slightly. Any more movement than that and I'll pull an Exorcist all over the ivory comforter.
The roiling in my stomach may have kept the memories of last night at bay, but they are plentiful now, screaming forth with blinding clarity.
How we'd broken off from the group after gorging ourselves on waffles, warbling songs about Vegas as we walked. We'd passed a restaurant where Bruno Mars crooned from the speakers, singing about how he was looking for something dumb to do. Dom had looked at me with a spark in his eyes, said,What could be more Vegas than getting drunk-married?
I turn on Dom now, his hair all bouncy and his face not nearly showing enough signs of how hungover he must feel.
"This is All. Your. Fault," I accuse, pointing a finger at him.
He makes an indignant sound in the back of his throat. "Me?" he sputters. "Nobody held a knife to your throat and forced you to sayI do."
My mouth opens to reply, but Paisley screeches. "What? This is real?"
I wince. So does Dom.
Paisley slaps a hand over her mouth. "Sorry. No more high-pitched exclamations."
"We're married," I whisper, the realization slamming through me. "We're...married." My lip curls on that last word.
Dom's mouth flattens. "Maybe if you keep saying it, it will be less true."
"Shut up." I groan, dropping my head in my hands. How could I have done something this monumentally stupid? I'm never impulsive. I do not make bad decisions. Apparently I was saving up all those small bad decisions to make one really, truly, terrible choice instead.
That's when I feel it. The illness climbing, pushing against gravity. "I'm going to be sick," I moan, throwing back the covers and running to the bathroom.
The door opens a moment after I shut it behind me. I hate throwing up, but it's ten times worse when there's an audience. I'm already emptying my stomach over the bowl when strong, nimble fingers gather my hair.
