We’re standing in front of the chapel window now. Plastic roses. Flashing pink lights. A cardboard Elvis giving a thumbs up like he personally endorses bad decisions and unpaid alimony.
She giggles and leans her head against my arm, nearly taking us both down because neither of us is walking in a straight line anymore.
“I’ve always wondered who actually does that,” she says. “Just… walks in and says ‘I do’ to a stranger.”
“You know what?” I say suddenly, way too loudly.
Her brows lift. “What?”
“I think they absolutely have a Grumpy Groom special.”
“Oh yeah?”
An idea is forming.
Big.
Bright.
Deeply irresponsible.
And instead of shutting it down like I normally would, I nurture it. Feed it. Let it grow.
“You want to know who does this?” I ask, swaying slightly but committed.
“Enlighten me, Hercules.”
“People who are sick of thinking.”
She blinks at me, trying to process through her own alcohol fog.
I grab her hand.
“Let’s do it.”
She bursts out laughing. “Do what?”
“Get married.”
Her mouth actually drops open.
“To each other,” I clarify, because apparently that needs clarification.
She squints at me like she’s trying to read fine print on my face. “You’re kidding.”
“I am extremely serious,” I say, which is hilarious because I am visibly not steady on my feet.
I pull her with me into the small lobby. The air smells like synthetic roses, floor wax, and choices people regret in daylight.
There’s an Elvis impersonator behind the counter who looks like he hasn’t slept since 1997 and possibly fought in a glitter-related war.
I grab her hand tighter—her small, soft hand—and march her right up to the counter with all the confidence of a drunk man who has never once read a legal document all the way through.
“Help you folks?” Elvis asks without looking up from his nails.
“We want to get married,” I say with the steady conviction of someone who just discovered gravity.
Beside me, Sunshine dissolves into giggles.
