“Trust me, Mabel. We didn’t have sex. It doesn't matter how drunk I was, consent is important to me. Kissing is one thing, but we most definitely did not have sex. We got back here, you ripped your clothes off like The Hulk and fell into bed. You were passed out before you hit the mattress and I threw the blanket over you so you wouldn’t freeze to death. I don’t remember, but I guess I got undressed at somepoint, too. I, uh, sleep naked at home, so I probably tore my own clothes off in my sleep.”
His cheeks flush, and he runs a hand over the back of his neck while I close my eyes and take an internal survey of my body. I don’t feel like I had sex last night, and given the amount of alcohol in our systems, I don’t think it would have been physically possible for us to get it on.
Since Ryder seems to be in a slightly better state than me and presumably remembers our night better than I do, I’m going to choose to believe him when he says we didn’t try to consummate our marriage.
Marriage.
Iheave again, and instead of pointing me towards the toilet, Ryder pulls me into his chest. It might be the camaraderie we built last night or the way his warm skin feels against my clammy head but either way, I shove aside my usual disdain and happily lean into the snuggle.
“What are we going to do, Ryder?”
“We’re going to go out there and let our moms and Trina yell at us. Then, we’re going to get some Bloody Marys to-go for our hangovers, and we’re going to get the marriage annulled.”
The mention of a Bloody Mary makes my stomach churn, but even I know that a little hair ofthe dog is the only cure to the disaster zone my organs have turned into.
“Right. Yes. Yelling, Bloody Mary, annulment. Smart.”
“You have to be done puking by now, Mabel. Get. Out. Here.” Trina punctuates her words with smacks of her palm against the bathroom door, and Ryder and I sheepishly get to our feet. He turns to give me privacy while I slip into a robe, leaving the blanket pooled on the bathroom floor.
“Ready?” I ask when the robe is belted around my waist, and Ryder turns, extending his arm towards me.
“Hold my hand?”
I press my lips together, and then lay my hand in his, the two of us presenting a united front as we head out to face the consequences of our actions.
10
ALL A MOOT POINT
RYDER
I’ve gotten myself into a lot of trouble in my life, so one might think that this sinking, nauseous feeling whirring around in my gut might be a tad dramatic. Or familiar at the very least.
I mean, I spent my fair share of time in the principal’s office in school. Mom has given me an endless number of verbal smackdowns that ended in month-long groundings as a teen. I’ve even had to sit in front of The International Games Committee and explain my role in an ill-thought-out condom bonfire in Sochi to a bunch of washed up, bitter, stuffed shirt ex-athletes who frankly didn’t care if I lived or died, let alone ever snowboarded professionally again.
The worst of it was after Mabel’s birthday inCancun, when I allowed myself to be photographed nude in the aftermath of what I’m sure was a very fun beach sex party. After that night, I had to face down the IGC, Trina, my parents, Mabel’s parents, and of course, Mabel herself. It’s a miracle I made it out of that one alive.
But the difference is that the Cancun incident that landed me sitting in front of the Council of Elders was calculated. Planned. Controlled. A small piece of a much larger puzzle. I had one singular goal in mind.
Keep Mabel out of the line of fire.
And now, because of my stupid ideas and a whole lot of tequila, she’s laying here on the ground next to me, riddled with bullets all the same.
My head is reeling and my stomach is threatening to spill its contents all over the maroon carpet of this hotel suite as Trina paces back and forth in front of us where we sit on the edge of the bed. Mabel’s knees are shaking so violently, it feels like the earth is quaking beneath us. I place my hand on her knee, only half covered by the terrycloth robe I helped her put on in the bathroom.
She doesn’t swat me away, and on any other occasion, I’d consider that the win of a lifetime. But this scared, amenable version of Mabel sitting next to me is almost unbearable. Teasing her to get her attentionis one thing, but knowing I caused the turmoil she’s suffering through is making my heart ache painfully in my chest.
Mabel sniffles, and I turn to see her wiping her nose with the sleeve of her robe. And there, nestled on her left ring finger and catching the light of the obnoxious overhead chandelier is a simple gold band. A quick glance shows its twin on my ring finger, and a puff of breath escapes my lips.
Mabel and I got married last night. We exchanged vows; we exchanged rings. The coordinator at the Little White Chapel tried to give her a bouquet of red roses, but I’d insisted on white lilies because I know they’re her favorite. The real Elvis crooned the tune Can’t Help Falling In Love through static-y old speakers while a not-at-all-convincing impersonator stood between us at the altar.
Mabel Quinn is my wife.
My wife.
It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of, and possibly the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
“I just cannot believe you two. Your parents taught you better than this. I taught you better than this. Hell, I taughtyour parentsbetter than this. Everything I’ve done for you two. Your careers, the sponsorships, the shit I’ve swept under the rug,Ryder. All of that, and then the two of you decide todrink an elephant’s bodyweight in tequila and get fucking married? What did I do to deserve this?”
